Page 48 of Riot

Then the mansion appeared.

Massive. Regal. A fortress wrapped in opulence.

The exterior was all sleek black stone and gold-accented fixtures, with floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed from the inside like the house was alive. Balconies wrapped around the second floor. A lit-up fountain gurgled in the circular drive, and luxury cars were tucked into the garage bays like sleeping dragons.

This wasn’t just money.

This waspower.

As we stepped through the front door, the scent of garlic and merlot hung in the air. That’s when I saw her—an older woman with honey-brown skin and silver-streaked curls, sitting at the kitchen island with a half-empty glass of red wine and a bowl of something steaming.

She looked up, surprised. Her eyebrows shot up even higher when she saw me.

“Riot?” she said, squinting. “What areyoudoing here? I thought you were in New York all week.”

“I was,” he said, locking the door behind us. “Plans changed.”

Her eyes darted to me again, then back to him. “Andsheis?”

“This is Allure. Allure, this is Madeira. She’s my house manager and my aunt.”

Madeira stood quickly, straightening her cardigan. “Oh! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you. Let me get you something to drink. Water? Wine? Tea?”

Riot chuckled and waved her off. “You’re off the clock. Chill. I got her.”

Madeira hesitated, clearly not used to seeing him with anyone—especially someone like me. But she nodded andoffered a soft smile before excusing herself, muttering something about nosy old women and her wine getting cold.

I liked her already.

And I likedthis place. It wasn’t cold and clinical like Boaz’s compound. There weren’t guards hovering or marble floors you could slip and crack your skull on. The air here didn’t reek of rot behind roses. It smelled like a life being lived.

Riot led me through the house, pointing things out along the way—“this is the den, this is where I do most of my reading, that’s where I smoke when I need to think…” It was quiet, curated. Minimal but personal. Paintings on the walls, a few sculptures, framed photos that didn’t feel staged. Nothing about it screamed “trap house” or “cartel money.”

He stopped at a wide door at the end of the hallway and opened it.

“This is my room,” he said. “You’ll be sleeping in here.”

I froze. “In here?”

He looked at me, calm. “Yeah. The bed’s big enough for the both of us. You good?”

I nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room. It was masculine without trying too hard—dark wood floors, blackout curtains, king-size bed with navy sheets and a soft-looking comforter.

“I’ll grab you something to sleep in,” he added, heading to the dresser. He tossed me a pair of sweats and a plain white tee.

I caught them mid-air. “Anything but white.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I hate the color,” I said, quieter this time. “I’ve worn nothing but white for the last ten years.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. My bad.” He rummaged again, then handed me a soft navy-blue t-shirt.

“Better?”

“Much.”

I slipped into the en suite bathroom, locked the door, and changed quickly. When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. My makeup was still perfect. My curves filled out the shirt in ways that made me feel powerful. For the first time in my life, I didn’t look like someone’s prisoner.

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