49. Riley
Riley
A nswers.
I chant it like a mantra. This is what I want. Why I’m here.
I’m seconds from unraveling—and I hate myself that much more for it.
I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.
To free my sister.
To un-marry her from the mob.
Delivering the D’Angelos to the Feds? Just a cherry on top.
I can do this.
With all the grace and subtlety of a regency heroine smuggling a dagger into a ballroom, my hand slips beneath my skirt—fingers hunting blindly for cold steel.
For courage.
And find…
Nothing.
My stomach crashes through the floor, shattering on impact.
The knife is gone.
Pure, savage dread rushes up my throat, choking me. Then, a flash of silver glints between us.
“Looking for this?” His voice is too soft, too deadly.
He flips the knife, spinning it lazily before pressing the blade against my throat.
“Was this your plan, Pom? Kill me…or die trying?”
The blade kisses my throat with cruel intimacy—featherlight and mercilessly precise. Not enough to break skin, but enough to remind me exactly what I am.
Useless.
Fragile.
Pathetic.
A single tear carves a humiliating path down my cheek, acid-hot against my skin.
God, not a soul knows I’m here. No one would even know where to look for the corpse.
Still, I jerk my chin higher, refusing to fucking cower. “You think you scare me?”
His lips curl slowly, lethal edges sharpening, all smirk and menace. “No, Pom. I think you want me to.”
My eyes blaze, humiliation and fury locked in a vicious battle beneath my lashes—because goddamn him…he’s right.
But I put a pin in that shameful truth, blink away the traitorous tears, and shove it aside. “I just want to know why. Why my sister? What twisted leverage are you holding over her head to make her marry your sick fuck of a brother? Just fucking tell me.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy sliding cold steel along my breasts.
Dante’s voice dips low, each syllable pulsing in perfect rhythm with the vicious drumbeat in my chest.
“Why not ask her yourself?”
A flood of tears surges behind my eyes, bitter and furious, because I know my sister too damn well. She’ll lie straight to my face. Without hesitation. Without remorse.
Just like Da, protecting me always comes first for her. Goddamnit, it’s my turn to protect her.
But I’m not telling him that. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Not now, not ever.
The confession tears from me, raw and broken. “I can’t.”
“Careful, little girl. Martyrs break the prettiest. Shatter for me, Pom, and I’ll devour every fucking second.”
Humiliation scalds my skin, branding my cheeks as every scrap of dignity bleeds away. My breath shudders out in ragged bursts, eyes fluttering shut. Because if he keeps going…
The darkest, filthiest part of me can’t decide if I’m trembling from terror or if I’m sick enough—twisted enough—to want to see just how far he’ll take it.
Then his mouth crashes down on mine, savage and devastating.
His kiss is brutal perfection, a violent collision of teeth and tongues, possessive without mercy.
Every raw, punishing stroke steals another trembling thread of my control, stripping me down to nothing but a shameless, needy mess in his arms.
When he pulls away, he does it slowly—cruelly savoring the taste of my surrender still burning on his tongue.
“Kennedy isn’t a hostage.” He says it like he knows. Like I should believe him. “Did it ever occur to you she wants him? Craves him? Loves him?”
My voice fractures, scalding hatred boiling over. “No. She could never love the monster who killed Da.”
His jaw tightens. Eyes dead. “Sorry to break the news to you, but we don’t choose who we love. Just who we fuck.”
My eyes snap to his, fury and agony bleeding together, scorching hot. He isn’t talking about Kennedy. He’s talking about me. “I could never love you.”
The words slice sharper than intended—less a broken plea, more a vicious fuck you .
But they don’t wound him. Instead, they ignite something darker, something twisted and feral in those ocean-deep eyes. “Good. Then fucking me will be that much easier.”
He slides the knife effortlessly through the thin fabric of my dress with chilling precision.
One inch.
Then another.
Exposing my heavy breasts.
“I hate you,” I whisper, a desperate, trembling defiance as he drags the ruined fabric aside, exposing me to his merciless gaze.
“I know.”
The blade taps once, twice—icy metal grazing overheated flesh.
One nipple. Then the other. Without warning, he licks, sucking each until the wave of ice and fire shock like raw voltage beneath my skin.
It hurts beautifully—so beautifully it drags free tears I didn’t think I had left.
His hand slides around my throat, thumb pressing boldly into my pulse, testing its frantic rhythm. “Tell me you want this.”
My thoughts scatter, spiraling into a chaotic whirlpool of fear, lust, and wild, aching need.
God, I want him.
Too much.
“I want…”
Shit. I can’t breathe.
His hand lowers, grips his cock in long, unhurried strokes. Every slow movement releases a pre-cum. It strips another piece of my composure. Of my mind.
“It’s not too late, Pom,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Walk away, or…”
His eyes lock on mine, blazing and hungry, searching for surrender. Permission.
“Or?” I rasp.
His mouth finds my skin, kissing, licking, grazing over my breasts.
The knife still gleams in his grip, still very much in his control.
“Or those panties are coming off.”
And God help me, I say the unimaginable.
“Cut them off.”