9. Riley
Riley
“If our paths cross again, I’ll take more than a kiss.”
T he words slam into me—I wake with a jolt.
I sit up, breath tight in my chest, shirt damp, sheets tangled around my legs.
It wasn’t a nightmare. Or, a fantasy.
Not this time.
I drag myself into the kitchen, pour a glass from the tap, and gulp until the chill cuts down the center of me. Which still doesn’t help.
Because for the first time since I was nine, I don’t need a nightlight to make my way through the dark.
No.
The big, burly Russian cured me of that. Nearly a week ago.
What I can’t wrap my thick head around though is why, when those words rip me awake night after night, it’s never Zver’s face I see.
It’s Dante’s.
All sharp edges, towering dominance, eyes dark enough to carve straight through every defense I’ve ever dared to build.
This man whispers threats and promises in the same breath—words velvet-soft yet lethally edged.
And don’t even get me started on that hair. Thick, savage waves that practically plead to be gripped, twisted, and claimed between my fingers.
I chug the rest of the water like it can drown the image.
Maybe it’s because I never saw Zver’s face. Just the shadow of him. The weight of him. Maybe my brain’s filling in the blanks, splashing watercolors across an empty canvas until it turns into something—someone—I recognize.
Or maybe some twisted part of me wants it to be Dante.
I shake my head, the thought sour in my mouth.
Jesus, Riley. Get a grip.
My finger drags lazy circles around the rim of my glass, tapping restlessly as my brain spins through another round of mental Russian roulette.
Dante.
Zver.
Dante.
Zver.
Two unhinged buttheads hell-bent on pressing every last one of my buttons until I’m dangling off the edge.
First, there’s Zver.
Obviously a killer. Two bodies in one night, and the man didn’t blink. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this isn’t exactly the Russian’s first rodeo. Or tenth.
Honestly, let’s skip murderer and go straight to psychotic serial killer . Might as well ink it across his enormous bicep.
Then, there’s Dante.
Even if Dante isn’t the devil himself, he’s definitely sharing a steaming hot tub with the fucker.
He is a D’Angelo.
And the D’Angelos don’t exactly register high on the Boy Scout meter.
So no, I don’t give a rat’s ass how the man fills out a white shirt like it’s painted across his chest. He and his brothers are ruthless.
Sharp smiles. Dirty hands.
Pure evil served on a silver platter with just-fucked hair and the scent of power.
And despite the fact that neither Dante nor Zver deserves even a square of toilet paper in the real estate of my psyche, the harder I fight, the deeper those bastards dig in.
So, screw it.
What do I care?
Because for the past week, those two have done what therapy, pills, and locked doors never could—shut the nightmares up.
Probably because, deep down, I know they’re bigger monsters than my stepfather ever was.
I glance at my phone. Early.
Soon, the sun will rise, and Kennedy will finally be back from her honeymoon.
I didn’t text her. Or call. There’s no way I’m tipping my hand when Lord Satan himself is probably monitoring her every move.
But I have to tell her what the dead asshole said about the man she just married.
And the only way to do that is face to face.
Just rip off the damn bandage and say it…
Enzo killed our father.
Tears blur my vision as I bite down hard and hurl the glass across the room. It explodes—a burst of sound and glittering pain, my heart shattering right along with it.
The only thing I know for sure?
My sister would never crawl into bed with our father’s killer. She’d sooner shove a knife straight through his heart.
Unless… she didn’t have a choice.