2. Riley
Riley
I jolt, spinning to face a walking police sketch. The squared-off forehead, heavy-browed menace, and sunken eyes that look me up and down, slow and deliberate, like he’s deciding if his first slice should be vertical or horizontal.
“Well?” His tongue slides over his lips, tasting every syllable. “Do you want a ride? ”
He stretches out the word, clearly meaning it both ways.
And. Just. No.
This man is the poster child for ‘Stranger Danger,’ complete with a leering smirk, cracked leather, and likely case of crabs. A hard pass.
My skin tightens. My feet itch to move. Keep. Calm.
“I’m good, thank you.” Yes, Riley. Because when confronted with a probable serial killer, manners are the way to go.
He steps closer. “What’s your rush? The fun’s just beginning.”
My gaze shifts past him. To the church. To safety. Hope flares as a shadow moves in the window, like someone’s looking out to the street.
Please see me.
But just as fast, the figure turns away.
Then the last light inside flickers out.
Shit .
I step to the side, trying to push past the guy.
His step is quicker, cutting me off with a low, guttural snort—a sound that slithers under my skin.
“You’re not going anywhere, Riley.”
My pulse jackknifes. I stumble back before my brain catches up.
“H-how do you know my name?”
His mouth curls with a slow, deliberate smirk.
“I know all kinds of things about you, Riley. I know you’re alone.” Step . “And that your whore sister married Enzo D’Angelo.” Another step . “The man who gave me this.”
I’m forced back as he shifts, angling his head just enough for the light to catch it.
The scar is deep and brutal. Jagged as it carves a path from his ear, down his cheek, and across his neck.
If he’d held still a second longer, Enzo would’ve carved him into a fucking jack-o’-lantern.
“Funny,” he muses, as if savoring every second of how the fear tightens around my throat. “You’d think your sister would be more pissed. Hate the man who killed your father.”
The world tilts.
What?
Enzo killed Da?
Sharp, reckless words rip out before I can stop them. Because, as usual, my damned suicidal mouth never knows when to shut up.
“You’re lying.”
His lips peel back, a wide, feral flash of rotting teeth.
Then he’s on me. One predatory step is all it takes. My spine slams against the car, the cold metal biting hard. He cages me, chest to chest, pressing closer until every disgusting inch pins me in place.
Fuck. I can’t breathe.
“I’m many things, little girl. A liar isn’t one of them.”
His breath—this thick, rancid, saturated decay of food and stale liquor—rolls hot across my cheek, slithering down my throat like poison.
I choke on it, gasping for air.
His voice drops to gravel, rough and crawling, a slow rot settling into my bones. “And maybe I can’t get my revenge on Enzo or your sister. But, there’s you.”
His hand clamps down on my breast so hard I scream in pain.
“Come on, Riley. Let’s have some fun.”
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I kick. I thrash. Fingernails drag against the skin of his face.
A choked snarl rips from his throat. His grip slackens, just enough.
I pivot hard.
Bad move.
Another shadow lunges from the dark, the two of them trapping me. “Fucking bitch!”
Crack .
My head whips to the side, white-hot fire blooming across my cheek. The sharp tang of blood floods my mouth.
And then, darkness.
Heavy, stifling black fabric clings to my skin, dampening with each ragged breath, smothering me.
A sack.
They’ve put a sack over my head.
No.
No no no.
I can’t?—
I can’t be in the dark.
My brain fractures.
Panic claws up my throat like a wildcat yanked from a trap.
Get it off. Get it off.
I thrash, digging at the fabric, nails scraping over my own skin, chest heaving against the heat. My fingers fumble, shaking, desperate?—
There.
The knot.
But it’s too tight.
Too strong.
A rush of hot tears breaks free, the pin pulled from a dam I can’t hold back. The scream rips free—raw and unrecognizable—and that’s when it hits.
Another blow.
This one so much worse than the last.
Blinding.
Skull-rattling.
The world shifts and tilts, toppling until I hit the ground. Or maybe it hits me.
Hard.
So hard, it feels like I got sideswiped by a Mack truck.
Pain rips through my shoulder, coils down my spine like barbed wire.
And just like that, I go still. Leonardo DiCaprio still. Drifting in freezing water, waiting for a lifeboat that never fucking comes.
Fuck.
Get up, Riley! Get. Up!
I roll, trying to get up.
Fast, greedy hands descend on me, covering my body like spiders.
Creeping across my breasts, slipping beneath my skirt. A zip tie biting into my wrists.
No !
Da’s voice punches through the haze like a beacon from heaven.
You’ve got one shot, darlin’. Make. It. Count.
So I do.
First kick—wild. A potent burst of fucking fury sure to take names and kick ass. And…
A miss.
One of them slaps my breast, hard enough to sting. “Is that the best you’ve got, sweetheart?”
God, is it?
Then, a switch flips, and all of a sudden, I’m pissed at Leo. He should’ve done more. Demanded life. A happy ending. For Kate to scooch the hell over six inches and give him a fighting shot.
A chorus of laughter erupts and a surge of adrenaline sharpens into rage. Albeit mild rage as dizzying waves lock hold, but rage nonetheless.
He’s close now. So close I can taste it—his breath leaking through the hood like cat piss mixed with rotting eggs.
I focus on him. His body and the way he’s lined up, crouching in.
Perfect.
My second kick comes fast and brutal, and harder than the first.
I don’t need to see where it lands. Because the moment his massive body drops and his collapse ripples around me, satisfaction explodes in my chest.
Groin. Dead center.
A string of ragged, broken grunts spills into the air. And the shift in his body weight is all I need.
I scramble out from under him, but I don’t get far.
Another hand snaps around my ankle, shackling me. Yanking me back so hard, my skin tears against the gravel.
My breath saws in and out, heart hammering. Because if I kick again, and miss? It’s game over.
Then, a voice. Deadly Low and… Russian? And with just six little words, he stops the world cold.
“Take your hands off my property.”
His… what?