Page 6 of SINS & Riley
Some of my marks hold their secrets like diamond safes, impenetrable and stubborn as hell.
This guy? He’s more like a gender reveal cake. Slice into the right layer, and everything spills out. It’s just a matter of finding the right cut.
He has no fucking clue how deep a man’s fears can root.
I’ll show him soon enough.
Patience is my weapon. Fear, my ally.
I pick another knife, deliberately letting him watch the glint of the blade in the dim light. He recoils, straining uselessly against his bindings.
“Antonio D’Angelo,” I whisper, darkly intimate, drawing the tip slowly down his cheek, right beneath his swollen, purple-black eye.
His breath saws in and out, eyes rolling wild with panic. Sweat beads along his temples, and I know he’s close.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul. And by the terror gleaming there, this miserable bastard holds at least one answer to the disappearance of Antonio D’Angelo.
My father.
The fallen king whose absence still haunts our family. Vanished in thin air nearly six years ago like vape smoke in a Vegas casino.
“I don’t know anything,” he sputters between breaths.
If that’s true, it’s a tragedy… and not just for him.
I gave up everything to find my father. To the worthless piece of shit sniveling in front of me, as well as to the rest of the world, Dante D’Angelo is dead.
Blown up. Car bomb. A nice, neat Independence Day, mob style. Signed and sealed by my own uncle. Andre. The same bastard I’m almost certain made our father disappear.
The son of a bitch even tried to have him declared dead. Tried and failed. Our father isn’t going down that easy, asshole. Not with an army of attorneys on the D’Angelo payroll.
Let them fight the battle. I’ll start the war.
Especially now that my double life is over, and the only thing left standing in its wake is…
Zver.
My thick-Russian accent and my grandfather’s Bratva blood settle over me like armor.
Or, like a straight-jacket.
I stripped myself of everything. My life, my name, even my family. The brothers I’d give my right arm to see again. A sister I’d die for.
Everything, except her. Riley Mullvain. My Zapretnaya. Or Pom, depending on my mood. My little pain-in-the-ass captive who still has a hard lesson to learn: there is never a time I’m not watching her.
According to my phone, she left the pharmacy—probably through a window—and is heading to the opposite building.
A low growl rises from my chest. I’ll deal with her later.
The point is, I didn’t sacrifice all that just to have this piece of shit blubbering before me lie to my face.
I’ll have my answers. Even if I have to carve truth from this sewer rat one layer of skin at a time.
I slice open his shirt, ignoring his screams as I step back. I mark little x’s in his flesh, murmuring thoughtfully, “Heart. Kidneys. Liver.” I pause, smirking slightly. “Ooh, that's a nasty way to die.” I glance over my work, tilting my head in appraisal. “Just memorizing these. I’m going to try to avoid them, keep our little confession session going on for a few more hours.”
“Wait!” he sobs.
“Wait for what, Emilio? Isn’t this how you threatened Dominic’s kids and grandmother?” I shake my head in disgust. “For a cartel prince, you’re a pathetic pussy.”
