54. Riley
Riley
“T here you are.”
Chio finds me. He’s flustered and out of breath, and now flanked by two guards built like bank vaults.
For once, seeing him is a relief.
“Time to go,” he says quietly—like he’s hoping I’ll play along.
With Decker and me locked in this shitshow of a standoff over Mila, oh, it’s way too late for that.
“Good,” I mutter, nodding toward Mila—slumped in a velvet chair behind Decker like a marionette with her strings cut. “Between the three of you, I’m sure someone can fireman-carry my friend to your car.”
I shift to Chio, who’s still standing there, silent and still, like a goddamn gargoyle.
“Where’s your car?”
His jaw ticks, silently. Feet still cemented in place. It’s not anger that pulls at his features—it’s something quieter. More potent. Regret, maybe. Or restraint.
Then he speaks. “You can go. She can’t.”
“What?” The floor tilts under me. “Why?”
“The auction’s about to start.” His chin tips toward the necklace around Mila’s neck. “Club rules.”
Two words. Not loud, not violent. A low, bitter phrase that hangs between us like a noose.
Club rules.
The thing is, I can’t carry Mila out of here, and I sure as fuck can’t leave her behind.
I search for the nearest exit. Every last one is flanked by a wall of shirtless men sporting skull masks. Built like they eat rugby players for fun.
It’s also glaringly obvious I’m now the only woman in this place without a collar choking my neck.
Out of options. I reach for the only thread I have left—frayed, fragile, and wrapped around a name that makes my chest ache.
“Then I need to see Dante.” Even if he doesn’t want to see me.
I expect pushback from Chio—some grand protest, at the very least.
Especially since I’m still wrapped in his coat, a walking cautionary tale sponsored by tequila.
But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just lifts one gargantuan finger and points.
I follow his gaze.
And there he is.
Dante.
Cold. Composed. In all his broody glory, buttoned up a hundred times tighter than when he’s fucking.
And so fucking gorgeous, it’s hard to breathe.
His eyes find mine like a sniper sight. Sharp enough to stop time. They flick to Mila. Then just like that, he turns away and takes a fucking call.
The king of detachment ignores me. Why am I even surprised?
I snap my gaze back to the guards.
“Do not leave her,” I order like I own the place. They glance at each other, blank as bricks.
I press a finger to the center of Chio’s chest—hard. “Do not let her out of your fucking sight.”
He pauses. Eyes cut to Decker. Then Dante. Then finally, with one quick jerk of his chin, he nods.
Good .
My feet slow as I close in on Dante, each step weighted, cautious. A minefield of red flags my horny little body always wants to ignore.
He’s on the phone—shoulders relaxed, voice low—composed in that effortless, dangerous way he wears like a second skin.
Too absorbed to notice me at first. “It won’t be an issue. As soon as Zver arrives, I’ll leave. It’s that simple.”
The name lands and butterflies scatter in my chest.
I blink, pulse kicking clear to the moon.
Zver .
The man whose voice has whispered across mind more times that I can count.
If our paths cross again, I’ll take more than a kiss…
Dante turns, gaze sharp—like he’s just registered the sudden disturbance in the force… and didn’t expect it to be me.
“I’ll call you back,” he says, slipping the phone into his pocket without looking away.
His jaw ticks. Just once.
But it’s enough to stir something reckless in me.
Somewhere between panic and lust, I want to lick the pulse in his throat.
Taste the storm simmering under all that control.
Then, like a switch flipped off, the fire in his eyes dims—cooling to something calm. Detached. Indifferent.
“Problem, Pom?”
“I would like to leave.”
“Anytime,” he says lightly. “Glad to see we’re finally on the same page.” He steps aside, all flourished gesture and mock condescension. “My car is at your disposal.”
“I would like to leave. With my friend .”
He glances across the room to Mila. Decker lifts his glass in a lazy salute.
“Sorry, Pom. I can’t help you.”
“You have to.”
My hand shoots out before I can stop it, fingers wrapping around Dante’s arm.
He rips away like I’ve tased him.
My heart spikes. “There’s something going on. An auction?—”
A man steps forward, interrupting us, menacing as hell without even trying. No mask. Not that he needs one. He’s carved from stone, emotionless. A statue in a tailored suit.
“Did you still want to leave, sir?”
Dante doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks down at me, a flicker of life in his eyes.
There’s something there—just out of reach. And for a single, shattering second, emotion breaks through.
Raw. Wild. Almost… human .
Then it’s gone.
Dante nods once. “Yes. Thanks, Dominic. I’ll be a minute.”
“I’ll have the car ready, sir.” In a blink, this Dominic guy is gone—swallowed by a tide of suits, as if the room digested him whole.
And then, everything stills.
Dante’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me. “Zver,” he mutters absently.
I turn to follow his gaze.
A tailored suit. Black tie and mask. The presence of a man who fills the room almost as equally as Dante. But not quite.
Zver doesn’t move. Just stares. One second.
Then two.
But he doesn’t see me. Doesn’t even register me.
All that predator energy—all that alpha male, king-of-the-fucking-jungle focus—is locked on Dante.
And yeah. It stings.
“That’s Zver?” I whisper, voice barely there. My throat’s dry.
The thing is, I never saw his face.
Only felt him.
His hands.
His mouth.
His tongue.
But something feels off. I would’ve sworn the man would easily meet Dante’s towering height. But, he doesn’t.
Or maybe he just carries himself differently when he’s not hauling women around the back alleys of Chicago. “You know him?” I ask.
Dante stares off when he says, “Yes. He’s my executioner.”