Chapter 5: The Toast That Broke Everything
The booth felt like a cage.
Black velvet curved around her shoulders, soft as a noose. The glass walls reflected the chaos below—bodies writhing under strobe lights, the bass thrumming through the floor and up through the soles of her borrowed heels. Emma had never been to Vice before. She'd walked past it a dozen times, always on the other side of the street, always hurrying home to her quiet apartment and her books and her carefully constructed life.
Now she was inside. Sitting beside a man who owned her name on paper.
Dominic's hand rested on her knee. Not heavy. Not painful. Just there. A possession. A claim.
She'd stopped flinching at it weeks ago. Flinching didn't help. It only made him tighten his grip, smile that thin smile, murmur things about adjustment periods and learning curves. So she sat still. Kept her face blank. Let him think he was winning.
Across the table, Craig Moretti looked like he wanted to burn the world down.
He was lounging—that was the only word for it—sprawled across the leather like he'd been born there, one arm draped over the back of the booth, the other holding a glass of something amber and expensive. His suit was charcoal tonight, fitted within an inch of its life, and his tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked like sin dressed up for church.
He hadn't looked at her once since she'd walked in.
Not directly. Not obviously. But she felt his attention like a hand on the back of her neck, constant and warm and impossible to ignore.
Marco Bellini sat beside him, scrolling through his phone with the bored expression of a man who'd seen this movie before. He'd nodded at her when she walked in—a small kindness, quickly hidden—and then gone back to pretending the tension in the booth wasn't thick enough to choke on.
Dominic raised his glass.
"To family," he said. His voice was smooth and low, pitched to carry through the thrum of the music. "To loyalty. To the bonds that hold us together."
He looked directly at Craig when he said it.
Craig didn't blink. Didn't move. Just lifted his glass with two fingers and sipped, slow and deliberate, his eyes flat and cold.
"Family," he repeated. The word sounded like a threat.
Marco cleared his throat and reached for the bottle of Cristal, pouring himself another glass with more enthusiasm than the moment warranted.
"So," he said, "anyone catch the game last weekend? I've got fifty on the Knicks and they're playing like they've never seen a basketball in their lives."
"Nobody cares about your gambling habit, Marco," Dominic said.
"It's not a habit. It's an investment strategy."
"It's a losing strategy."
"Everything's a losing strategy if you do it long enough." Marco raised his glass. "That's philosophy, that is. Write it down."
Emma almost smiled. Almost. She caught herself before it reached her face, before Dominic could see it and ask what was so funny.
He didn't like her smiling at other people.
The strawberry appeared in front of her lips before she registered his movement. Deep red, glossy, held between his thumb and forefinger like an offering.
"Eat," Dominic said.
It wasn't a request.
Emma's stomach turned. She'd eaten dinner—or tried to, the pasta sitting like lead in her stomach—but Dominic had decided she needed dessert. Or maybe he'd decided she needed to perform. To prove something. To be fed like a pet in front of the one person he wanted to humiliate.
She parted her lips. Took the strawberry. Bit down.
The juice was sweet and sharp, and she hated every second of it.
Dominic's thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping away a smear of juice she hadn't felt. His touch lingered, deliberate, and his eyes never left Craig's face.
"Good girl," he murmured.
Across the table, Craig's glass cracked.
Not shattered. Just a hairline fracture, running from rim to base, the sound barely audible under the throb of the bass. He looked down at it, expressionless, and set it gently on the table.
"Oops," he said.
Marco laughed. It was a nervous sound, too loud, too bright.
"Jesus, Moretti, you don't know your own strength."
"Apparently not."
Dominic's smile widened. He was enjoying this. That was the worst part—the way he savored it, the way he dragged it out, the way he turned cruelty into theater.
Emma's fork clattered onto her plate.
She hadn't meant to drop it. Her hand had just... let go. The sound cut through the booth, sharp and sudden, and everyone looked at her.
Except Craig. Craig was still looking at his cracked glass.
"I need to use the restroom," she said.
The words came out steady. She was proud of that. She stood before Dominic could respond, before he could tell her to sit down, to wait, to ask permission. Her legs felt weak but she moved anyway, weaving between the tables, heading for the corridor at the back of the club where the lights were dim and the music faded.
The bathroom was empty.
Emma leaned against the sink and stared at her reflection. The woman looking back at her was pale, wide-eyed, wearing a dress that wasn't hers and a mask that was slipping. She'd been wearing that mask for weeks now—the quiet, compliant fiancée, the grateful recipient of Dominic Moretti's generous attention.
She didn't recognize herself anymore.
The door opened behind her.
She knew who it was before she turned. Knew from the way the air changed, the way the silence sharpened, the way her heart started beating too fast and too hard against her ribs.
Craig stood in the doorway, his body blocking the light, his face half in shadow. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything she was trying to hide.
Then he stepped forward, and his hand closed around her wrist.
Not hard. Not painful. Just... there. Warm. Solid. Real.
"One word," he said. His voice was barely a whisper, rough and low and desperate in a way she'd never heard from him before. "Say one word and I'll burn this whole family down to get you out."
Emma's breath caught.
The bathroom was silent. The music was a distant pulse, muffled by walls and distance. She could feel his pulse under her skin—or maybe that was hers. She couldn't tell anymore.
His thumb moved against the inside of her wrist, a gentle pressure, a question.
"I can't," she whispered.
But she didn't pull away.
She should pull away. She knew that. Should step back, create distance, tell him to leave her alone. Dominic was out there. Dominic was always out there. And if he found them like this—
"I can't," she said again.
"Can't what?" Craig's voice was harder now. Impatient. "Can't leave? Can't say yes? Can't admit that you want to?"
"I can't let you destroy yourself for me."
The words hung between them. Craig's grip on her wrist tightened, just slightly.
"What if I don't care?"
"Then you're an idiot."
He laughed. It was a harsh sound, scraping against the walls.Funny how that works.
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have." She pulled her wrist free. Not abruptly—it was slow, deliberate. She did it herself. "I'm not a prize, Craig. I'm not something to be won or stolen or burned for. I'm a person. And right now I need to go back out there and sit next to my fiancé and pretend everything's fine."
"You don't have to."
"I do."
"Emma—"
"Stop." Her voice broke. Just a little. Just enough. "Please. Just...stop."
He did. His hands went still at his sides, his jaw tight. The dim light carved shadows under his cheekbones, hollowed out his eyes, made him look like something carved from marble and grief.
"I can't sleep," he said quietly."I can't eat. I can't think about anything except you. These past few weeks have been the worst of my life, and I've had some pretty shitty weeks. But this? Watching him touch you? Watching him feed you like you're a dog? It makes me want to tear my own skin off."
Emma's eyes burned. She blinked, hard, refused to let the tears fall.
"I'm married to him."
"You're not married.You're engaged. There's a difference."
"Not to him."
"To me.""
"Maybe that's the problem." He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the whiskey on his breath. "Maybe I don't care about the difference. Maybe I just care about you. Enough to break every rule I've ever lived by, take on everyone I've ever loved, tear down everything I've ever built. Enough to start a war I can't win."
"Craig—"
"I know. You can't." He stepped back. The air rushed in to fill the space he'd vacated. "I know."
"I know," he said again, quieter this time. The fight had gone out of his voice, leaving something raw and bare underneath.
The bathroom's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound so small and mundane it felt obscene against the weight of everything pressing between them. Emma could hear her own breathing, shallow and too fast, could feel the cold bite of the tile through the soles of her heels. She should leave. She should walk past him, back to the booth, back to Dominic and the strawberry and the hand on her thigh. She should pretend this conversation had never happened.
She didn't move.
Craig's eyes dropped to her mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to notice, for her pulse to trip over itself, for the air between them to go thick and electric. When he looked up again, something had shifted in his expression. The patience was gone. The control was gone. What was left was hunger, plain and unvarnished, and it terrified her how much she wanted to meet it.
"Craig." His name came out as a warning. Or maybe a plea. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
He moved fast.
One hand found her jaw, tilting her face up, and then his mouth was on hers. Not gentle. Not asking. His lips were rough and warm and tasted like whiskey and the faint bitterness of lime, and he kissed her like a man drowning, like she was the last breath of air in a burning room. Emma's back hit the sink. Her hands came up automatically—to push him away, she told herself—but they fisted in his shirt instead, pulling him closer, and a small, broken sound escaped her throat.
He swallowed it.
The kiss deepened. His other hand slid to her hip, fingers digging into the fabric of her borrowed dress, and he pulled her against him with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. She could feel everything—the hard line of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the way his body shook with the effort of holding back. He wanted to devour her. She could taste it. Could feel it in the way his tongue swept against hers, demanding and desperate.
And God help her, she wanted to let him.
The rational part of her brain—the part that had kept her alive through years of her father's gambling debts and Dominic's cold hands—screamed at her to stop. This was dangerous. This was stupid. This was the worst possible thing she could be doing, in a bathroom, in his club, with her fiancé thirty feet away.
She kissed him harder anyway.
Craig groaned against her mouth, a low, ragged sound that vibrated through her entire body. His hand slid from her hip to her waist, up her ribs, and she arched into him without meaning to, her body answering a question her mind hadn't agreed to ask.
Then he pulled back.
It was sudden. Brutal. One moment she was pressed against him, the next he was gone, stepping away, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. His lips were red and swollen, and he wiped them with the back of his hand in a gesture that looked almost angry.
"Go back to the booth," he said. His voice was wrecked. "Wait two minutes. Make it look like you were actually using the bathroom."
Emma stared at him. Her legs felt like water. Her lips were still tingling, still remembering the shape of his mouth.
"Craig—"
"Two minutes." He was already moving toward the door, his shoulders rigid, his hands shoved into his pockets. "And Emma?"
She couldn't speak. Just nodded.
"Don't let him touch you again." His voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, and then he was gone.
The door swung shut behind him, and Emma was alone.
She gripped the edge of the sink and breathed. In through her nose, out through her mouth, the way her therapist had taught her years ago. It didn't help. Nothing helped. Her heart was still racing, her skin still burning, and she could still taste him on her tongue—whiskey and something darker, something she couldn't name.
Two minutes.
She counted the seconds. Watched them crawl past on the clock above the door. At one minute fifty, she pushed herself upright, smoothed her dress, and checked her reflection. Her lips were slightly swollen. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked like a woman who'd just been kissed within an inch of her life, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She splashed cold water on her face. It didn't help. She pulled her hair over her shoulders, hoping it would hide the worst of it, and walked out into the corridor.
The bass hit her like a wall.
She made her way back through the club, past the writhing bodies and the strobe lights and the bartenders slinging drinks. The VIP booth came into view, and her stomach dropped.
Dominic was waiting.
He didn't look angry. That was the worst part. He looked calm, controlled, his eyes tracking her approach with the patience of a man who knew exactly where his property had been. Marco was still there, nursing his drink, and Craig—Craig was back in his seat, his expression unreadable, his knuckles white around a fresh glass.
Emma slid into the booth beside Dominic.
His arm closed around her immediately, pulling her firmly against his side, his fingers digging into her shoulder with a grip that would leave marks. She didn't resist. She couldn't. Her body was still humming from Craig's kiss, still remembering the feel of his hands, and now Dominic's touch felt like a violation.
"Took you long enough," he murmured against her ear.
The music was loud. The lights were blinding. But Emma heard every word.
"There was a line," she said.
"Was there?" Dominic's hand slid up her shoulder, his thumb brushing the curve of her neck. "I was starting to think you got lost."
"I'm here."
"You are." He tilted his head, studying her face. "Your cheeks are red."
"It's warm in here."
"Is it?" His thumb traced her jaw. "You look different. Flushed."
Emma's heart stopped.
Across the table, Craig's glass cracked. A clean, sharp sound, like a bone breaking.
Marco flinched. "Jesus, Craig, how many glasses are you going to destroy tonight?"
"Shut up, Marco."
Dominic laughed. Soft and low, his breath warm against her skin. He turned his head, his lips brushing her shoulder, a kiss so gentle it felt like a threat.
The glass in Craig's hand shattered.
Whiskey and blood dripped onto the table—a thin, bright red mingling with the amber. Marco swore and grabbed a napkin. A waiter appeared out of nowhere, already sweeping up the pieces. Craig didn't move. Didn't look away from Dominic's mouth on Emma's shoulder, his eyes dark with murder.
"You should be more careful," Dominic said mildly. "That's the second glass tonight."
"Third time's the charm."
Dominic smiled and pulled Emma closer.