36. Riley
Riley
M ila bumps my shoulder, eyes fixed lazily ahead. “You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” I snap, arms crossed tight against the cutting Chicago wind.
Pouting doesn’t cut it. This line? It’s where patience goes to die.
She snorts, utterly unfazed. How she manages to maintain this puppy-dog excitement after standing here for going on two hours is beyond me.
I scan the crowd, silently willing them to part like I’m Moses overlooking a sea.
I shift impatiently from one foot to the next. At the end of this line, there better be a fucking Disney ride.
A text pings. I check my phone.
Knox
Vincent Shaw is losing patience.
Tell me you’ve got something.
I bite my lip, fingers tapping out a reply.
Me
I will tonight. Heading into the Inferno now.
His response is immediate—and irritating.
Knox
Tonight?
Absolutely fucking not.
Something’s brewing at the Inferno.
Stay clear!
I frown. Something besides an army of trust-fund douchebags cosplaying Thor on a bender?
Before I can reply, he fires off another text.
Knox
Call me. Now.
I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the screen. Another text vibrates through.
Knox
Riley, CALL ME.
Then another. And another. Six more rapid-fire demands later, I swipe on Do Not Disturb .
Screw his paranoia. I’ve got this.
To kill time—and spite Knox—I do exactly what any self-respecting psycho would: plunge face-first into my phone, straight into the devil’s carefully curated hellscape.
AKA Dante’s social media.
I Insta-stalk his account like it’s the Rosetta Stone while the line half-inches forward. But it’s nothing I haven’t seen.
Just another rich prick with just-fucked hair, a jaw carved by gods, scruff meticulously designed to fuel forbidden fantasies, and a smile wicked enough to flay hearts wide open.
But it’s always his eyes…
Steel blue. Cold. Calculated. Shifting from glacial ice to storm-tossed seas. Each gaze becomes an artist’s landscape to absorb—rich with ruin, edged in redemption.
I flip to the next shot.
In this one, he’s effortless arrogance—shirt unbuttoned, whiskey glass tilted, smirking like the world’s his personal playground.
Which, unfortunately, it is.
In another, he looks bored, detached, like all the world’s a stage, and everyone on it, his minions.
But it’s the candid shots that sink their teeth into me—the ones he didn’t pose for.
The ones where his eyes aren’t just sharp.
They’re lethal.
Ruthless.
Haunted …
I don’t realize how deep I’ve sunk into Dante’s darkness until my phone lights up.
A call.
From Kennedy.
My chest tightens so hard, it feels like something inside me is about to burst.
God, I’ve missed her.
With a sharp sigh, my thumb hovers. Then stops.
Yeah, I know. We need to talk.
But not with Satan probably breathing down her neck, hanging on her every word. And definitely not now.
Still, I could text her. Throw her the tiniest bone to explain why I’m ghosting her. Though trying to rescue you from the freaking mob might not go over well if Enzo the Damned sees it.
She calls again, and my heart can’t take it.
My finger hovers—aching to answer. To hear her voice. To explain everything and nothing at all?—
Just as a body slams into me from behind, yanking me violently back in line.
My phone tumbles from my grip, crashes onto the pavement, and fractures like a fucking prophecy.
The screen blinks out, dead.
All because the goddamn line moved an inch, and I didn’t follow.
Two hands clamp onto my arms, steadying himself as much as me.
“Shit—sorry,” the guy slurs, flashing a drunken, half-assed apology, swaying just enough to prove tequila’s behind the wheel.
His gaze crawls shamelessly over my body, lingering too long in all the wrong places.
If I could drive my knee into his balls without getting thrown to the back of this endless line, it would’ve happened already.
The last thing I need right now is another creep.
Scratch that.
The last thing I needed was a shattered phone— then the creep.
He doesn’t even spare a glance at my phone—let alone offer to pay for it—before two of his douchebag friends shove past, herding him toward their waiting ride.
A ridiculously pimped-out G-Wagon, fresh from club-hopping by the looks of their glazed eyes and designer clothes.
Just another glaring reminder that the world reeks of injustice…and Paco freaking Rabanne.
Someone else barrels through next, and my patience finally fractures.
If one more person bumps into me—just one more —I swear to God, I. Will. Fucking. Snap.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
I snatch my phone off the ground, inspecting the carnage. The screen’s a mosaic of spiderwebbed glass and dead pixels.
Mila gives me an apologetic grimace.
Not her fault—though stuffing me into a pale pink dress completely unsuited for Chicago’s bone-biting chill absolutely is.
I’d chosen something sensible, something with sleeves and a chance at survival. Six dresses later, she picked this. A skimpy engraved invitation to hypothermia.
I shrug it off. “I needed a new one anyway.”
True enough. Outbound calls were already a fifty-fifty gamble. But needing and affording are galaxies apart.
* * *
An hour later, we’re still here—packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a line that coils endlessly around the block. The air is thick with desperation, drugstore cologne, and the unmistakable stench of regret.
Somewhere behind us, a baby wails. I silently pray its parents aren’t twisted enough to bring a baby here.
I tap the knife under my skirt. “This will be worth it,” I mutter darkly, mostly to myself.
“Exactly,” Mila chirps, forever the misguided cheerleader for poor decisions. She thrusts her phone toward me, flashing a shot of a bar plucked straight from a Moulin Rouge fever dream. “They’ve got a signature cocktail called Heartfuck . How the hell could you not want to taste that sin?”
Easy. Already sucked one down straight from Satan himself.
I’m fucking good.
I shift my weight, and instantly regret the choice.
I’m wedged into Kennedy’s shoes that according to Mila are, “so fucking cute” that sacrificing circulation and possibly a toe or three is totally worth it.
“My feet are ten minutes from full rigor mortis. Can we go?” I mutter, shifting from one mangled foot to the other.
Mila, utterly unfazed by the seventh circle of hell we’re marinating in, just grins. “Nope.”
“All I want to do is crawl into my hermit cave, drown myself in shitty wine, and pretend this line never happened.”
She buries herself in her phone. “Relax. A few more minutes, tops. I predict a rescue’s coming.”
“By who? The fucking coroner?”
The line shuffles forward—maybe half a goddamn inch.
“I’ve never wished so hard for a zombie apocalypse.”
A shoulder bumps roughly into mine. I turn, already braced for annoyance. The guy’s eyes roam slowly up and down my body, settling into a smirk that screams punch me .
Then his arm slides around Mila’s waist. “Did someone dial 9-1-1 for a rescue?”
Instantly, my hackles shoot sky-high.
Oh, for the love of God.