Page 178 of SINS & Riley
“You could’ve been killed.”
Yes. And in so many torturous ways, it’s staggering.
But I don’t say that.
I’m too busy processing the fact my sister is scolding me like a toddler who ran into traffic.
She wags a finger at me. “I don’t care if boys will be boys. I was worried.”
“I’m… sorry?”
“No more fight club.” She sticks out her pinky. “Promise?”
I’m not sure what the fuck is going on, but I blow out a breath and play along. I release a smile as my pinky hooks with hers. “Promise.”
Her eyes brighten, her smile flooding the room with a warmth I don’t deserve. “Good. When the guys are done fussing, I’ll be back. I made all your favorites—lasagna al forno, stuffed shells with lamb and ricotta, and cannoli. Lots and lots of cannoli.”
She hugs me hard—real fucking hard. Pain rips through me as I smother the wounded bear growl trapped in my chest. “Sounds good.”
Then she strolls out, and I just stare after her.
“Did I die and wake up in the Twilight Zone?”
“Here’s the thing,” Smoke says, rubbing the back of his neck. “None of us had the heart to tell Trinity you actually died, so… we took some creative liberty.”
My stare goes flat. “How much creative liberty?”
“The kind that turned into a full-blown production.” His smirk is all teeth. “We told her you were on a European tour, climbing the MMA ranks. Weekly stats. Fake socials. Even highlight reels.”
I blink, dumbfounded. “And she bought that?”
“The headlines helped.” Dillon gestures to his face, smug. “This face has launched a hundred fake news stories.”
“She was at my funeral.”
Mateo slurps the last of his drink. “We said it was for the act. Promo material for every phase of your career. This one for your retirement. ‘Will this be the end of Dante the Dynamo?’”
“Dante… the Dynamo?” I ask, flabbergasted.
Mateo raises his hand. “That was my call. Though I was torn between that and the Meatball Mangler.” He grunts, flexing like a wrestler.
I blink, dead serious. “How could you soil my legacy with a lame-ass name?” My arms cross, irritation burning hotter than the bullet hole in my shoulder. “You know my fighting name. The Inferno. Not some kiddie-club bullshit. Dante the Dynamo makes it sound like I’m three feet tall.”
They all howl with laughter, the room rattling with it.
It dies down slow, and when the final embers of laughter fade, Dillon pulls up a chair. “Give us a minute.”
One by one, they file out. Each one pats me—leg, arm, head. Just…touching me.
Like they need to confirm for themselves I’m real.
That I’m alive.
Then, once they’ve left, it’s just me. And my reflection.
Dillon takes a seat, same as he’s done a million times since we were kids.
We don’t talk right away. We never have to. The fucker’s always been too comfortable rummaging through my head.
