Page 9 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

A t the end of three very long hours of being primped and prodded, I know Ricardo Ricci on an intimate level.

And by intimate, I mean I know how many tears he cried and Lindt balls he inhaled to bring Kennedy’s wedding gown to life. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot.

I also know how my Satan-in-law’s silk wedding tie fell victim to Ricardo’s ugly-cry—only for him to iron it crisp an hour later and slip it right around Enzo’s neck.

Gross. Yet deeply satisfying.

Alarmed, his eyes fly to mine. “Swear not to tell Enzo.”

I cross a finger over my heart. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He presses a hand to his chest like I’ve knighted him. “And your secret is safe with me.”

“Secret?”

His palm drifts, featherlight, to pat my stomach. Not rough. Not mocking. Just…knowing.

My throat goes tight. “How could you possibly…?” I mean, I don’t even know for sure.

Possibly.

Maybe.

Ricardo tilts his head, eyes scanning me.

“Do you have any idea how many early-days-pregnant starlets I’ve dressed?

The ankle swelling. The way your little nausea attacks come and go.

And the way you fidget with a bra you’re busting out of.

Like it fit just yesterday and now, not so much. Trust me, I know.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I force a laugh, but it scrapes thin. Then he lifts that damn all-knowing brow, and alarm bells blare in my skull. “You can’t tell anyone. At all.”

He mimes zipping his lips, then flicks his wrist to throw away the key. “Relax. It’s not like I hit up the Chicago underground for mani-pedi days. Even if”—his mouth twists—“Enzo did bankroll me to an early retirement.”

Enzo .

Not Mr. D’Angelo.

Ricardo’s on a first name basis with Satan. And set him up for life? Are they close?

“I haven’t stitched a single seam since then,” Ricardo laments, as though we’re mourning the fall of Rome. “I suppose the rose to this colossal thorn is that if I must return to the grind of hands-on designing, your body is the perfect excuse.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Your curves could launch a thousand ships,” he hums as he pins the hem.

I have no idea what that means. “Thank you.”

He looks up, chuckling. “You really don’t remember me?”

“Of course I do.”

I definitely don’t.

But in my defense, Kennedy’s midnight wedding to the Lord of Hell himself was a blur.

Jet lag.

Seamstresses.

Her picture-perfect Insta-family.

Truffles the dog in a tartan bow tie.

A freaking Scottish bagpipe band…actually flown in from Scotland.

And then, the full Magic Mike revue of the smoldering D’Angelo brothers. In kilts.

Trust me, my eyes weren’t on any faces.

Except Dante’s.

And, oh yeah, I was attacked, nearly raped, and then rescued by the man who is now my warden.

If Ricardo was there, he didn’t even crack the top ten things to remember.

He ties off the last stitch, snips the thread with a flourish, and rolls down his sleeves like he’s taking a bow.

“I, my dear, am a world-class designer. I have fashion houses in New York, London, Dubai, and Milan. I am the go-to couturier of royalty, the man who can make a duchess weep with joy and sultans beg for my time. And yet, your boyfriend cut to the front of the line and plucked me off the street.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

My protest falls on deaf ears. Ricardo flutters a hand dramatically. “Just…snatched me. Like a stray dog.”

He’s so worked up I only shrug. “Tough break.” Then, a beat later—“Wait. He snatched you off the street?” I tilt my head, forcing a casual tone. “How far from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, which street?”

He looks up, as if dragging the memory out of thin air. “I said I don’t know. One of the side streets in Downtown Chicago.” He presses two fingers to his temple. “At first I thought it was my date playing rough. Big scary van, over the top thugs?—”

“How long did it take to get here?”

He waves vaguely. “No idea. Time always blurs when I have a bag over my head.”

Always blurs. He says it so casually I almost choke. He’s serious. Like this is normal. Like he racks up frequent flyer miles for kidnappings.

I wonder if designer to the mob is listed somewhere on his résumé.

Is that why Zver picked him? His tie to the D’Angelos.

To Kennedy.

He rises, dusts off his sleeves, and gives the gown a once over. His brow lifts in quiet scrutiny.

“Is it alright?” I ask, shrinking a little under the weight of his gaze.

He blows out a breath. “I believe my work here is done.” With a wink and a soft nudge, he turns me to face the mirror.

I hardly recognize myself. The gown…blood-red silk. Sculpted to cling in all the right places. Loose enough to breathe. Tight enough to command. A dress cut to tease and reveal all at once.

I’m overwhelmed.

“Well?” He asks.

It’s the kind of question he already knows the answer to.

“It’s flawless.” The flutter in my heart twists sharp with sadness. God, I wish Kennedy could see me like this.

He steps closer, almost brotherly. “What’s with the frown?”

I let out a sigh. “It’s nothing.” The last thing I want is to weigh him down. He’s worked too hard for this moment, and I won’t be the one to pop his balloon.

My eyes drift back to the mirror. It’s like staring at a wildflower seconds before it’s hit by a bulldozer.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Ricardo holds up two strips of fabric. “You selected silk. Black on one side, crimson on the other. These will set off the necklace nicely.”

I stare up, confused.

“The restraints,” he says, like it should’ve been obvious. He knots them into big bows at my wrists, dressing me up like some kind of gift.

I would argue, but I can’t do one more lecture on how he’s the designer and I’m just the muse.

A soft chime pings from his watch. It’s sleek, expensive, and the kind that probably costs more than the value of my life. Ricardo glances down.

“Just under three hours,” he says lightly. “I suspect the henchmen will be here soon.”

He fusses with my hair, fingers moving like it’s go-time backstage at Fashion Week.

“You said we had a deal,” I blurt.

He nods once. “We do.” His chin tips toward the en suite. “I left my notebook in there.” His voice drops, careful, even though it’s just us. “No cameras in that room.”

He’s right. No windows either—just skylights I already tried to reach. A month later, and my arse still hasn’t forgiven me for that landing.

“Whatever you write in it goes to your sister,” he promises.

“When?” I press.

“When I can.” His annoyance means that’s all I’m going to get.

I roll my eyes, teeter in these sadistic heels, and slide into the bathroom.

The notebook is just where he said, waiting on the counter. I unclip the pen, flip to a blank page—and my hand stops.

What the hell do you even write to the person you love when you might not ever see them again?

“Sorry I didn’t call back” sounds ridiculous.

“Got auctioned off to a Russian” sounds worse.

I don’t want her to panic. A cry for help could fling her straight into the center of Zver’s web.

It’s a small miracle she’s not already on his radar. But maybe her being married to the Lord of Hell has its perks. Like protection.

Still, what if I never see her again?

That fear worms through my chest and stabs a pin in my heart. I let Enzo wedge between us. I should’ve fought harder. Done more. Done… better.

And—God, I have to breathe through this one—what if I really am pregnant? I can’t picture bringing a child into this world without my sister knowing. Without her beside me.

Knock, knock, knock. “Everything alright?” Ricardo asks.

“Peachy keen.”

I stare down at the blank page. The very tiny blank page. This is supposed to be a note, not twenty pages of emotional fallout.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tilt my face up to Heaven.

Da. Give me the words. What do I say?