Page 71 of SINS & Riley
Andre’s lips twitch. “My sources say she’s been spotted in some quaint little town so far off the map most people don’t even know it exists.”
Hackles rise along my neck. “Your point?”
“You misunderstand.” His eyes lock on mine, cold, calculating. “I’d like to buy her.”
What the fuck?
A slow, dangerous smile curls across my face. “Let’s say she is alive. What makes you think she’s in any condition to be sold?” I let out a low chuckle. “Even for parts?”
“I’ll take her in whatever condition she’s in. In exchange, I’ll give you everything you want. And the money I owe you.”
I study him. Calm. Too calm.
Then he leans forward, dangling the one thing—the only thing—that keeps me in this game.
“I’ll let you in on a secret. I know everything about Antonio. He was my brother, after all. I know his last steps, who he was with, what he was doing… and where he is now.”
Holy fucking shit.
“And I’ll tell you everything, Zver. Every detail. The moment you deliver the girl.”
22
RILEY
“You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
Dominic’s hovering again. I can’t decide if it’s the protective streak or the nosy one, but either way, he’s crowding me.
The cemetery used to be my reprieve. Quiet and all mine. But ever since that shit-tastrophe of a doctor’s appointment, he’s been keeping me on a tight leash.
His eyes sweep the lot, shoulders pulled taut. “The gate’s open.”
I hesitate.
I pause.
He’s right. Odd because it never is, not unless there’s a funeral. And with only three cars dotting the cracked asphalt, that feels unlikely.
The problem is I prefer it empty, and Dominic knows it. No witnesses. No awkward stares when I’m caught talking to air. Or screaming at it.
Still, I shove the hesitation down. If the doctor’s here and I miss him, I’m screwed six ways to Sunday. And I’m already fifteen minutes late.
“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, trying to slide past his scowl. “Be back in an hour.”
Dominic moves in front of me, solid as stone, arms crossed.
I blow out a breath, handing him the scrap of compromise he wants. “Fine. Thirty minutes. Tops.”
He gives me a single nod. Good enough.
I take it and run.
I’m barely out of sight before sweat pours. Not a glisten. A full-on, dripping mess.
The sun beats down, merciless. Or maybe it’s just me and my possibly preggo body burning like a furnace, cranked to eight hundred degrees.
Normally I’d stroll past the century-old headstones.
