56. Dante
Dante
R iley storms off.
And with her, my heart. Tears the fucker right out of my chest.
Drags it behind her like it’s chained to a train, scraping up blood and bone until there’s nothing left.
Perfect fucking timing. Way to go, Pom.
Unfortunately, falling apart is not an option.
Dominic reappears, calm and efficient. Like he didn’t just watch me get wrecked.
Behind him, I catch movement. My uncle, reappearing in record time from the Feds. Friends in high places, I guess.
Fuck. My uncle probably won money for that slap.
“You said you wanted a car ready,” Dominic says, voice clipped. “We should move. Now.”
He’s right. Death’s beating down my door like a vice raid at midnight. And goddamnit, Riley will not distract me.
We move through the club fast, cutting through the murmurs and clinks of glass. I don’t look weak. I don’t look back.
Until I do.
There’s just enough time, or maybe just enough guilt, that I give in and take one last look.
Not that she’s hard to miss.
Pom is her own brand of chaos. Trying and failing miserably to fight her way out of a storm.
That reckless tilt of her head.
The fire still burning behind her eyes.
And whatever harebrained scheme she’s hatched, she’s clearly throwing herself into—all tits and ass, and a full-on Scottish girl fight.
And fuck me.
I’ve never been so hard in my life.
Tonight will be a wake up call for Pom. And for once—and for all— fucking finally —I’m at peace.
With her choices.
And mine.
Dominic moves quick, slipping us through a back door and into the alley.
Cold air slams into me like a lead pipe to the chest, and for the first time in hours?—
I can fucking breathe.
Now that we’re on the road, the wheels are all in motion. Still, something’s off.
Off enough that my gut won’t shut up about it.
I check my watch. My bearing.
“You know where you’re going?”
“Yes.”
The way he says it keeps ringing in my head—too calm, too fast.
Dominic’s never exactly been a chatty Cathy, sure, but he usually throws out a rogue question or two.
That sharp brain of his always working the angles. Point A to Point B.
Or in his case, torture tool A to body part B.
Not tonight.
He’s silent.
Laser-focused.
And it’s…oddly wrong.
Come on, Dominic. Where’s the banter? The dry paranoia? The half-assed humor you usually throw around like a security blanket?
Give me a check-in. A sideways joke. Anything.
But he’s not saying a word.
And he should be.
I keep checking the time.
He keeps checking me .
We’re barely into the drive when he cuts a sharp left—tires screaming across the pavement.
The city peels away behind us in streaks of light and smoke, and everything inside me knots tighter, ready to snap.
“What are you doing?”
Silence.
“Dominic!”
His grip on the wheel doesn’t shift. “You have to trust me,” he says quietly. “I’m helping you.”
I laugh—dry, sharp, clipped.
“Helping me? Really? ” I lean in, elbows on my knees—casual as a lost puzzle piece clicks effortlessly into place. “Is that because you’re working for my uncle? Or perhaps Zver?”
No answer.
Not that he needs to.
His jaw’s clenched so tight I can practically hear his molars grinding from here.
Whatever he’s holding in, it’s pressure-cooker tight.
By my estimate? He’s got less than sixty seconds before he fucking combusts.
Then, the car slows.
Gravel spits beneath the tires as we veer onto the shoulder.
No warning. No explanation.
As if on zombie autopilot, Dominic kills the engine.
Hands settle softly on the wheel.
Eyes forward. Knuckles gripped and pale.
A mumbled prayer slipping from his lips.
Again, I check my watch and blow out a breath.
Fucking great. Just what I need.
More shit I don’t have time for tonight.