Page 124 of SINS & Riley
He straightens his robe the way a Roman soldier might adjust his armor, every movement precise as I see the wheels turning in his head.
Then he steers me onto the balcony, the threat in his eyes cooling until it’s almost gone.
Almost because with Enzo, it’s never gone. Just chained up, like a werewolf waiting for the next full moon.
In flawless Italian form, he pulls out a chair with old-world grace. I have a feeling it’s less mob king, and more man who refuses to let the storm beneath his skin ever crack the surface.
Manners first. Control always.
Then he brings over the bowl of ripe fruit and a carafe of dark coffee, setting them on the café table. With the way he's eyeing me, these are less like offerings and more of his silent command to eat.
My stomach twists. I could inhale the whole spread like some Japanese hotdog-eating champion, but I’m wound too tight.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at me. Just sets another plate down under my nose.
The rich scent of warm chocolate croissants curls through the air, sweet as honey, leaving me hogtied and at the mercy of the tiny human currently puppet-mastering me from inside the womb.
I give up.
My hand zeroes in on the biggest one, and I start chomping like I didn’t already demolish a full breakfast smorgasbord thirty minutes ago.
Mmm. Baby loves.
Next, Enzo pours the coffee, fixing it with unnerving precision. Five sugars. Two splashes of cream. And—because apparently he’s a part-time magician—a cinnamon stick he must’ve pulled straight out of his ass.
Exactly the way I like it. Minus the ass part.
Kennedy refers to my special brew as dark roast sugar coma.
I call it heaven.
I dunk a croissant in and freeze mid-bite. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
“Because until yesterday, I thought I knew everything about you. Except where you were or who you were with.” His tone dips, heavy. “Both mysteries solved.”
“Yes. Congratulations. Feel free to go back to hunting chupacabras.”
He sits beside me, and silence settles over us. Except, of course, for my obnoxiously loud chewing and his laser-focused stare.
Finally, before the tension snaps his jaw in two, he speaks. “Are you sure? The child is Zver’s.”
I hum out a weak, croissant-muffled, “Mm-hmm.”
Enzo’s not exactly the type you can bluff. The man probably sniffs out lies the way bloodhounds sniff contraband.
Hopefully he’s too distracted by me Cookie-Monstering this croissant down to crumbs.
He broaches the next question cautiously. “And are you happy about that? Or do you want him dead?” His brows tick up, almost hopeful. “Please let it be the latter.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Haven’t told him yet.” True statement.
Enzo rubs a hand over the scruff lining his jaw, hard enough to scrape sparks. “And when exactly do you plan to tell him?”
I point the last bite of croissant at his nose. “Not that it’s any of your business, but soon.”
