Chapter 1: The Boss's House Rules
Jules had that look on her face. The one that said she'd already decided Vivi's entire night for her, and fighting it would be like arguing with a brick wall that had opinions.
"Just one more shot," Jules said, waving the bartender over before Vivi could form the word no. They were standing in a kitchen roughly the size of Vivi's entire apartment, all dark marble and brushed brass fixtures, caterers weaving through the crowd with trays of things that looked too fancy to eat. "You need it. Trust me."
"What I need," Vivi said, her words coming out slightly slurred, "is to know whose house this is. Because I'm pretty sure I saw a painting in the hallway that costs more than I'll make in my entire life."
Marco appeared at Jules's elbow, his hand finding her waist like it belonged there. He was already scanning the room, hungry for something Vivi didn't understand. "My boss. I told you. He throws these things sometimes. Just... stay in this area, okay? Don't wander."
"I don't wander," Vivi said.
Jules snorted. "You literally wandered away from us twice in the last hour."
"That's not wandering. That's exploring."
The shot arrived. Clear liquid in a tiny glass that cost more than it should. Vivi knocked it back before she could think about it, the burn chasing away the last of her hesitation. The room tilted slightly, then corrected itself. Good. She was fine. Totally fine.
"Okay," Jules said, already backing away with Marco's hand in hers. "We're going to mingle. You should mingle too. Find someone. Get laid. That's the whole point of tonight."
"The whole point of tonight," Vivi called after them, "was supposedly to celebrate Marco's promotion, which I still don't understand because he won't tell me what he actually does."
But they were already gone, swallowed by the crowd of beautiful people in expensive clothes. Vivi stood alone in the kitchen, holding an empty shot glass and wondering when exactly her life had become this. A party she wasn't invited to, in a house she couldn't afford to look at, surrounded by people who moved like they owned the air they breathed.
She set the glass down and started walking.
The hallway stretched ahead of her like something out of a gothic novel, blackened oak panels groaning under the weight of centuries. Amber sconces cast jagged shadows that danced along the walls, and the air smelled like aged whiskey and damp stone and something older, something that clung to the walls like a second skin. Her heels clicked against the hardwood, a lonely sound in the muffled quiet.
"Okay," she muttered to herself, trailing her fingers along the wood paneling. "So this is definitely a cult. Or a mob front. Or both. Jules is going to owe me so many brunches for this."
She passed a room with its door cracked open. Peeked inside. Bookshelves floor to ceiling, a desk the size of a small car, leather chairs that looked like they'd witnessed things. No people. Just the heavy silence of a space that was used for serious conversations.
"Rich people are so weird," she whispered, continuing down the hall. "Like, what do you even do with all this space? Roll around in it? Host sacrifice rituals?"
Her tattooed hip caught the light as she walked, the octopus tentacles dark against her skin, climbing down past the hem of her short black lace dress. The phoenix on her back shifted with every step, wings spread wide beneath the fabric. She'd gotten both in the same month, two years ago, when she'd decided that if she was going to feel like nothing, she might as well look like something.
The hallway curved. She followed it.
"What if I just... opened every door?" she mused, her voice bouncing off the walls. "What's the worst that could happen? Someone yells at me? I've been yelled at by professionals. I can handle it."
She was so focused on the doors that she didn't notice the figure rounding the corner until she was already colliding with something solid. Hard. Unyielding.
"Oh, fuck—holy shit, I'm sorry—"
Hands caught her elbows, steadying her before she could stumble. She looked up. And up. And up.
Dark hair. Blue eyes that cut through the dim light like they knew exactly what they were doing. Chiseled features that belonged on a billboard or in a movie about people who wore suits and did terrible things. A build that suggested he didn't spend his free time sitting in offices.
He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve or throw away.
"If I'm not supposed to be here," Vivi said, the words tumbling out before her brain could catch up, "your security is lax as fuck."
Something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not offense. Something closer to amusement, though it was gone too fast to name.
"My security," he repeated, his voice low and even, carrying the kind of quiet authority that made people stop talking and listen. "Is that so."
"I mean, I just walked in. Well, I walked in with Jules and Marco, but still. I could be anyone. I could be a—" She gestured vaguely. "A spy. Or a criminal. Or someone's angry ex-girlfriend. Does this place not have a guest list?"
"There's a guest list."
"And yet here I stand." She spread her arms, nearly losing her balance. His hand shot out again, steadying her, and she noticed for the first time how warm his palm was against her bare arm. "Sorry. Shots. Plural. Maybe too many."
He didn't let go. His eyes traveled over her face, then down, taking in the lace dress, the ink on her hips visible through the fabric, the heels that added three inches to her petite frame. When his gaze returned to hers, there was something different there. A curiosity that hadn't existed a moment before.
"You're not afraid," he said. It wasn't a question.
Vivi blinked. "Should I be?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Most people are."
"Most people are boring." She pulled back slightly, testing his grip. He released her. "I'm Vivi. I'm here because Jules said I needed to get laid, which is apparently a thing friends say to each other now. And also because Marco works for—" She paused, frowning. "Actually, I don't know who he works for. Some guy. A boss. Very mysterious."
"Some guy," he echoed.
"Yeah. You probably know him. You seem like you know people." She squinted at him. "Are you someone's security? You've got the whole..." She gestured at all of him. "Intense thing going on."
"I'm not security."
"Oh. Then you're..." She trailed off, the pieces finally starting to click together in her alcohol-soaked brain. The way Marco had been nervous about this party. The way he'd said stay in this area. The way this man looked at her like he owned the walls around them.
"Oh, fuck," she said. "You're the boss."
Dante Moretti watched the realization dawn in her eyes. It was fascinating, the way her expression shifted from tipsy confusion to something sharper, more aware. She didn't step back. Didn't start apologizing or trying to explain her way out of whatever trouble she thought she was in.
She just stood there, swaying slightly, and said, "Well, shit. This is awkward."
"Not particularly."
"You're not offended? That I just told you your security is lax?"
"I'm intrigued." He tilted his head, studying her. "You're the first person in a very long time to walk into my home and tell me exactly what you think."
"I'm the first person in a very long time to not know who you are." She paused. "No offense. I'm sure you're very famous among people who care about that sort of thing."
"Are you not one of those people?"
"I'm a person who cares about whether I'm going to make rent this month and whether my cat is going to forgive me for leaving her alone this long." She glanced down the hallway, then back at him. "Speaking of which, how long do these parties usually last? Because I'm reaching my social limit, and I've been here for maybe two hours."
Dante found himself fighting a smile. It was an unfamiliar sensation.
"Longer than two hours," he said.
"Great. Fantastic. I'll just..." She gestured vaguely in the direction she'd come from. "Find Jules. Tell her I didn't get murdered. Or whatever."
"Vivi."
She stopped. Turned back.
"You're welcome to stay," he said. "As long as you want."
She stared at him for a long moment, her dark brows drawing together. "Is that a threat or an invitation?"
"Which would you prefer?"
"I'd prefer neither, if I'm being honest. I'd prefer to go home and eat cold pizza and forget this entire night ever happened." She paused. "No offense."
"None taken."
She nodded slowly, like she was deciding something. Then she turned and continued down the hallway, her heels clicking against the hardwood, her octopus tattoo disappearing into the shadows.
Dante watched her go.
He didn't move until she was out of sight, until the sound of her footsteps faded into nothing. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, typing a quick message to Marco.
Who is she?
The reply came almost immediately.
Jules's friend. Vivi. She's nobody. I'm sorry, I didn't think she'd wander off—
She's fine. Keep her close. Don't let her leave.
A pause. Then: Understood.
Dante slipped the phone back into his pocket and stared down the empty hallway, letting the quiet settle around him. The party continued somewhere else, muffled by walls and distance, but here, in this moment, everything was still.
She hadn't looked at him with fear. She hadn't looked at him with recognized power, with the knowing deference that everyone in his world learned to perform.
She'd looked at him like he was just a man standing in a hallway.
His hand still felt warm where he'd touched her arm.
Her heels were still clicking against the hardwood when she heard the music again, muffled through walls and around corners, pulling her back toward the noise like a current. Vivi followed it, one hand trailing along the wall for balance, her head swimming in that pleasant, stupid way that made everything feel soft around the edges.
The hallway spat her out into a larger room, this one filled with people who all seemed to know each other, clustered in tight circles of conversation that she had no interest in penetrating. She scanned faces, looking for Jules's familiar dark bob, Marco's stupidly tall frame.
There. By the windows. Jules was laughing at something Marco had said, her hand flat on his chest, her whole body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.
Vivi made her way over, weaving through bodies that smelled like expensive perfume and cologne, until she practically collided with Jules's shoulder.
"Oh my god, there you are." Jules grabbed her arm, pulling her close. "I was about to send a search party. Where the hell did you go?"
"Shit, I'm sorry I wandered." Vivi held up her hands in mock surrender. "But also—I met your boss."
Jules's face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Confusion. Concern. A flicker of something like fear. "What?"
"Your boss. Marco's boss. The guy who owns this place." Vivi gestured vaguely behind her. "I literally walked into him. Like, full body collision. He caught me before I ate shit on the floor."
Marco had gone very still beside Jules. His jaw tightened, and he glanced over Vivi's shoulder like he expected to find Dante standing there, listening. "You met Dante? Tonight? What did you say to him?"
"His name is Dante?" Vivi frowned. "That's such a mob boss name. Anyway, I told him his security was lax as fuck, and he seemed more amused than anything. Honestly? Quite a sexy man. I hope I didn't get you into trouble."
The silence that followed was loud enough to hear over the music.
Marco closed his eyes. Took a breath. Opened them again. "You told my boss—the man who signs my paychecks—that his security was lax?"
"In my defense, it is."
"You're going to get me killed," Marco said, but there was no real heat in it. Just exhaustion.
Jules squeezed his arm. "She didn't mean anything by it. Vivi, you have to be more careful. This isn't like a regular party. These people are..."
"Rich? Scary? Probably involved in organized crime?"
"Yes. All of that." Jules glanced at Marco, then back at Vivi. "Look, just... stay close from now on, okay? No more wandering. No more talking to strangers."
"I talked to one stranger. And he wasn't even a stranger. He was your boss." Vivi paused. "Which makes him your... boss-adjacent. By proximity. That counts."
"It doesn't count."
"Agree to disagree."
Marco rubbed his face with both hands, then straightened, visibly forcing himself to let it go. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. He didn't kill you, so I guess it's fine. I need a drink, though. Several drinks."
"Now you're speaking my language," Vivi said.
They made their way to the bar, which was actually a proper bar, manned by an actual bartender who looked like he'd been hired for his ability to ignore whatever happened in front of him. Marco ordered three shots without asking what anyone wanted. The bartender poured. They drank.
The tequila burned going down, and Vivi felt it settle into her bones, warm and heavy. She was beginning to understand why Jules had insisted on tonight. There was something liberating about being drunk in a house you didn't belong in, surrounded by people you'd never see again. No expectations. No consequences.
Except, apparently, there were consequences. Because Dante Moretti was somewhere in this house, and she'd just told him his security was shit.
That should have worried her more than it did.
"Outside," Jules said, tugging at Vivi's elbow. "I need air. And I need to smoke. I've been holding this blunt since we got here, and if I don't light it soon, I'm going to lose my mind."
They found a side door that led to a patio, mostly empty except for a couple making out against a stone pillar and a man smoking a cigarette near the railing. Jules claimed a bench in the corner, pulling Vivi down beside her while Marco hovered nearby, keeping watch like he expected someone to interrupt.
"You're paranoid," Vivi said.
"I'm careful," Marco corrected. "There's a difference."
Jules produced a pre-rolled blunt from her purse, lighting it with practiced efficiency. The first drag hit smooth, the smoke sweet and thick in Vivi's lungs. She held it, let it go, felt her shoulders drop an inch.
"Okay," she admitted. "This was a good idea."
"I know."
"I didn't say it was your best idea. I said it was a good one."
Jules passed her the blunt. "You're impossible."
"I'm a delight." Vivi took another hit, staring up at the sky. No stars. Too much light pollution, too many clouds. Just black nothing overhead, stretching on forever. "Question. If your boss asks about me, what do I say?"
"Why would he ask about you?"
"I don't know. He seemed... interested."
Marco made a strangled sound. "Interested how?"
"Not like that. Or maybe like that. I can't tell with rich people. They all look at you like you're either a piece of furniture or a meal." She exhaled smoke. "He looked at me like I was a puzzle."
Jules and Marco exchanged a glance she couldn't read.
"Just stay away from him," Jules said finally. "Seriously. Whatever he wants, it's not good."
"Noted."
But even as she said it, Vivi knew she wouldn't. There was something about Dante Moretti that pulled at her, some thread of curiosity that wouldn't let go. He hadn't looked at her like she was nothing. He hadn't looked at her like she was a problem to be solved.
He'd looked at her like she mattered.
And that, more than anything else, was what scared her.
But even as she said it, Vivi knew she wouldn't. There was something about Dante Moretti that pulled at her, some thread of curiosity that wouldn't let go. He hadn't looked at her like she was nothing. He hadn't looked at her like she was a problem to be solved.
He'd looked at her like she mattered.
And that, more than anything else, was what scared her.
The blunt burned down to a roach. Jules stamped it out against the stone bench, scattering ash across the patio. The couple against the pillar had disappeared somewhere, and the man with the cigarette had gone inside, leaving the three of them alone in the dark.
"We should go back in," Marco said, checking his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. "People noticed we left. I don't want anyone thinking we're being weird."
"Nobody's thinking anything about us," Vivi said. "We're nobody. We're background characters in the movie of this party."
"You're really not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to go home."
Jules stood up, brushing off her dress. "One more drink. Then we leave. I promise."
"You promised that two drinks ago."
"And I meant it then too."
Vivi groaned but let Jules pull her to her feet. The world tilted sideways for a second before righting itself, and she made a mental note to drink some water at some point tonight. Maybe. If she remembered.
They went back inside through the same side door, emerging into a hallway that fed into the main living area. The party had only gotten louder in their absence, more people packed into the space, bodies pressed together in a way that made Vivi feel claustrophobic. Jules grabbed her hand, threading them through the crowd toward the bar.
"Stay here," Jules said, positioning Vivi against the bar's edge. "I'm going to find the bathroom. Don't move."
"I'm not a dog."
"Could've fooled me."
Jules disappeared into the crowd, leaving Vivi alone with Marco, who was already scanning the room again, his attention somewhere else entirely. She watched him for a second, the way his jaw worked, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh. He was nervous. More nervous than he'd been earlier.
"Hey," she said. "You okay?"
He blinked at her, like he'd forgotten she was there. "What? Yeah. Fine. Just... work stuff."
"At a party?"
"It's always work stuff." He shook his head, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it. Just... stay close, okay? Please."
There was something in his voice that made her want to listen. Something urgent and almost scared. But before she could ask what was going on, the bartender appeared, and she remembered she was supposed to be getting drunk.
"Beer," she said. "Whatever's cheap."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He pulled a bottle from somewhere below the counter and slid it across to her. She wrapped her fingers around the cold glass, brought it to her lips, and took a long pull. It tasted like nothing. Like every other beer she'd ever had.
She turned, intending to find Marco, to ask him what the hell was going on, and walked straight into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.
The beer sloshed. Her hand jerked. And the entire bottle emptied itself down the front of her dress.
"OH SHIT, I'M SO SORRY—"
She looked up. Blue eyes. Dark hair. A mouth that curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Dante Moretti. Again.
"Oh fuck," she said. "Hello again, hot stuff. Marco's going to fucking kill me."
The beer dripped from her chin, soaking into the black lace of her dress, running in rivulets between her breasts. She could feel it pooling in her cleavage, cold and sticky, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how thin the fabric was, how much it revealed now that it was wet and clinging to her skin.
Dante looked at her. Looked at the beer dripping onto the floor. Looked back at her face.
"Hello again," he said.
"I didn't mean to—I was just turning and you were—" She gestured vaguely, the empty bottle still clutched in her hand. "Why are you everywhere? Do you live here? Oh wait, you do live here. That's the whole point. Fuck."
He reached out, took the bottle from her hand, and set it on the bar behind her. His fingers brushed hers, warm against her cold skin.
"You're wet," he said.
"I'm aware."
"I meant the dress."
"I know what you meant." She grabbed a napkin from the bar, dabbing uselessly at the front of her dress. The napkin disintegrated immediately, leaving little white flakes stuck to the lace. "This is going great. This is exactly how I wanted tonight to go."
She expected him to laugh. To dismiss her with some cutting remark and walk away. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Actual cloth. Monogrammed. He held it out to her.
"I don't think that's going to help," she said.
"Probably not."
She took it anyway, pressing it against the soaked fabric. It didn't help. The dress was ruined, the beer already drying to a sticky film that made her skin itch. She needed to change. She needed to go home. She needed another drink.
"I'm going to murder Marco," she announced. "Slowly. With a spoon."
Dante tilted his head. "Why Marco?"
"Because he brought me here. Because he said stay close and I didn't, and now his boss is seeing my tits through my dress." She gestured at her chest. The lace had gone nearly transparent, leaving very little to the imagination. "This is a work hazard. I should be compensated."
"You're not an employee."
"I'm a guest. Same difference."
He was still looking at her. Not at her chest, she noticed, but at her face. There was something in his expression she couldn't read, something that made her feel like she was being studied, cataloged, filed away for later reference.
"Come with me," he said.
"What? Why?"
"I have a change of clothes upstairs. You can dry off. And then I'll have someone bring Marco to me, so we can discuss his future employment."
Her stomach dropped. "You're firing him?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"Did I?"
She stared at him. He stared back, unreadable, patient. And despite everything—despite the beer soaking her dress, despite the fact that she was drunk and high and standing in the home of a man who probably had bodies buried in his backyard—she felt something flutter in her chest. Curiosity. Attraction. The same thing that had made her refuse to look away the first time.
"Okay," she said. "Fine. Lead the way."
He turned, and she followed, leaving Marco alone in the crowd with no idea that his fate was being decided by the woman he was supposed to be counseling for getting laid.