16. Riley
Riley
I glance down at the text.
Knox
Well?
My boss is getting anxious.
His boss can go to hell.
It’s been weeks since Knox dropped me off—nearly a month—and I’m exactly nowhere.
No closer to unraveling the twisted secrets behind Dante’s operation, and even further from prying my sister away from psycho-hubs.
At this point, both feats feel about as possible as dragging the earth a few feet closer to the sun. But, I don’t tell the FBI that.
Me
I’m in.
Well, I’m almost in. I release a defeated breath and tug at my riding hem.
With nowhere left to turn but blind desperation, I land here.
Right on the doorstep of Dante’s Inferno.
Or relatively close to it.
If my brilliant plan was to casually stroll inside, grab a job application, and snoop around unnoticed, that fantasy bursts into flames the second I arrived.
I check my cell. One in the afternoon.
I gape, slack-jawed, at the legion of eager fans crowding outside Chicago’s hottest nightclub.
How is there already a line?
Under the midday sun, the Inferno is nothing but sharp edges and icy glamour. Stripped bare of neon lights and velvet ropes, it feels stark. Exposed.
And somehow, infinitely more seductive—like an abandoned carnival ride whispering danger even in broad daylight.
Which explains the line.
Though it doesn’t explain why it’s all women.
I seriously doubt Dante D’Angelo is hosting a Magic Mike revue inside.
Even if he’s damn sure built for one.
Shut. Up.
Maybe I should’ve taken Knox up on that brainstorming session. Clearly, I’m miles out of my depth.
And since it’s either face this line or endure another round with the sweaty yeti on the bus, I choose the line. His greasy leer was bad enough, but that skin-crawling whisper— “See you around” … Yeah, no thanks.
I shove my phone back into my purse, drop my chin to my chest, and reluctantly take my spot at the end.
Again, I tug at my dress. Kennedy’s dress, technically, though I’m not sure it counts as one. Black, stretchy, painted on, and riding up so high it barely cleared my butt.
Dancing is literally her life, gifting her with a sculpted ass, an endless arsenal of unitards, and jeans so tiny not even divine intervention could squeeze me inside.
Not that I didn’t try.
But now, eyeing the line-up of spandex-clad goddesses ahead of me, I’m seriously regretting not taking my chances on a unitard.
“Oh my gosh—it’s him! Mr. D’Angelo!” one of the women gasps, clutching her friend’s forearm with manicured talons sharp enough to gut a man.
“Where?” Her friend nearly snaps her neck trying to spot him.
I have the polar opposite reaction, instantly dropping my hair forward to shield my face, which is ridiculous, considering I’m practically invisible behind this towering wall of glamazons.
Curiosity—and a hint of panic—gets the better of me.
I inch forward, discreetly scanning the street until I land on the man leaning against a lamppost.
Relief floods my veins.
“Definitely not him,” I mumble, releasing a quiet breath of relief.
Both women whip their heads toward me in unison, pinning me with enough disdain you’d think I was pair of flip-flops at a Jimmy Choo sale.
“As if you would know,” one of them sneers. Her voice drips with enough condescension that every Scottish fiber in my being has the sudden, desperate need to rip out her ultra-fake, ultra-blonde extensions, strand by obnoxious strand.
But, I don’t.
Drawing attention to myself—especially of the catfight variety—is exactly what I don’t need right now.
Casually, I shrug and gesture vaguely toward the much shorter, much stockier man who’s obviously waiting for a bus. “Pretty sure Dante’s taller.”
“Dante?” they both echo, giggling. “That’s Mr. D’Angelo —especially to someone like you.”
Their eyes carve another slow, dissecting path from my head down to my shoes. An art mean girls perfect somewhere between sixth-grade sleepovers and senior-prom.
As if I’m actually competition.
These women drip with outrageous confidence, deep-fried in sex appeal. Each one dressed—or barely dressed—to varying degrees that make Kennedy’s dance-wear the Amish equivalent of athleisure.
And the heels—sweet Jesus, let’s not forget the heels.
If your arsenal includes cherry-red lipstick and six-inch come-fuck-me’s, congratulations: you’ve officially found your tribe.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to slip in like a ninja—quiet, invisible, unnoticed. My gaze drops sheepishly to my worn-in black Chucks. Comfortable. Practical. Currently screaming Seen better days .
The taller woman’s lips curl into a ruby-red smirk. “Hate to break it to you, honey, but second-hand chic isn’t exactly Mr. D’Angelo’s style.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks with the unsettling realization that Mink Lash Barbie might actually be right.
I’m barely memorable enough to qualify as a half-notch on his bedpost, let alone as a runway model who frequents his bar.
Her words slice deeper than they should, effortlessly resurrecting every humiliating second of yesterday’s disaster, and my mortifying leg-humping performance, grinding shamelessly on Dante’s thigh.
In public.
God, what the hell was I thinking?
Dante D’Angelo isn’t into me.
He’s into mind-fucking me.
And worse—I’m into letting him.
Right now, all I want is to vanish into the nearest sewer grate. To erase every trace of the last twenty-four hours and Gorilla Glue what’s left of my shredded dignity back together.
I twist away sharply when another woman about my age sidles up, breathless, perfectly made-up, both hands grabbing my arms for support. She’s legs and hair that stretch for miles. Basically, everything I’m painfully, glaringly not.
“Oh, thank God I’m not late for the audition,” she gushes, bubbly enough to make my head spin. Her gaze sweeps over me approvingly. “Love your dress.”
I frown, confused. “Audition?”
She thrusts out her phone, brandishing a sleek ad featuring an impossibly elegant, stick-thin silhouette showered in an avalanche of dollar signs.
Open Auditions
Top-End Dancers Only.
Must be 21.
Perfect. Out on both counts.
And why twenty-one?
I’ve danced before—eighteen was always the cutoff. Hell, technically I’ve already been hired here.
Though I never auditioned.
Just took the wad of cash mysteriously dropped at my doorstep, lied straight to Kennedy’s face about getting the gig, and followed exactly what the smooth voice on the phone instructed.
At the time, I’d thought it was Dante.
Now, I know better.
That voice was too cool. Too controlled.
And if there’s one thing Dante D’Angelo isn’t, it’s controlled.
Beneath that cold, calculated mask is a volcano.
Molten-hot. Simmering.
Always one breath away from a devastating eruption.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” My new bestie asks.
Hmm . An audition would be my best shot at getting a closer look inside. I can just slip away from the pack once I’m in. I nod. “Right. Of course.”
A nervous giggle yanks me out of my Dante-centered hamster wheel. The bubbly girl shifts anxiously beside me, eyes widening as the line inches forward. “Oh, I’m Mila.”
“Riley.”
My eyes catch on the angry purple bruise blooming along Mila’s upper arm.
A bruise I know all too well.
Jimmy the Jerk Step-monster’s favorite spot to grab me. Hard enough to hurt, hidden enough to keep me out of the ER. It’s the reason I spent every sweltering Chicago summer hiding beneath long sleeves.
Mila shifts, rubbing the spot absently.
“Arnica gel helps,” I say quietly. “Ice too, if you can stand it.”
Her eyes widen, darting nervously to mine. Shame flickers briefly before she swallows it back, whispering softly, “It’s why I need this job. I—I can’t go back.”
My chest tightens.
“Next!”
The crisp snap of the woman’s clap cuts through our introductions.
The red head is sophisticated, her hair swept into an elegant chignon. Older, but not by much.
She’s moved through the line in record time with no-bullshit efficiency. It might even be impressive if her merciless gaze hadn’t just zeroed in on me.
Me, with my messy ponytail, suffocating dress, and of course, the shoes.
Her brows slowly relax, judgment giving way briefly to curiosity. Lips parting in careful consideration.
“ID?” she snaps, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Her fingers wiggle impatiently.
My stomach knots. “I forgot it,” I lie, clutching my purse tighter, feeling my ID burning a hole inside.
Her gaze narrows skeptically, sweeping down my body again. “Fine—for now. You’ll need it before performing. Experience?”
Does dancing around my bedroom in underwear to Beyoncé count?
“Um—”
“I’ve got this one,” interrupts a man’s voice. A low, velvet rasp layered thickly with quiet arrogance and barely-restrained frustration.
Slowly, dreadfully, I lift my gaze, even though I already know exactly who is.
Dante.
His expression is pure lickable scruff and brooding intensity. A faint ghost of a dimple threatens to surface, and for a reckless, heart-stopping second, I wonder if it will.
But that would require him to actually smile, so hard no.
His dark denim jeans and crisp blue T-shirt amplify every lethal detail—the icy gleam in his eyes, the serpent inked on his left bicep, the barely restrained power rippling beneath his skin.
This man slices through my flimsy bravado as easily as the Titanic through an iceberg.
Fingers curl around my elbow, gentle yet possessive, as he pulls me aside. Murmurs ripple behind us, curiosity buzzing down the line.
His voice drops, dangerously close to my ear. “What the hell are you doing here, Riley?”
“Just…auditioning.”
His gaze darkens, ice battling fire. “Dressed like that?”
I gesture to the sea of barely-there two-pieces. “Compared to the women in this line, I might as well be dressed for Sunday mass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I was about to be offered a job.”
“I don’t think so.” Dante snaps his fingers, summoning a Goliath of a man instantly to his side. For a panicked heartbeat, I wonder if he’s about to have King Kong haul me away—but instead, he just says, “Your jacket.”
“Yes, sir.” The man immediately removes his jacket, hands it over, and retreats to whatever post he materialized from.
Dante drapes the jacket around my shoulders, movements infuriatingly gentle. I glare up at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sending you home.”
“No, you’re not.”
He raises a hand, summoning a car and blatantly ignoring me.
I cement my feet to the pavement.
Screw that. I’m not going anywhere.
At least, not until I’ve crawled through every dark, skeleton-stuffed closet in his twisted empire and handed the feds enough rope to hang Enzo. Then Kennedy and I can finally get the hell away from them.
Permanently.
So, before he can usher me into the pristine sedan, I lift both hands in mock surrender.
“Fine. Okay. You win. I’m not auditioning for you…” I shrug casually. “I guess I’ll just dance my cares away on your pal Knox’s lap.”
“What?”
I mirror his stance, hands on hips, defiant as a raised middle finger. If Dante thinks he can cradle a ticking bomb and walk away unscathed…
Game fucking on.