14. Riley
Riley
“W here to?” Caleb asks as we slide into the car.
Reality sucker-punches me so fast my head spins.
I can’t go home. And my bank account’s emptier than a sinner’s confessional. Which leaves exactly one place—one godawful, roach-infested place that’s my last salvation.
Kennedy’s abandoned shoebox of an apartment.
She’s prepaid two months’ rent, in case things went spectacularly sideways. At the time, I figured zombie apocalypse. Not mafia vendetta.
Either way, no one sane would ever look for me there.
“Head toward Bellami Subs,” I tell Caleb, my voice thin.
The drive is quiet.
At least, at first.
Soon enough, Caleb’s voice breaks the silence, deceptively casual. “You know, Riley, it doesn’t have to be this hard. Help me and I’ll help you.”
“Help how?”
“You want to get back at him for the bruises on your face, I’m your ticket.”
I shake my head firmly. “Dante didn’t do this.”
Caleb’s expression stays set, stubbornly unimpressed. “Then it’s just a matter of time. Work with me. He won’t touch you again.”
Frustration snaps through me, sharp and raw. “For the hard of hearing, I’ll say it again. Dante didn’t touch me.”
“Really? Because he was touching you when I walked up.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, he might’ve touched me,” I bite out, “but he didn’t hurt me.”
“Are you sure?”
Arms crossed tight, I glare straight ahead. “I don’t lie.” At least, not about this. “Stop interrogating me.”
Caleb’s knuckles go white, strangling the steering wheel. Annoyance simmers beneath an artfully crafted blank face. He keeps his irritation leashed. Barely.
“Fine,” he inevitably blows out, clinging to the world’s thinnest strand of patience. “Dante didn’t hurt you. But someone in D’Angelo’s world did, right?”
Yes . I just don’t know which one. A fact that, for now, I’ll keep to myself.
Caleb shakes his head, determination etched deep into every line of his face. He seems torn, caught somewhere between pushing further and letting it drop.
When he finally speaks, his voice is roughened by hesitation.
“You’re already on his radar, Riley. And once a D’Angelo sets their sights on something or someone, there’s no fading quietly into the night.
But maybe we can help each other. You give me something, and I’ll make sure you get something in return. ”
“Give you what?”
“The D’Angelos are making moves—dangerous ones—and Dante’s club, the Inferno , is ground zero. I need intel. Get me anything you can about Dante’s plans, his associates, his weaknesses—who he trusts, who he’d throw to the wolves—and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Emotion burns my throat, razor-edged and raw. “What if I want the man who murdered my father to pay?”
“Pay?” he asks.
“Yes. Fucking pay. Not rotting away in supermax, reigning from his cage. Can you deliver that?”
Something flickers behind Caleb’s eyes—unease, uncertainty, maybe even regret—but it’s gone in a blink.
He keeps his eyes locked on the road, voice dropping lower, dark along the edges. “Careful what you wish for, Riley.”
“Do we have a deal or don’t we?” I fire back.
A heavy beat of silence stretches between us, tension tightening like a wire pulled almost too tight. Caleb shifts slightly, fingers strangling the steering wheel.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmurs, his voice bitter with easy assurance, “Though getting intel would be easy enough for you…” His gaze slips from the road to deliver a blatant sweep down my body.
Heat flashes hot beneath my skin, my pulse spiking in anger. My eyes narrow sharply. “What the fuck does that mean?”
His jaw tics. “You know exactly how Dante looks at you. Hell, I saw it from a mile away.”
That snaps my gaze to him. “And how exactly did he look at me?”
“Like a ripe peach he’s dying to pluck and carve up for dessert.”
Before I can launch a full on denial, Caleb’s phone interrupts. His eyes flicker to the caller ID, body stiffening—rigid, ready for impact.
“Not a word,” he warns quietly, tapping the speakerphone. “This is Knox.”
“Where the hell are you?” The voice on the line growls, a demand wrapped in authority, accustomed to being obeyed.
Caleb hesitates, his eyes darting nervously. “Just… driving. Clearing my head.”
A dry chuckle crackles through the speaker. “Clearing your head? Is that why you’re cruising around with Dante’s girl?”
Fire scorches my veins. I am not Dante’s girl. Even if my traitorous heart skips at the mention of his name.
The voice on the line snaps impatiently, “Pull over.”
Caleb bites out a fuck under his breath. “Why?” Caleb’s question is strained.
“Because I’m right behind you, and I want a word with the girl.”
Okay. I don’t know who this asshole thinks he is, but calling me the girl isn’t doing him any favors.
Caleb checks the rearview mirror and swallows audibly, disconnecting the call without another word.
He swings the car sharply into a parking lot of a run-down thrift shop.
I twist around, watching as a sleek black sedan smoothly pulls up behind us.
But it’s not the driver who steps out. It’s someone from the back seat—a man in a flawlessly tailored suit, carrying himself with cold, Napoleonic authority.
“What kind of Fed has a driver?” I hiss, shooting Caleb a glare.
He stares straight ahead, expression carved from stone. “The kind who can make both our lives a living hell.” Caleb cracks my window an inch, his voice dropping dangerously low. “He wants to talk to you? He can do it through the glass. Stay inside, Riley. Don’t get out. No matter what Shaw says.”
“Who the hell is Shaw?”
“Vincent Shaw. My boss. Special Agent in Charge. And he’s not someone you trifle with. Or trust. Anything you say will be used against you. It’s just a matter of time.”
Caleb exits quickly, moving to intercept Shaw before he can reach my window. Through the narrow gap, I hear them clearly.
Shaw’s charm is chilled. “Want to explain why you’re hell-bent on fucking up my investigation, Knox?”
“I’m not,” Caleb bites out sharply. “I’m securing an asset.”
“Now she’s an asset?” Shaw straightens his tie, his calculating gaze sliding toward me. “Then you won’t mind if I confirm that for myself.”
Caleb stiffens, shifting protectively, subtly blocking Shaw’s path. “She’s in. You said if she’s in, she’s mine to handle.”
Shaw simply moves past him. “Not until I verify we’re all on the same page.” Without another word, he strolls up to my window, a stodgy man in a pristine suit.
His gaze on me feels intrusive. Predatory.
I bite my tongue and let my fingers drift along the door handle until they trace the sharp edge of frayed steel.
It slices my skin, the familiar sting cuts through the chaos, quieting the roaring pulse in my ears.
Just enough to hold still.
Shaw speaks, abrupt and cold. “I hear we have a deal. Do we?”
“Like I said,” Caleb murmurs bitterly, “she’s agreed. Riley gives us what we want, and we give her what she wants.”
Shaw barely acknowledges Caleb, smirking. “Shouldn’t be too hard, considering…”
“Considering what?” I snap, annoyance flaring in my chest.
His smirk spreads into something crude and uncomfortable—a grin that even clowns would sidestep.
He leans down, and suddenly I’m grateful the window is as high as it is.
“Don’t play naive. If you’re acting, save it for Dante.
If you’re not…” His gaze drops blatantly to my breasts, tongue sliding across his lower lip in a slow, disgusting appraisal. “You won’t stay naive long.”
I inhale sharply, pressing harder into that jagged edge until the sting of pain grounds every raw nerve, bringing clarity. My go to hell factor in full swing. “And if I don’t agree?”
“Don’t agree?” He scoffs, his stare sharpening, pinning me to the spot. “I’m offering you FBI protection on a silver platter. But let me be crystal clear—I want your cooperation, but I sure as hell don’t need it. Just like I don’t need a real reason to lock you up for seventy-two hours.”
“You can’t do that.”
He chuckles softly, a skin-crawling sound.
“I need an answer, but my patience is wearing thin. Refuse, and I’ll make sure the shadiest assholes in Dante’s circle think you’ve been whispering sweet secrets to the Feds.
Trust me, they’ll gladly trade intel for that little gem.
By the time I’m done, your life won’t be worth a dime. ”
My eyes cut sharply to Caleb, who’s suddenly fascinated by the cracked pavement beneath his feet.
Shaw shrugs, cold and practiced, the casual cruelty so routine it’s chilling. “The D’Angelos aren’t exactly known for forgiveness. I’d hate to be Kennedy when those seventy-two hours are up.”
My voice trembles with anger. “You’re bluffing.”
A practiced smile twists his lips. “Am I? Guess we’ll find out.”
A man in a dark suit and shades approaches briskly. “Mr. Shaw, we need to leave now to make your next appointment.”
Shaw’s stare never leaves mine. He clears his throat impatiently, eager to close the deal. “Well?”
He’s waiting for your answer, Riley.
I swallow back the acid rising in my throat, words scraping out bitterly. “Since you put it that way, I guess I’m in.”
“Good.” Shaw steps away, his driver—or bodyguard or whoever the hell he is—following close behind, their strides long and confident. Caleb climbs silently back into the driver’s seat and pulls away. Except for the white-knuckled grip on the wheel, he’s the picture of controlled calm.
I stare out the window, buildings and faceless strangers blurring into meaningless smears. My ordinary, peaceful life is right where it’s always been. Just out of reach, and slipping further and further away.
“I’m sorry about that,” Caleb says quietly, and already I’m sick of his voice.
“It’s fine,” I reply numbly. Mostly to shut him up before I start bawling on the spot.
I want the D’Angelos to suffer, no matter the cost. And I know this is my way in.
But how do I set the world on fire without watching Kennedy get burned alive?
Caleb pulls over a block from Kennedy’s place, stopping in front of the corner deli exactly as I requested. I’m dimly aware of his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the steering wheel.
He nods slowly, gaze drifting thoughtfully across the humble, dilapidated neighborhood. “Now that you’re working with us, I’ll set you up somewhere nice. Make sure you’re safe, Riley.” A soft hesitation. “You and Kennedy.”
His promises drip like syrup on pancakes, sticky-sweet lies thick enough to choke on. I don’t bother responding.
“You’re bleeding,” he says suddenly.
I glance down, following his stare.
He’s right, of course.
Old habits die hard.
He hands me a greasy napkin, probably salvaged from whatever cheap dive he grabbed his takeout from. I snatch it from his fingers, dabbing half-heartedly at the blood because that’s what normal people do—even if a small, savage part of me would rather bleed all over his crappy upholstery.
I shove open the door, ready to bolt, but he thrusts out another grimy napkin for the road.
“I’ll wait to hear from you,” Caleb says.
“I’ll need time,” I insist. A deliberate stall.
“A month is standard. If you need more, let me know.” His gaze hardens slightly. “And if you need help brainstorming ways to infiltrate Dante’s world?—”
“Help?” I snap, gripping my breasts like they’re the biggest set of balls this side of Chicago. “According to your boss, these are all the brainstorming I need.”
I slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Buttheads .