Page 211 of SINS & Riley
He stabs the cigar toward me. “That’s not possible. I saw the footage, Dante.”
“My brothers have gotten good at planting fake news.” I pop the cap on the bottle. “All I can say is… tunnels.”
Confusion flickers across his face for a heartbeat, then the old anger snaps back. “Get to the point, Dante,” he snarls. “And I know that bitch of yours is carrying your baby. If you want a truce, fuck off. I’ll give you till the count of ten before my men shoot you.”
“Oh, I don’t want a truce,” I say, calm as the tide. “I want a war. Because you’re not the only one I found.”
He spits a wet, guttural laugh. “So you found Elena. That psycho? Keep her. Fuck her. Or kill her. Dealer’s call. A gift for the happy father-to-be. Not that you’ll be a father for long. The moment you step out that door, there’ll be a contract on your head. On second thought, I’ll kill you and your whore and parade that bastard around as my son.” He flicks cigar ash my way.
He’s fishing for shock, for that tiny human jolt that says I still have something he can take. He wants me to flinch. He gets nothing.
I circle back to Elena. “Kill Elena?” I fiddle with his IV. “You’ve always been short-sighted. Psychopaths make the best vigilantes. The best hunters. You know that.”
His lips twitch, a crack in the armor. “So that’s how you found me.”
“Yes.” I shrug. “You really should’ve paid her. But she’s not why I’m here. And I didn’t burn eight hours on jets and boats just to choke on your stench.”
I slide the photograph onto the metal tray between us and tap it once.
“Dream Team.”
For the first time, all the color bleeds from his face. The monitor ticks faster, a frantic rat caught in a cage.
“Six years,” I say. My voice cuts over the growing bleeps of machines. “Six years of looking. Of wondering. Of wasting our time, our money, our lives. And all that time, our father was right under our noses.”
He can’t even meet my eyes. Not out of remorse or guilt. The asshole has no conscience. Just fear. His hand twitches, signaling for a guard. But that man’s too busy gazing out at the ocean.
Andre fumbles for a lie, and chokes one out. “It was an accident. Antonio slipped?—”
“Accident,” I echo, the word burning like bile on my tongue. “You mean he accidentally slipped into two bullets that tore through his skull?”
He squirms, which is useless. His hips are pinned in plaster and he’s strapped to a fucking urine bag.
I crack my neck and lean closer. “I predict you’re about to have your own little accident” I murmur. “And I’m psychic about these things.”
“I have guards!” he barks so loud, I’m not sure if he’s reminding me or his guards.
I rip the leads off one by one.
“He rests in our mausoleum now. In a proper sarcophagus.” I snatch the cigar from his fingers as his face twitches. “To our father, Antonio D’Angelo. Always and forever loved.”
He spits, furious. “Shoot—him!”
The guards blink.
“They’re not going to shoot me, Andre. See?” I shove the cigar in his cheek until he fights me off.
Grabbing at the wound, he howls, “Shoot him! Shoot—him!”—hysterical for a full two minutes before I even bother to move my hand.
The guards trade one practiced look. In one clean motion they shoulder their rifles, aimed not at me, but at Andre’s head.
He goes still.
And for the first time in my life I see it clear in his eyes: fear. And it’s fucking glorious.
I sip my water, then casually add, “You know who else Elena found? Fiona.”
Technically Dillon and Mateo wrapped it up, but Elena did most of the legwork.
