12. Riley
Riley
M y gaze snaps up.
A lanky figure approaches, all awkward angles stuffed into an ill-fitting suit and a loose blue tie.
Dante stiffens, every muscle locked, jaw tight. The D’Angelo mask snaps into place, transforming him back into the asshole.
The man who just gave me a public orgasm vanishes.
“Not a word,” Dante breathes.
The man draws closer. His lanky appearance is a stark contrast to the razor-sharp intensity of his eyes—cataloging every detail, analyzing every potential threat.
Recognition slams into me, full force.
Caleb Knox.
Or rather, Special Agent Knox.
The same Special Agent who’s the cousin to my first college roommate. At least until I was handed that “remarkable opportunity” to study abroad, as Caleb had smugly phrased it.
Which still pisses me off. The dismissive way he said it. The air quotes he added for effect. Like my internship was some shiny consolation prize I hadn’t actually earned.
I mean, sure, I’m a solid B+ student with a weakness for one tequila too many, but still.
Something cold and ugly twists in my gut.
What if Caleb was right?
What if a certain FBI agent had enough intel to know the D’Angelos had their hooks in me from day one, pulling every goddamn string like a puppet master, and dancing me right out of Kennedy’s life?
What if he knew all that and stayed fucking silent?
What kind of douchebag with a badge does that?
Oh, right. The zero-give-a-fucks kind.
Which begs two questions: what else does he know and why the hell is he here?
I’m about to ask exactly that when Dante leans close, his scruff grazing my cheek, his gravelly voice a sinister caress against my ear. “If you even breathe wrong around this man, Riley, I will punish you.”
Punish me? My pulse skitters, trapped somewhere between pissed off and turned on. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“No, Pom.” His voice is pure, unadulterated sin. “It’s a promise. One I’ll take great pleasure in delivering.”
The instant his gaze locks on mine, darkness incinerates every trace of deep blue in his eyes.
He’s dead serious.
He’s also scorching my lady parts into oblivion—something I fully intend to shut down. Immediately.
But before the icy fuck you in my glare even lands, Dante’s hand snakes around my waist, dragging me flush against his chest.
I’m locked in place as he blatantly eye-fucks me, daring me to resist.
“Causing trouble, Mr. D’Angelo?”
Mr. D’Angelo?
I glance between them, suspicion sharpening. “You two know each other?”
Dante’s voice is pure acid. “The same way senators know syphilis. Comes with the territory—though we’ve never been formally introduced.”
Caleb’s smirk stays pinned on Dante but his question slides toward me. “Everything alright, Riley?”
No. Everything is not fucking alright.
My sister married Beelzebub, two thugs attacked me and wound up brutally murdered, and now my idiotic body insists on playing dirty little pickleball, bounced from a psycho Russian to a moody mob boss.
In case it isn’t painfully obvious, I have issues.
Dante’s promise swims through my veins, but beneath it, an undercurrent of reckless courage.
I could scream right now.
Spill every filthy secret straight onto the FBI’s doorstep. Hell, throw in some extra bullshit for flavor—just enough to watch Enzo dragged away in cuffs.
But then Dante’s warning coils tight around my throat, choking off every single word.
If true crime podcasts taught me anything, it’s that rich assholes always have lawyers on speed dial. Bail is just pocket change.
And once he’s out—then what?
Is there anywhere on God’s green earth Kennedy and I could hide?
Dante’s palm settles at the small of my back, deceptively gentle, though it’s lightyears from innocent. Possessive. Branding. Burning straight through my psyche in a take-no-prisoners demand. “Answer him, Riley.”
And just like that, reality crashes back in. A reminder that, oh yeah?—
I hate him.
Hate his touch.
Hate his scowl.
Hate knowing that if I don’t obey—if I don’t do exactly as he says—I’ll be punished .
But most of all, I hate the molten heat pooling low in my belly, spilling shamelessly down my thighs. The power this man has over me is infuriating.
My eyes narrow into slits.
“Everything’s fine,” I grit out, forcing each syllable through teeth tight enough to crack walnuts.
Dante’s hand retreats, replaced by a cold, empty chill. Goddamnit, I hate that too.
“You heard her, Knox,” Dante drawls smoothly. “Everything’s fine.”
Caleb just nods. “Well, then, how about a ride, Riley. I’m happy to take you wherever you want.”
Dante slides between us—protective, possessive—his voice giving all the warmth of a steel trap. “She has a ride. Me. And we were just leaving.”
It’s like I’m stuck somewhere between the prize he cherishes and the territory he’s determined to piss all over.
The thing is, I know none of his macho horseshit is actually about me. It’s all for Knox, and frankly, I’m done being Dante’s personal fire hydrant.
Defiance surges beneath my skin like molten lava. Knox tosses me a casual salute, but before he can turn away, I snatch back the reins to my dumpster-fire life.
“Actually,” I chirp sweetly, flashing my brightest smile straight into Caleb’s eager face, “I could really use that ride.”
My innocent eyes and batting lashes aren’t lost on Dante. Hell, the steam pouring from his ears could power a freight train. He remains silent.
Score one for me.
“You heading uptown?” I ask Caleb, taking a cautious step toward him. Then another. Then another.
He beams back, practically glowing. “Anywhere you want, Riley.”
“Ahem.” Dante clears his throat.
I’m not sure what he’s about to do, but he simply extends a black card stamped with a pitchfork and sleek gold lettering.
The Inferno
Dante D’Angelo
555-952-6666
Not exactly what I expected. Aren’t mob boss calling cards supposed to be horse heads in a bed?
And as if I’d ever call him.
I’d sooner scrawl Thou shalt not hump thy brother-in-law’s thigh ten times across my forehead—in permanent fucking ink—than spend another minute with him.
But I don’t want a scene so I take it and let Knox guide me toward his car.
I fasten my seatbelt, irritated when I can’t casually catch Dante’s reflection in the side mirror. Unable to resist, I swivel and glance back once more.
The Roman statue remains rooted to the spot—sculpted arms crossed, jaw carved from ice. He’s not following, thank God.
But I know that look.
This isn’t the glare of a man defeated.
It’s the look of a man plotting his revenge.
One punishment at a time.