33. Riley
Riley
T hree nights.
Three very restless nights.
And not because a certain infuriatingly hot asshole has been haunting my thoughts. Well, not entirely.
For the fifth time tonight, I peer out the window. A black car gleams like polished obsidian under the flickering streetlamp. Too sleek. Too pristine for this gritty block. But it’s not the car that sends chills skittering down my spine.
Even hidden in darkness, that jagged silhouette is unmistakable. A man. Not smoking. Not pacing. Not even checking his phone.
Just watching.
Possibly watching me.
He could’ve been sent by Dante.
Or Knox…or Knox’s dipshit boss.
And for the record? I have nothing—zero—to tell them. Hence my stubborn refusal to pick up Knox’s relentless calls. Which makes me suspect they’ve abandoned courtesy calls in favor of flat-out stalking.
Maybe I never noticed because I was too busy sobbing like some pathetic loser over a man who clearly couldn’t care less.
Then again, what did I expect from the man whose brother murdered Da?
He told me himself he’s a monster. To my face.
And stupid me, I didn’t believe him.
Before the next tear can fall, the shadow moves. Barely. It’s just a flicker, but enough to send ice trailing down my spine.
Sadness evaporates, and my tears dry up, mid-breath, replaced by the slow crawl of something colder.
Sharper.
Unease.
I go absolutely still.
Wide-eyed, I stare into the dark, like a prairie mouse catching the scent of a wolf.
My heart pounds with every fractional shift in the dark.
Thump-thump-thump .
I suck in a breath. For fucks sake, Riley, this is ridiculous. That’s it. No more true crime books before bed.
I yank the cord.
The blinds slam shut.
Normally, I sleep with the lights on—too many shadows, too many memories lurking in the dark. But lately, I’ve tempted fate, killing the lights and somehow drifting off without the usual suffocating panic clawing at my chest.
Tonight, though, I kill them for an entirely different reason.
Not to sleep. But to stare straight into the eyes of the bastard stalking me from the darkness.
And I have to know if he’s still out there.
Braver with the lights off, I pry two slats apart, just enough for a cautious peek.
Not only is he still there…he’s closer .
One step. Maybe two. His face is nothing but a shadow. One that’s angled up.
Toward me.
Definitely fucking watching me.
My heart stampedes like a racehorse’s hooves, battering my ribs in frantic rhythm.
A sudden noise slices through the silence—a sharp, startled yelp rips from my throat before I can clamp down on it. My phone screen blares to life on the nightstand, along with a flood of harsh light.
I whip my head back toward the window.
The car is gone.
And so is he.
My eyes rake the street, desperately dissecting every shadow, every whisper of movement.
But there’s nothing.
Not a flicker. Not even a ghost of his presence.
No distant rumble of an engine retreating into the dark—though everything else is suddenly there.
Dogs barking furiously.
Sirens shrieking their distant alarms.
The metallic howl of the L-train slicing through the night.
It’s as if the entire city of Chicago is demanding my attention. Everything except him.
“Shit,” I whisper hoarsely. “I’m officially losing my damn mind.”
I force myself away from the window and grab my phone.
Mila
You up.
Stop avoiding me.
The truth is I have been avoiding her. Actively—like eye contact on public transportation.
Mila isn’t just curious. She’s a full-on Spanish Inquisitioner. One tear, one hint of weakness, and she’ll cling tighter than Spanx in July.
Dante is her boss. If she suspects anything, she will confront him. Head-on. Not that he’s ever there, according to her.
No, the bastard only seems to materialize when I’m there. Because clearly, my luck runs on Red Bull and horseshit.
Me
I’m not up.
Mila
You R up!
You need a night out.
She’s not wrong there.
Three more rapid-fire pings. With a frustrated sigh, I fling my phone, and miss the nightstand entirely. It lands with a thunk in the trash bin.
Fantastic.
Whatever. I don’t even care.
I flip off the lights again. Shadows don’t scare me like they once did. Why should they? I’ve faced Dante D’Angelo, and he’s the darkest fucking monster of them all.
Punching my concrete pillow into submission, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mila won’t stop buzzing.
She should be working. Instead, she’s busy carving out a night of bad decisions and morning-after confessions juicy enough to make a priest blush.
Well, she’ll have to chase reckless debauchery without me.
I’m too busy juggling Dante’s twisted mind-fuckery while desperately plotting how to pry Kennedy free of Enzo’s iron grip.
Not that I have a snowball’s chance in hell at that.
Enzo’s untouchable. Wealthy, dangerous, and psychotic, according to every news outlet in Chicago.
And Kennedy married him.
Her wedding-of-the-century to the monster who put a bullet straight through Da’s chest, and I need to know why.
I yank the comforter over my head, desperate to suffocate the fury burning through every nerve-ending in my body.
Maybe Dante’s right. Maybe Kennedy wants to be with him, blood-stained hands and all.
Right. And maybe Satan just opened a gelato shop in hell.
Yeah—zero fucking chance.
Ever.
My ringtone—Mila’s godforsaken “Barbie Girl”—slices viciously through the silence.
With a growl, I flip on the lights and glare at my phone wedged deep in the trash, nestled among ramen cups, crushed cigarette packs, and Inferno matchbooks.
Whatever.
“In a Barbie world!” shrieks again. She is fucking relentless. Grimacing, I fish the damn thing out gingerly, quietly thanking karma it wasn’t the bathroom trash—two girls, irregular cycles, enough said.
Blessed silence lasts exactly three seconds before the damn thing shrieks again.
“…made of plastic, it’s fantastic!” drills mercilessly into my skull.
Growling, I jab at the speakerphone. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, O evil one.”
“I’m rescuing you,” Mila chirps, annoyingly cheerful. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘Thank you, Mila. You’re amazing.’”
“Pass.” My voice is flat as stale beer.
“Don’t make me send masked hotties to kidnap you.”
“Promises,” I murmur darkly.
Instantly, my traitorous imagination conjures the shadowy watcher.
Was he wearing a mask? Is that why his face was hidden?
And why does the thought spike my pulse instead of scare the shit out of me?
Oh, right. Because therapy is definitely in my near future.
“Are you even listening?” Mila snaps.
I fake an over-the-top yawn. “Nope. Sleeping.”
“You’re a vampire. Vampires don’t sleep.”
Annoyingly correct. A part of my former toxic relationship with the dark.
“Just promise this isn’t about some guy,” she sighs dramatically. “Because if some asshole broke your heart, I swear to God, I’ll slash his tires, decorate his windshield with glittery ‘DICKHEAD’—all caps—or just straight-up shit on the hood of his car. Your call. Say the word.”
My lips twitch, the first genuine smile in days. Mila really would. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“I was. Now I’m plotting kidnappings.”
“Go back to not getting fired. Goodnight, roomie.”
I disconnect swiftly.
Mila’s optimism rubs off like fresh-squeezed lemons on an open wound.
Dante made me feel alive. Yet to him, I was nothing but a number. Disposable as a used tissue.
And it’s fucking killing me.
I yank the covers tight again. Instead of sleep, my brain stubbornly leapfrogs over Dante and lands squarely back on him .
My stalker.
Who the hell is he and what does he want?
If by some twisted trick of fate, this is Dante or Zver, the answer is clear. Two dangerous men. Both sharing the same one track mind.
They want me.
Pinned down. Helpless. And entirely at their sadistic mercy.
God, why does that twisted thought send my hand drifting shamelessly lower?
Stop .
Then—
Click-click.
That cold, metallic snap slices through my fantasies and freezes my blood.
Someone’s inside Kennedy’s apartment.
The air suffocates me while my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
Crack.
Another one.
Splintering the silence and too fucking close.
Panic detonates—a live wire under my skin.
Footsteps follow, each creak closer than the last.
I scramble for something. Anything. My hand snags the first thing I see. A goddamn can of hairspray.
Perfect.
Let’s blind a psychopath with lavender mist.
Then it comes. A groan of floorboards. Drawn out. Low.
My lungs lock.
Because whoever it is, they’re not just inside. Now, they’re right on the other side of that door.
I grip the dollar-store hairspray like it’s fucking Excalibur.
God, this is it.
This is how I die.
Half-naked in Dante’s oversized shirt.
A virgin until the bitter end.
Well…sort of.