Page 217 of SINS & Riley
Amelia.
Instinct takes over. A hush of aww’s fall as I rock my perfect girl gently. “Shh…” Her eyes find mine, heavy-lidded, and she slips into sleep.
I actually have to growl at my wife so she doesn’t snatch her away. “You lost the bet,” I whisper into Riley’s ear. “No one objected. She’s mine for an hour.”
Riley rolls those big green eyes and mutters, “Whatever,” but her smile melts my world.
Father Marc’s voice slides back in, soft and amused: “You are now husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
Thank God.
We kiss, and it’s the kind of kiss that starts and finishes me all at once.
For hours the night hums with something I haven’t felt in a long time. Pure, ridiculous happiness. We laugh until our cheeks ache and every last stiletto lies abandoned on the lawn. And all the kids are finally out cold, sprawled across the makeshift campsite that is Enzo’s great room.
When Seamus takes his daughter out, they move like he’s been twirling her since she was Amelia’s size. And every time he glares at Dillon and Mateo, I laugh. It’s the back the fuck off, she’s never getting married stink-eye.
The same look I’ll sling at any man who thinks he’s good enough for my girl.
Enzo drags a chair over, drops down beside me, and hands me my ninth glass of champagne.
He taps his cigar into what’s left of my wedding cake and smirks. “I thought you said small wedding.”
He’s not wrong. What was supposed to be twenty of our closest friends blew up into a full-blown spectacle. Alliances, factions, and family. It’s less wedding, more sold-out arena.
“Hey, don’t blame me,” I mutter, lifting the glass. “The wives made the guest lists.”
He tugs the baby monitor from his pocket and drops it dead center on the table like proof of life. “If there are any more kids here, I’m gonna need another damn Diaper Genie.”
“Yeah, you are.”
Between Z and Ivy’s brood, Smoke and Tia passing baby Valentina like a football, Baby Mullvain, and my own little one, there are more diapers in this place than bottles of champagne.
“You’re the one who volunteered to put them all to sleep,” I point out.
He arches a brow, correcting me. “My wife volunteered me.” A slow drag on his cigar, smoke curling between us, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Speaking of wives, I’m taking bets on when Riley gets knocked up again.”
“Seriously?” I deadpan. “She’s barely in the D-zone.”
His shrug is subtle. “Well, if she’s anything like her sister…”
I stare at him, the thought slamming into place. “Holy fudging shit. Are you?”
He nods, a rare softness breaking through the smirk. “The doctor confirmed it today.”
For a moment, the noise fades. A rare, raw hit of emotion chokes the air between us. The D’Angelo’s are multiplying. Family roots, digging deeper.
That’s when Smoke wanders over, cigar in one hand, whiskey in the other. He jerks his chin toward the dance floor. “Is that Seamus Keenan spinning your wife around?”
I nod.
Smoke shakes his head. “Christ. It’s a wedding, not a Dancing with the Stars audition.”
“Pom was terrified he’d object. But when the king of the Irish says he’s coming, short of a minor war, you don’t stop him. Not when his little girl is coming.”
“Fiona’s here?” Smoke looks around. “Where?”
I point toward the redhead dressed to kill.
