11. Riley
Riley
I blink in disbelief. “You’d kill for me?”
Dante doesn’t hesitate, not even a heartbeat. “Yes.”
“Why? Because I’m family? ” I toss air quotes around the word.
“Yes,” he repeats, voice steady, unwavering.
I narrow my eyes. “And what if the person who needs killing is your family?”
Tension cords along his neck, tightens his jaw. His voice dips dangerously low. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what they did.” His eyes darken. “Or maybe just the fucking time of day.”
He says it in that love-you, want-to-kill-you tone only siblings can master. But under it, something raw. Like maybe, just maybe, he means it.
“Let’s start with who we’re talking about,” he demands quietly, steel blue eyes fixed on mine.
Enzo. Killed. Da.
Three reckless words claw at my throat, violent, relentless, forcing me to bite down until I taste blood. But I clamp my mouth shut, trapping the confession on my tongue.
Trusting Dante with this, or trusting him at all, is suicide.
Even so, a dangerous part of me doesn’t care. That reckless, destructive part determined to pull the pin, toss the grenade, and watch the truth detonate between us.
“I’m waiting, Pom.”
Pom …like what? I’m some yippy little dog he’s going to train. A flare of indignation burns through me, tangled hopelessly with a confusing warmth that refuses to be ignored.
Backed against a wall, with nowhere to go but straight through, I shove hard at his chest. “Go to hell.”
Desperate for space, I push past him.
I barely clear his massive frame before his palms slam against the wall on either side of my head, trapping me between cold brick and burning skin.
His voice drops to a rough growl, patience utterly stripped away. “Talk.”
I slam both fists into his chest. They barely register. Like pebbles flung against a redwood. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t stop me, just lets me lash out again and again until tears sting my eyes, hot and raw.
The truth finally rips from my chest. “My father’s life was torn from me.”
His eyes squeeze shut, forehead pressing against mine. His voice comes out a painful rasp against my skin. “So was mine.”
Everything inside me freezes, heart skidding to a stop. “What?”
Pain flickers behind his guarded eyes—a fracture in marble.
When he speaks, the words cut deeper than any blade.
“My father’s been missing for years. Long enough they’re ready to declare him dead—bury an empty box and call it closure.
” His voice cracks, roughened. “He’s gone. And hope is crueler than grief.”
My heart twists, tangling with his.
His thumb traces softly along my lower lip, and my breath shatters, hitching painfully. Transfixed, he stares as my lips part instinctively, aching for the forbidden taste of him. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Afraid?” I echo, my voice barely holding steady as his fingertips trail lightly over the curve of my breast.
Terrified would be closer to the truth.
I’m scared shitless by how effortlessly he crawls beneath my skin, sinks into my bones, and claims something I can’t take back.
Of the shadows haunting his gaze. Dark, turbulent waters edged with raw pain that soften unbearably when I stare a moment too long.
Terrified of the brutal gentleness of his fingertips as they brush away my tears, as if he could erase every scar, undo every ugly thing ever done to me.
And what scares me most of all…how easily—how willingly—I could let him.
Before I can answer, the harsh buzz of a cellphone slices between us, shattering the fragile spell.
Once. Twice. Again.
Until Dante silences it with a muttered curse, barely a breath of, “Fucking Enzo.”
Reality crashes back full force, slamming a mile-high wall in between us.
“I don’t fear you.” The lie scorches my throat. “I hate you.”
Hating him—hating them—every last D’Angelo—is the frayed thread barely holding me together, and I’m clinging to it for dear life.
Instead of recoiling away, he fists the length of my hair, forcing me closer.
I gasp.
“I’m a horrible man who’s done unspeakable things,” he whispers, the fire of his lips brushing mine. “You should hate me.”
His grip tightens, delivering the perfect bite of pain that jolts down my spine, tightening my nipples to aching points, igniting molten heat between my thighs.
His voice drops lower, more dangerous, more intimate as his hand slides past the small of my back, to my ass. “I’ll wear your hate like a fucking crown . ”
A sticky cocktail of fear and desire sets another tear free, until his kiss captures it, branding the wet trail dry.
He wedges a powerful thigh between my legs, pressing unapologetically against the throbbing ache. Friction spikes unbearably good.
A moan escapes, hips shifting involuntarily.
Satisfaction flickers beneath the thick sweep of his lashes. “You like that?”
He already knows the answer. Knows I like it. Want it. Need it. “Fuck you.”
My heart crashes violently in my chest, and when he shifts again, my teeth bite down hard on my lip.
“You need a monster? I’m the fucking devil at your service.”
My body responds, writhing shamelessly, grinding harder… deeper…
“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding my hips. “Make yourself come, baby.”
And God help me, I do.
With him.
In a somewhat abandoned alley with no less than a dozen of his men lurking just around the corner.
But none of that matters, because right now there’s only him. The friction, the rhythm. Why does he have to feel so fucking good?
He controls every movement, guiding my hips, my sensitive clit sliding against his thigh in exactly the right way.
And God, how I need this.
My eyes drift shut as his tongue glides along my collarbone, kickstarting my body. It takes over, chasing the release.
His teeth nip at my neck, triggering a tsunami of sensation—a riptide of emotion so intense, it shreds me into a million pieces and stitches me back together all at once.
My whimper disappears into his mouth, tender kisses softening the intensity, guiding me gently back down to earth.
Trembling, my body slumps back against the wall, knees weak, fingers clawing desperately into his abs, I gather every ounce of strength left in me.
“I. Hate. You.” The words pant out, stronger, harsher—a final, stubborn truth I cling to, even as the echoes of pleasure trace each word.
Dark ice frosts his gaze. “I. Don’t. Care.”
His mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is teeth and heat and raw, merciless need. Darkness and sin and the devastating truth—I crave him more than air.
And I have no choice. I melt into him.
When our lips eventually part, his voice dips achingly tender, a gentle tug at the tangled knot in my chest, unraveling me inch by inch.
“Now tell me, Pom. Tell me who hurt you, and I swear on my sister’s life, they’ll never hurt you again.”
My eyes search his, drowning helplessly in confusion, grief, longing…
Pom?
The nickname rolls off his tongue like it matters.
Like I matter.
But we both know the truth.
I don’t.
“Is there a problem here?” A cold voice slices through the moment, fracturing our bubble like shattered glass.