Chapter 4: On Her Knees, His Undoing
The door clicked shut behind them. The sound was soft but final, like a lock turning.
Vivi stood in the wreckage of the bedroom, her breath still uneven from the stairs, from the kiss, from the way he'd looked at her in the kitchen when she said the words. The words that were still hanging in the air between them, heavy and real.
I'm yours.
The sheets were a disaster. The headboard was cracked—actually cracked, a split running through the mahogany where her body had slammed against it. She hadn't noticed that before. Hadn't noticed a lot of things.
Dante stood by the window, silhouetted against the gray morning light. His back was to her, the scratches she'd left still angry and red on his skin. She could see the muscles shift under his shoulders as he breathed.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're worth staring at."
He turned. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—were dark with something she couldn't name. Hunger, maybe. Or possession. Or both.
"I meant what I said," she told him. "In the kitchen. All of it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because I'm not—" She stopped, ran a hand through her hair. "I'm not good at this. At relationships. At staying. I usually run before things get complicated."
"And this isn't complicated?"
"This is a fucking disaster." She laughed, the sound hollow. "You're a mob boss. I'm a broke art student with a dead-end job and a family full of addicts. We're not exactly a match made in heaven."
"Who said anything about heaven?"
She snorted. Couldn't help it.
Dante crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached her, he didn't touch her. Just stood close, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body.
"What do you want, Vivi?"
"Right now?"
"Yes."
She looked at him. Really looked. The sharp jaw, the full mouth, the faint shadow of stubble along his cheeks. The way he held himself—still, controlled, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
"I want to taste you," she said.
His expression didn't change. But something shifted in his eyes. A flicker. A crack in the ice.
"Say that again."
"I want to taste you." She reached up, pressed her palm flat against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Slower than hers. "I want to put my mouth on you. I want to watch you fall apart."
"You think you can make me fall apart?"
"I think you've been in control your whole life." She slid her hand down, over his stomach, to the waistband of his boxers. "I think you've never let anyone see you lose it. And I think you want to. With me."
He caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.
"You're playing with fire," he said.
"I know."
"You'll get burned."
"Maybe I want to."
They stood there for a moment, locked in a standoff. His fingers around her wrist, her hand on his stomach. The silence stretched, thin and taut.
Then he let go.
"On your knees," he said.
Her breath caught. Not from fear. From want.
She pushed him back toward the bed. Not hard—just enough to make him move, to make him sit on the edge of the mattress, his legs spread, his eyes on her. The ruined silk pooled around him like dark water.
She dropped to her knees. The carpet was soft, thick, the kind of thing rich people had in their houses while normal people made do with hardwood and area rugs from IKEA. She didn't care about the carpet. She cared about the man in front of her, watching her with that unreadable expression, his hands resting on his thighs.
"I've never done this sober," she said.
"You're not sober. You're hungover."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
"Whatever." She reached for his boxers, hooked her fingers in the waistband. "Lift up."
He did. She pulled the boxers down, over his hips, down his thighs. He kicked them off, and then he was fully naked in front of her, his cock already hard, already thick and flushed and waiting.
She took him in both hands.
The heat of him surprised her. The weight. She stroked him slowly, base to tip, watching his face. His jaw tightened. His pupils blew wide. He didn't make a sound.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm patient."
"I'm not."
She leaned in. Pressed her lips to the tip, just barely. A kiss, almost innocent, if you ignored the context. Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
Just the tip at first. Swirling her tongue around the head, tasting salt and skin and something underneath that was just him. She looked up at him through her lashes. His hands were fisted in the sheets. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that wasn't quite steady.
"You like that?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, mouth tight, eyes burning.
She took him deeper. Inch by inch, slow, letting herself adjust to the stretch. He was big—bigger than she'd expected, though she should have known. Everything about him was big. Big hands, big shoulders, big presence. Of course he'd be big here too.
She took him until her nose pressed against his stomach. Held him there, breathing through her nose, her throat working around the length of him. His hips twitched—just a fraction, just enough to tell her he was struggling for control.
She pulled back, gasping, saliva thick on her lips. Then she went down again.
"You're going to kill me," he said. His voice was hoarse. Rough.
"Not yet."
She set a rhythm. Slow at first, then faster. Her hand worked the base where her mouth couldn't reach, twisting on the upstroke, squeezing just enough to make him groan. That sound—low, guttural, involuntary—sent a bolt of heat straight to her cunt.
She hummed around him. Just to see what would happen.
"Fuck," he hissed.
His hands found her hair. Not pulling—not yet—just tangled in the dark strands, holding her like he was afraid she'd disappear. She took him deeper, hollowed her cheeks, sucked hard.
"Vivi."
Her name in his mouth was a warning. She ignored it.
She dragged her nails up his thighs, light scratches through the hair, and felt his muscles jump under her touch. Cupped his balls in one hand, rolled them gently, and his hips bucked. Not hard. But enough.
"Stop," he said.
She didn't.
"Vivi." Harder this time. "I'm going to come."
She pulled back just enough to speak. "That's the point."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She licked up the length of him, tongue flat against the vein on the underside. "I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste it."
His grip on her hair tightened. His breathing turned ragged.
"If you don't stop—"
"Then don't stop me."
She took him deep again. All the way down, throat working, nose pressed to his skin. And this time she didn't pull back. Just stayed there, breathing through her nose, swallowing around him while her tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, Vivi—"
She hummed. The vibration made him shudder.
"That's it," he rasped. "That's—I'm—"
He came with a curse that sounded like her name, his hips jerking, his cock pulsing against her tongue. She swallowed everything, didn't let a drop escape, and when she finally pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he was staring at her like he'd never seen her before.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
She smirked. "Not quite."
He hauled her up by the arm, pulled her onto the bed, onto her back, and came down on top of her like a collapsing building. His weight pressed her into the ruined sheets, his mouth found her neck, and he bit down—hard enough to leave a mark.
"You're a menace," he said against her skin.
"You love it."
"I'm starting to."
She laughed. Then his hand slid between her legs, and she stopped laughing.
"You're soaked," he said.
"Shocking. You just came in my mouth."
"Language."
"Fuck you."
"Later." He pushed two fingers inside her, and she gasped. "Right now, I want to feel you come."
"You just—"
"I know what I just did." He curled his fingers, found that spot, and her back arched off the bed. "Now I want to feel it."
She didn't argue. Couldn't. His thumb found her clit, his fingers worked inside her, and within seconds she was gone—gasping, shaking, nails digging into his shoulders. He watched her the whole time. Didn't look away once.
When she came down, he was still hard against her thigh.
"Again?" she asked.
"Again."
He rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and pushed inside her from behind in one slow, deliberate stroke. She groaned into the pillow. He set a pace that was brutal in its steadiness—not fast, not slow, just deep and relentless, each thrust hitting something inside her that made sparks flash behind her eyes.
"You're mine," he said.
"I'm—" She gasped. "I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, I'm—fuck—I'm yours."
He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and spoke against her ear.
"Good girl."
She came again, clenching around him, and he followed a moment later, groaning her name like a prayer. They collapsed together, tangled and sweaty and spent, and she lay there with his weight pressing her into the mattress and thought: This is insane. This is the most insane thing I've ever done.
Then his arm wrapped around her waist, pulled her closer, and she stopped thinking.
"You're not going anywhere," he said.
She closed her eyes. "I know."
She said it into the dark, into the damp heat of his neck, where his pulse beat steady under her lips.
He didn't answer. His arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled her closer, as if he could fold her into his ribs.
Three weeks later, the house was full of people.
Not the chaotic spill of the first party—the one she'd crashed, drunk and high and looking for a bathroom. This was deliberate. Valets in black. Caterers with silver trays. Men in suits who stood too still and watched the doors.
Vivi stood in Dante's bedroom, which had become her bedroom too.
Her sketchbooks were stacked on the nightstand. Her toothbrush sat next to his in the marble bathroom. Her clothes hung in the closet beside his suits, a riot of color against all that gray and black.
She watched him in the mirror.
He was knotting his tie, fingers quick and sure. The same fingers that had been inside her an hour ago, curling, pressing, making her come so hard she'd bitten through the pillowcase.
Her dress was black lace, short but not scandalous.
It covered the octopus on her hip. Hid the phoenix on her back. Much more modest than the scrap of fabric she'd worn the night she met him, the one that had barely qualified as clothing.
Her heels sat by the bed, strappy and tall, still unworn.
She hadn't put them on yet—she was stalling, she knew. Downstairs, the first party she'd attend as Dante Moretti's girlfriend was already starting.
"You're staring," he said, not looking at her.
"You're worth staring at."
He turned. His mouth curved—not a smile, something quieter. "You're not dressed."
"I'm mostly dressed." She gestured at the dress. "Just need shoes."
"The party starts in twenty minutes."
"I know." She picked up one heel, turned it over in her hands. "Babe, do you know if Jules will be here?"
"Babe, do you know if Jules will be here?"
Dante's fingers paused on the silk of his tie. His reflection in the mirror held her gaze—those blue eyes sharpening with something she couldn't quite read. He resumed the knot, pulling it tight with a practiced twist.
"She RSVP'd," he said. "Her boyfriend's on the list."
"Marcus."
"Whatever his name is."
Vivi laughed, low and genuine. She crossed to the window, barefoot on the cold hardwood, and looked down at the driveway. Cars were already lining the circular drive—black sedans, a vintage Porsche, something low and silver that probably cost more than her entire education.
"You don't like him," she said.
"I don't know him."
"You don't like anyone."
Dante appeared behind her in the reflection, tie now perfectly knotted, jacket still open. To anyone else, he'd look calm. She'd learned to read the micro-tensions in his shoulders, the way his thumb brushed against his knuckles when he was calculating something.
"Jules is your friend," he said, a statement more than a question.
"She's the one who dragged me to your party in the first place."
"The one who abandoned you."
"She got distracted by Marcus's tongue." Vivi shrugged. "Happens."
"You could have been anyone." His voice dropped, the way it did when he was angry but refusing to show it. "You could have wandered into a room full of men who wouldn't have stopped at conversation."
"I didn't, though."
"You didn't know that."
She turned to face him, leaning back against the cold glass. The dress rode up her thighs.
"I know now."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand—a sharp, mechanical sound that cut through the quiet. He didn't look at it.
"Important?" she asked.
"Everything is important."
"You going to answer it?"
"No."
He crossed to her in three long strides, his hands finding her waist, fingers pressing into the lace. His mouth was on hers before she could say anything else—brutal, demanding, the kind of kiss that left her breathless and stupid.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced her lower lip.
"Don't wander tonight," he said. "Stay by me."
"I'm not a dog."
"No. Dogs heel."
She slapped his chest, not hard. He caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, and bit the meat of her palm. Not hard enough to break skin—just enough to make her gasp.
"Are you going to put your shoes on," he asked, "or do I have to carry you downstairs barefoot?"
Her phone buzzed on the dresser. She didn't move.
"Vivi."
"I'm going." She pulled her wrist free, crossed to the dresser, and picked up the phone. The screen lit up with a text message from Jules.
Where are you? Just got here. This place is insane. Btw don't kill me—Marcus wants to stay the night. Apparently he has "business" with some guy named Dante? You know him?
She smiled. Not at the "business" part. Not at the fact that Marcus had no idea she'd been living here for three weeks, had no idea that the man whose hand he wanted to shake had spent the last hour buried inside her.
She smiled because Jules was going to be here. Because for the first time in three weeks, she'd have someone in this house who didn't look at her like she was either a target or a possession.
She typed back: Be down in 10.
Then she set the phone face-down, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled on her heels. They buckled at the ankle—a gift from Dante, along with a gold bracelet she'd refused to wear because it made her feel like a kept woman. She wasn't above accepting shoes, though. Shoes were practical.
She walked over to him.
He stood by the door now, jacket on, phone finally in hand. He was reading something on the screen—a text, probably, or an email. His jaw was tight.
She nuzzled against him. Pressed her face into the curve of his neck, breathed in the sandalwood and whiskey and the sharp bite of his cologne. Her hands slid up his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his suit.
"You look sexy," she murmured. "I can't wait to get you out of it later."
His hand came up, fingers threading into her hair. He didn't respond right away—just held her there, his thumb tracing slow circles against her scalp. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.
"You're a distraction."
"I'm the best distraction."
"Undeniably." He tilted her head back, kissed her once more. Softer this time, but with teeth. "Go downstairs. Find your friend. I'll be watching."
"You always are."
She pulled away, straightened her dress, and walked out the door. The hallway stretched long and dim before her, lined with paintings that cost more than her parents' house. She could hear the party below—voices, laughter, the clink of glasses.
At the top of the stairs, she paused. Looked back.
Dante stood in the doorway of the bedroom, phone pressed to his ear now, his face emptied of everything but calculation. Whoever was on the other end of that call was getting the version of him she'd never met—the one who made problems disappear, who spoke in quiet threats, who signed the kind of paperwork that didn't show up in tax returns.
She wondered, briefly, what she'd gotten herself into.
Then she shrugged and headed down the stairs, heels clicking on marble, ready to find Jules and play nice for another night in a house full of wolves.
The party was in full swing by the time she reached the bottom landing. Bodies packed the foyer—women in silk, men in tailored wool, all of them speaking in those low, careful tones that rich people used when they didn't want to be overheard. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes.
Vivi grabbed one. Drank half of it in one swallow.
"Vivi!"
Jules emerged from the crowd like a heat-seeking missile—red hair, freckles, a dress that barely contained her curves. She was drunk already, or close to it, her eyes bright and her smile wider than usual.
"You're here," Jules said, pulling her into a fierce hug. "You're actually here. I thought you died or joined a cult or something."
"Close."
"What?"
"Nothing." Vivi pulled back, looked around. "Where's Marcus?"
"Schmoozing." Jules rolled her eyes. "He's over there with some scary bald guy. Says he's got 'business.' What does that even mean?"
"He's trying to get in with Dante."
"Wait—you know Dante?" Jules's eyes widened. "Like, you know him know him? Vivi, what the fuck?"
Vivi took another sip of champagne. "It's a long story."
"We have all night."
"Not that long."
Jules grabbed her arm, dragged her toward a quieter corner. They stood under a massive abstract painting—splashes of red and black that looked like a crime scene. Appropriate.
"Start talking," Jules said. "Now."
And Vivi was about to. About to tell her everything—the party, the bedroom, the words I'm yours and the three weeks that followed. About to explain how she'd accidentally become the girlfriend of the most dangerous man in the city.
Then she felt it. A hand on her lower back. Warm. Possessive. Familiar.
Dante appeared beside her like he'd materialized out of the shadows.
"Ladies," he said. His voice was smooth, pleasant, the kind of voice that made strangers want to trust him. "Enjoying yourselves?"
Jules's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Um," she said.
"Jules, this is Dante." Vivi kept her voice steady. "Dante, this is Jules."
"The friend." Dante extended his hand. His smile was polite, but his eyes flicked to Vivi for a split second—possession, warning, something darker. "I've heard a lot about you."
"All bad things," Jules managed.
"All true things, I'm sure."
He turned to Vivi, his hand still on her back, fingers pressing just enough to remind her he was there.
"Marcus wants to meet you," he said. "I told him you were busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Being mine."
Jules made a choking sound. Vivi ignored her.
"That's not a thing people say," Vivi said.
"It is now."
He kissed her temple—a public claim, a brand—and then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving Jules staring at Vivi like she'd just sprouted a second head.
"Vivi," Jules said slowly. "What the actual fuck?"
Vivi drained the rest of her champagne.
"I told you," she said. "It's a long story."
Jules grabbed her wrist, nails digging in. "No. No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to show up here looking like you belong in a mafia wife catalogue and then tell me it's a long story."
Vivi laughed—a real laugh, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere honest. It surprised her. She'd been doing that more lately, laughing at things that weren't funny, finding humor in the sharp edges of her new life.
"Fine," she said. "But I need tequila. This story doesn't work sober."
"There's a bar in the study. Marcus showed me earlier."
"Of course he did."
Jules grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd. The house was a labyrinth—hallways branching off in directions Vivi had never explored, doors that led to rooms she'd never entered. Three weeks, and she'd only mapped the path between the bedroom, the kitchen, and the front door.
The study was smaller than the bedroom but no less opulent. Velvet wallpaper. A fireplace that probably hadn't been lit in decades. A bar cart stocked with bottles that cost more than her monthly rent.
Jules made drinks—tequila, no mixer, just lime wedges on the side. They settled into a small table in the corner, tucked away from the party noise.
"Start talking," Jules said.
So Vivi did.
She told her about the night of the first party—the bathroom she'd stumbled into, the muttering to herself, the way she'd insulted a mob boss to his face without knowing who he was. She told her about the bedroom, the ruined sheets, the words that had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.
I'll stay with you for now. I'll be yours.
"You said that?" Jules's eyes were wide. "To Dante Moretti? The guy who probably has a body count higher than my Spotify playlist?"
"I was high."
"You were insane."
"Maybe." Vivi sipped her tequila. "But he said it back. In his way."
"What way?"
"He said he doesn't share. Doesn't do casual. Told me if I said I was his, I'd better mean it." She stared at the amber liquid in her glass. "So I meant it."
Jules was quiet for a moment. The party hummed beyond the study walls—laughter, music, the clink of glasses. Normal sounds for abnormal people.
"And you're okay?" Jules asked. "Living here? With him? With all of this?"
"I'm figuring it out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
They drank. The tequila burned going down, warm and sharp and honest. Vivi felt something loosen in her chest—the tightness that had been there since she'd walked down the stairs, since she'd seen the way people looked at Dante, since she'd realized what she'd signed up for.
"You look different," Jules said. "Not bad different. Just... different."
"Different how?"
"Like you're not pretending anymore."
Vivi considered that. Maybe she was right. Maybe the version of herself she'd been before—the broke art student, the girl with the dead-end job and the family full of ghosts—had been a costume. Maybe this was the real thing underneath.
Or maybe she was just deluding herself.
The study door opened. Marcus walked in—tall, blond, the kind of handsome that came with a trust fund and a complete lack of self-awareness. He was already drunk, his words slightly slurred, his smile too wide.
"There you are," he said, sliding into the chair beside Jules. "Thought you got lost."
"Just catching up." Jules kissed his cheek. "Vivi was telling me how she met Dante."
Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "You know Dante?"
"Something like that."
"She's living here," Jules said.
"Wait—what?" Marcus looked at Vivi like she'd just announced she was the Queen of England. "You're shacking up with Moretti? Jesus. How'd you pull that off?"
"Charm and bad decisions."
He laughed. "Fair enough." He waved at a passing server—a man in a black vest carrying a tray of something that looked expensive. "Shots. We need shots."
Three glasses appeared. Three shots of something clear and dangerous. They clinked glasses and drank, and the tequila burned a path down Vivi's throat.
She was telling Jules a story—something about her first week here, about getting lost in the east wing, about finding a room full of antique guns and having a mild panic attack—when she felt it.
Someone behind her. Close. Too close.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She kept talking, kept laughing, but her body was suddenly alert, attuned to a presence that didn't belong.
Then a hand landed on her leg.
She froze. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-thought. The hand was large, warm, and it was moving—sliding up her thigh, slow and deliberate, like it had all the time in the world.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her skin crawled. She tried to shift away, but the hand just followed, fingers digging in, dragging up her inner thigh toward the hem of her dress.
Then it grabbed.
Not gentle. Not accidental. A full palm against her ass, fingers squeezing hard, and she felt her dress tear—the delicate lace giving way, the seam ripping, exposing skin that had no business being exposed.
She spun around.
The man was tall. Broad. Dark hair slicked back, a scar cutting through one eyebrow, a smirk on his face that made her stomach turn. He was standing with two other men, both of them laughing, both of them watching her like she was entertainment.
"Hey," Vivi said. Her voice was steady. Inside, she was shaking. "What the fuck, dude?"
The man's smirk widened. "Relax, sweetheart. Just having a little fun."
"You should never have touched me." She stepped closer, her heels making her taller, her fury making her reckless. "You're going to regret that."
The man laughed. Actually laughed, a low, ugly sound. "Is that so?"
"It's so."
She didn't see Dante enter the study. She didn't hear him cross the room.
But suddenly he was there—beside her, between her and the man, his body a wall of quiet violence. His face was calm, but his eyes were flat, dead, the eyes of someone who had done terrible things and would do them again without losing a minute of sleep.
"Is there a problem?" Dante asked.
The man's smirk faltered. "Moretti. I didn't know she was yours."
"She's mine."
"Didn't mean any disrespect."
"You touched her."