44. Riley
Riley
T wo steps into the club, and the atmosphere devours me whole—dark, seductive, an intoxicating heartbeat thrumming beneath my feet.
Before I can react, sweaty hands clamp down on my arms.
Just—eww.
On instinct, I jerk away. But his fingers clamp tighter, and I know the fucker just left a bruise.
“Leaving without a proper thank you?” His breath slithers against my neck. His pathetic two-inch dick grinds shamelessly against my ass.
Revulsion surges like acid up my throat.
Something snaps inside me.
Maybe I froze last time.
Caught off-guard. Easy prey.
But this time?
I’m fucking ready.
My hand slides beneath my skirt, fingertips curling around cold steel strapped to my lace garter.
One swift, vicious movement—and I spin around, blade gleaming.
A move my Da taught me.
His eyes widen, slimy arrogance draining instantly from his Jabba face.
“Touch me again,” I grit out, forcing steel into my voice despite the tremor clawing up my throat, “and I’ll skewer those pathetic chickpea balls into oblivion. Maybe roast them slowly over an open flame—really make a fucking night of it.”
His hands shoot up in surrender, feet smoothly sliding backward.
Smart move, asshole.
I jab the knife pointedly toward his zipper. “Now, I’m going that way, and you’re going anywhere fucking else. Clear?”
He nods slowly, eyes lasered on the blade.
Backing away, I thumb the button. The knife snaps shut, and the moment there’s enough distance, I bolt—shoving through the sweaty tangle of bodies, heart racing like a wild animal’s.
I’m not even out of earshot when his voice snakes through the chaos behind me.
“I won’t forget this, Riley.”
My breath catches sharply.
Wait.
How the fuck does he know my name?
Before I can move, another hand clamps down on my arm.
My whole body reacts. I nearly snap the blade back out until?—
“Riley!” Mila squeals.
She barrels into me, all limbs and laughter, knocking the air from my lungs like a human wrecking ball.
Her drink sloshes dangerously close to my face—neon pink, fizzing, smelling distinctly of tequila shot number four.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demands, swaying slightly, pupils blown wide. Her voice is pitched a little too loud, barely cutting through the pulse of music.
I just blink.
Where have I been? Is she fucking serious?
I want to unload an entire landfill’s worth of emotional baggage right at her feet. How I went from freezing my ass off outside to letting Jabba the Butt paw at me just to squeeze through the goddamn door.
How I’m still processing that I had to hold a knife to his dick to make him back off.
And how no amount of tequila in the universe will ever scrub the ghost of his sweaty grip from my skin—though fuck if I’m not going to try.
But the words lodge painfully in my throat.
My attention shifts, landing on the sash slung crookedly across Mila’s chest. “It’s your birthday?”
She nods dramatically, lips pursed. “I didn’t wanna say anything, because you were clearly having some sort of emotional crisis, but yeah.” Her eyes abruptly widen, zeroing in on me. “Oh my God—where did you get that necklace?”
It’s only then I realize Mila isn’t wearing one.
My gaze darts quickly around the room. Mostly men, though about half of the women here are wearing them.
A knot tightens deep in my stomach as I rub the pendant self-consciously. “They wouldn’t let me in without it. How’d you get inside?”
She shrugs, expression clueless and blurry. “No idea. But I totally want one. I’ll have Derek grab me one when he’s back from the bathroom,” she slurs.
“You mean Decker?” I smirk dryly.
“Deck,” she snorts, throwing back the rest of her drink in one dramatic gulp. “Rhymes with dick. Coincidence? I think not.”
A laugh escapes me, easing some of the knotted tension from my shoulders. “Exactly how many of those have you had?”
“Not nearly enough.”
A woman appears beside us, gliding in like smoke wrapped in silk. A black feathered mask hides half her face, and a burlesque corset molds perfectly against every curve.
Effortlessly balanced on one hand is a silver tray stacked high with champagne flutes and a tempting assortment of lowballs and shot glasses.
“Champagne?” she gestures smoothly. “Premium tequila…or aged whiskey, perhaps?”
I reach for a champagne, craving something safe and fizzy. The last time I drank was on a flight to my sister’s wedding. And since total shitshow barely scratches the surface, buzzed, not blackout. That’s the plan.
But before my fingers even brush glass— Slap.
A sharp sting lashes the back of my hand.
Mila wags a drunken finger in my face, eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh, hell no,” she scolds, grin wide and completely shameless. “We’re doing shots. Because if we’re doing this, we’re fucking doing this.”
I hesitate, just a heartbeat.
Then I see her birthday sash and…fuck it.
Why not?
She swaps her lowball for two shot glasses, grin wide and carefree.
Worry pinches my lips. I frown. “How much?” I ask cautiously.
“Complimentary,” the waitress says, already melting back into the writhing crowd.
I eye the clear liquid suspiciously, tracking her path. Drinks vanish from her tray like candy spilling from a busted pinata.
Harmless enough, I guess.
Mila shoves one of the shots into my hand, clinking her glass sharply against mine.
“To burning this shit down!”
Hell yes. I’ll fucking drink to that.
It goes down easy—dangerously so. A delicious burn coats my throat, slides into my veins, igniting something reckless and wild.
Just like that, the night smooths out, edges softening, air sparking electric.
Before I know it, Mila and I are plunging headfirst into shot number four.
The bass pounds through the floor, thrumming up my legs, pulsing through my bones. The room swirls around me. My limbs loose, liquid and untethered. Arms in the air, hips swaying, bodies colliding—we sink deeper into the beat.
Everything’s funny. Everything’s fucking perfect.
Hands brush. Hips graze. Every touch sparks fire beneath my skin. Music pounds through my chest, perfectly synced to the reckless hammer of my heart.
At some point, Mila disappears into the crush of bodies.
And I don’t even care.
Because right now, I’m floating—suspended in this moment, drunk on movement and freedom. When was the last time I felt like this?
Maybe never.
The next beat triggers an unexpected memory: nights curled up with Kennedy, splitting lukewarm SpaghettiOs and sipping gas station minis, pretending we weren’t broken, lonely, and desperate.
Pretending we weren’t barely fucking holding on.
Sweat slicks my skin, heat curling around me, and for once, I don’t think. Don’t plan. Don’t brace for impact.
I just let go.
Of the fear.
Of the hate.
Of the constant noise in my head.
Until I feel it.
A shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. An invisible pulse threading through the music, brushing my skin like static electricity.
My pulse trips, stumbles, then surges faster, harder—like my body senses danger before my brain can catch on. Slowly, I lift my eyes.
Two men stand there.
One scans the opposite side of the room—him, I remember. The towering brick wall of a bodyguard from outside.
But the other…
A chiseled jaw. Dark, penetrating eyes locked unmistakably onto me.
Half-shrouded in shadow, yet impossible to miss.
Like a phantom.
Or a dark god.
White shirt. Dark blue tie. Sleeves rolled casually to just below his elbows, revealing the ink curling around powerful forearms. He leans against the railing like he owns every inch of this city.
Fine. Technically, he does.
At least half of Chicago, according to everything I’ve read.
But he doesn’t own me.
His gaze settles on me—dark, intense, maddeningly unreadable.
It skims over my skin like warm breath against bare shoulders.
Suddenly, no one else exists.
Only him, reigning over his kingdom.
And me—bared, moving shamelessly beneath.
My throat tightens. Heart pounds harder.
But I don’t look away.
And I sure as fuck don’t stop dancing.
I move slower now—hips swaying to a rhythm that’s entirely mine.
Because I can see it, in the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips, that he’s enjoying this.
Enjoying me.
And I let him.
I let him drink in the way my hips roll, the way my head tilts back, the curve of my body gliding with the beat like it was created for exactly this moment.
Like I was made for him to watch.
Because I’m enjoying it too.
More than I’ll ever admit.
Far more than I should.
Until a blonde slinks up beside him—all giggles and octopus hands. Her barely-there dress threatens to suffocate him beneath a set of porn-star-perfect tits, and her tongue skims the edge of his ear.
Heat scorches my cheeks.
In an instant, every ounce of bravado I felt seconds ago shrivels—choked first by hot embarrassment, then crushed under the ruthless weight of jealous rage.
Frozen in place, reality bitch-slaps me with my to-do list:
Dance.
Drink.
Get answers. Or anything at all on the D’Angelos.
Even if it means pressing Da’s knife to Dante’s fucking throat and carving out the truth.
Piece by bloody fucking piece.