Page 127 of SINS & Riley
I whirl, slam him against the wall so hard the painting beside us rattles loose and crashes to the floor, glass splintering across the tile.
My voice is so low the words barely make it past my lips.
“I just killed Declan Keenan.”
The look on Dominic’s face says it all. The horror. The dawning truth.
I let him go and take a detached step back. “It’s time for Plan B. Get the kids. Get Babushka. Get yourselves out of here. And take Riley with you.”
His jaw locks. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
He just stares, dumbfounded. “What’s the plan?”
I stop in the hall and face him. “This. This is the plan. It always was. I’ve just… accelerated it.”
I shake my head. “I’ll squeeze whatever scraps are left out of Emilio’s Swiss-cheese brain downstairs—if there’s anything worth taking—and then…” I let out a hard breath. “I’ll wait for the storm.”
There’s enough finality in my tone that Dominic nods, stunned. No argument. No heroics. We lock eyes.
A goodbye without words. Silent seeps in until it's uncomfortable.
I break it first.
Shoving past him, I cut toward the east wing, blood starting to boil over, nerves strung razor-wire tight—when something snags my arm again.
God Almighty.
I swear, if Dominic keeps this up, I’ll kill him myself before the Keenans get the chance.
What’s it going to take to convince him that playing martyr is a bad look?
I already carry enough bodies on my conscience. I don’t need his added to the pile.
I don’t think. My kill instinct takes over.
I whip around fast, my grip already around a throat, fingers clamping tight, pulse pounding beneath my grip?—
And then the haze lifts.
Pom.
My grip eases, but only barely. I’m not about to let her think, in any universe, that I’m her safe space.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted—but instead of shoving me off, she lifts her hand and brushes it against my cheek.
That touch nearly undoes me.
I flick it away.
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me. “I have to talk to you.”
“Trust me, Pom—if you’re sticking around, the last thing we’ll be doing is talking.”
My thumb strokes her neck before I can stop it—automatic, without permission.
Her eyes glisten, lips trembling. “I just—can we just?—”
