Page 165 of SINS & Riley
“Or Dominic’s brain,” Dillon pipes up from somewhere in the room.
Oh my God. My head jerks toward him. “Dominic? He was shot. Is he all right?”
Smoke shifts my pillow so I can get more comfortable. “He’ll live,” he mutters, more irritated than concerned.
I huff, grinning. “You’ve definitely got the bedside manners of a doctor.”
He smirks back. “And you’ve got the balls of a Mullvain.”
My blood stills. He knows who I am.
I push myself upright, slower this time. Smoke presses a bottle of water into my hand, steady and silent.
“You need to take it easy. You’ve lost some blood. We’re making arrangements to get your type and get you out of here.”
My blood type.
I don’t even know my own blood type. Oh, crap. Shouldn’t a mom know that?
I will. I’ll know mine, and the baby’s too. I vow to know everything about her. From her favorite bedtime story to the lullaby that actually knocks her out. And don’t get me started on knowing where she is every second of her life.
Hmm. Maybe Zver can fashion a tracker bracelet in baby size.
I sip, the water cold against my raw throat, and glance around.
“Where’s Boris?”
“Talking with our team.”
A team. They have an actual team.
“You have to help Zver. He’s my—” I stumble, weighing which lie might wedge into their good graces. Fuck it. “He’s the father of my child.”
The two of them exchange a look. A sideways glance heavy enough to flatten me. The verdict’s clear. It’s a no.
My voice snaps sharper this time, scraping past the burn in my throat. I jab a finger between them.
“Your brother is married to my sister. That makes us family. In-laws. For Christ’s sake, help the father of my child.”
They don’t exactly look convinced.
I set the glass down and lace my fingers tight. If they won’t help, I’ll get a D’Angelo who will. “Where is Enzo? I need to talk to him.”
Smoke’s growl rumbles low, the lines on his face digging so deep he looks decades older. “Enzo is indisposed.”
“Indisposed?” I snap. “The only people I’ve ever heard called indisposed are the ones chained to the toilet with chronic diarrhea.”
His stare doesn’t flinch. “We’re doing what we can.”
That’s it. That’s all he gives me.
I shut my mouth. They’ve got me strapped to medical equipment, an IV in my arm. Whatever else they’re doing, it’s clear—they’re keeping me and the baby alive.
Maybe don’t piss them off, Riley. Not yet.
“I don’t understand how you’re here.” My voice still cracks. “You answered the phone… the one Dominic told me to use.”
Dillon flips the phone in his hand, his expression unreadable. “That’s our emergency line.” A pause, as if he’s stretching for a puzzle piece just out of reach. “Dominic must’ve taken it after Dante died… but why give it to Zver?” He snaps it open, and studies it again. “We were so sure the car bomb took them both.”
