Page 137 of SINS & Riley
C4 and white phosphorus? That shit burns like an all-night crematorium. My mouth twists. “A little.”
Dominic doesn’t flinch. “Point is, the investigation is closed. It’s buried. For now, at least—it’s quiet.”
“As quiet as a Stephen King town at midnight.”
He exhales, shoulders wound tight. “As much as I’m usually the one sounding the alarm, I think you’re… safe.”
“Safe?” My voice goes flat, lethal. “Were the Keenans at that press conference?” I shake my head before he can even answer. “I will never be safe. Not with Uncle Andre circling, not with the Keenans likely falling in line right behind him. The smart move is to get the hell out. All of you.”
He hesitates, then gives a reluctant nod. “I’ll get the kids and Babushka to the safe house. But I’m staying.”
“Any point in arguing with you about it?”
“No. And good luck convincing Riley.”
“I’ll take care of Riley.”
I don’t know how, but I will.
My gaze flicks to Emilio, a lump of bloodied, broken, uselessness. But, still breathing.
I smack him hard across the head.
Nothing but a faint, garbled, “Fuck. You.”
I shake my head. “I’m getting nowhere with him. I need reinforcements.”
Dominic’s brow knots tight. “You gave your word. Only as a last resort.”
I raise a finger. “Wait. Do you feel that?”
He frowns. “What?”
“The oppressive silence. The stench of blood, sweat, and piss. And the fact we’re just as fucked now as the night we dragged Emilio in here.”
I sweep a hand through the air.
“Congratulations, Dominic. We’ve arrived. The last resort.” I gesture toward Emilio’s broken body. “Now, before I run out of toys, make the fucking call.”
43
RILEY
The alluring scent of coffee pulls me down the hall like a siren’s song.
I’m still groggy, yawning, moving slow as molasses, half-convinced I’m dreaming when I catch the clock. Two in the afternoon.
Considering I haven’t slept this well in forever, how the hell did I crash that long?
Jetlag must’ve hit harder than I thought.
Or maybe Zver’s cock is the miracle cure for insomnia.
Either way, I’m shocked my bladder lasted this long.
Low voices drift from the kitchen, stopping me cold at the doorway.
“She’s arriving tomorrow.”
