Page 28 of SINS & Riley
Ricardo studies me like a canvas—taking in every line, every detail from hairline to shoes. His gaze halts on the mask and lingers, as if he can sketch out the man hiding beneath it.
I don’t need him looking that closely.
I roll up my sleeves and extend a hand. A deliberate, calculated move to pull his attention elsewhere.
The skull ink burns dark against my skin, and I make damn sure he sees it.
Skepticism flickers across his face, tempered and wary. He tried to pin down the face of his nemesis and failed.
I wiggle my fingers.
“What?” His voice carries an edge.
Not the edge of a couture designer. But more of the D’Angelo pet project.
The boy who once folded like pressed silk in the grip of real power no longer exists. Smoke and Enzo saw to that. They sharpened his spine, smoothed his jagged edges, and shaped him into the perfect consigliere.
Which is exactly why I brought him here.
Riley needs a confidant.
And if the time comes, I don’t doubt he’d bleed out for any D’Angelo.
Even Kennedy.
Even her sister.
The real question is, when handed an instant ally, what kind of favor did my little Zapretnaya call in?
“The note.” I drag the word slow, Russian accent thick.
Not that it takes much—I’ve grown into it.
A flicker cuts through him.
Shoulders tighten. Lips press flat.
“It’s private,” he says, too firm, like he knows the word might matter to me.
It does. But I don’t let on. I don’t blink. Don’t lower my hand. “I’m waiting, Mr. Ricci.”
Then comes the ramble. His favorite stall tactic.
“Your girlfriend said it was for her sister.”
Girlfriend? Try captive.
He doesn’t grovel, doesn’t beg. Just pleads with facts, stripped clean of guilt.
“I didn’t see the harm in delivering it. I wasn’t going to show it to the D’Angelos. Only to her sister.”
I say nothing.
With enough reluctance to look brave but not stupid, Ricardo tugs the notepad from his pocket and hands it over.
I open it, and stare at the cryptic line scrawled across the paper.
I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.
