59. Riley
Riley
M ila’s breath is shallow. Uneven. Like her body’s still fighting off whatever they dosed her with.
And I just stand there, useless and watching.
There’s nothing else to do.
It’s been at least an hour of me shaking the bars, scaling the walls, fighting off waves of tears racing to get out of me.
Dante can’t be dead. He can’t be.
I want to throw up, ball up in a corner and implode, but I don’t. Mila needs me.
Her lashes flutter now and then—soft, restless tremors, like she’s still fighting in her sleep.
She cried herself unconscious.
I’m not so lucky.
Not with my heart racing.
Not with my skin wired and buzzing like it’s bracing for the next blow.
Not when my brain keeps replaying every bad decision that led us here, frame by frame, like a film I can’t shut off.
I’ve tried for Da’s knife. Three times now.
It rests just beyond reach, glinting in the low light like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Mocking me. Tempting me.
So close I could grab it if I had two more inches of arm.
For all it’s worth, it might as well be on the fucking moon.
I’ve paced the length of this pit—straight across, in circles, every square inch, over and over.
Crying over Dante.
Plotting revenge.
Looping between heartbreak and bloodlust like a goddamn pendulum.
This isn’t a cell.
It’s a cage.
Carved from rock. Framed in bars.
And bolted shut with a door that doesn’t fucking open.
I know.
I’ve tried.
Kicked it. Yanked it. Shouted myself hoarse.
Nothing.
It’s the exact same door Zver used.
Same steel. Same vibe. Same club. Only, worse. Probably designed by Dante himself. God, if he was here right now I’d?—
Dante.
Big, stupid tears come fast and hot. I swipe them away, furious.
Stop. Crying won’t help.
I blink back another wave and scan the room again.
Rough stone. Sweat-slick walls. A ceiling so high and dark it might as well be sky.
This place—it feels like something pulled straight out of the Count of Monte Cristo’s worst nightmare. Innocence trapped in stone.
And yeah, maybe that’s what’s keeping me from falling apart.
Vengeance.
The image of Declan’s blood on Da’s blade?
That’s helping.
That’s something .
A string of sobs starts up again. Soft. Fractured. Helpless. Sounds I can hear, but can’t see. A reminder that others have been taken too—and they’re breaking as much as I am.
A fresh wave of tears blurs my vision.
Fear trembles through me. Quiet shivers that come and go, soft…then violent…then still again—before they start all over.
I wrap my arms around myself, searching for warmth in the useless slip of a sleeveless gown.
Dante tried to stop this.
Warn me.
He tore the necklace from my throat like it meant nothing. No hesitation or apology.
But I saw it. The pain in his eyes. I brushed it all away as easily as the blood on his hands and the deep slice across his palm…
And that brutal, beautiful soul I swore I couldn’t read?
It was there. And what did I do?
God.
I said I wanted him dead.
Fat tears spill out, raw and hot.
Sobs claw their way up, thick with regret.
This time, I don’t fight them.
I just slide down the wall, cold stone biting into my back, and let it happen.
Like some caged animal finally realizing the truth.
No one’s coming.
And Dante D’Angelo is dead.
And… I love him.