Chapter 5: The Man Who Touched Her
The study had gone quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that follows a joke or a lull in conversation. This was the quiet of held breath, of animals freezing in tall grass while a predator moved through. Vivi felt it press against her skin, cold and heavy, and she couldn't tell if the silence was real or if her ears had simply stopped working.
Dante hadn't raised his voice.
He hadn't needed to.
One word. That was all. "Outside." Two syllables delivered in a tone so calm it made the tequila in her stomach curdle. The man with the scar—the one who had grabbed her, squeezed her, torn her dress like she was a piece of meat on a hook—had gone pale. Not white. Gray. The color of old bone.
His friends had evaporated.
One minute they were there, laughing, watching her like she was a show. The next, they were gone. No words. No backward glances. Just the soft click of the study door and the echo of footsteps fading down the hall.
Dante's hand landed on the man's shoulder.
It looked friendly. Almost gentle. A gesture between colleagues, maybe even friends. But Vivi saw the way the man flinched, the way his spine stiffened, the way his feet moved without his permission—propelled forward by a grip that must have been iron under all that calm.
They walked past her.
Dante didn't look at her. Not directly. But his eyes flicked to the side—just for a second—and in that second she saw something that made her blood run cold and hot at the same time. Possession. Fury. A promise.
Then they were gone.
The door clicked shut.
Jules was saying something. Her voice was high, frantic, the words tumbling out too fast to catch. Marcus was standing too, his drink abandoned on the table, his face slack with something that looked like fear.
"Vivi." Jules grabbed her arm. "Vivi, what the fuck just happened? Who was that guy? What is Dante going to—"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? You don't—Vivi, your dress is ripped. You're bleeding."
She looked down.
The lace hung open over her hip, split from hem to waist. The octopus tattoo was fully exposed—all eight tentacles curling down her thigh, black ink against pale skin. And there, just below the curve of her hip, a thin red line.
The man's ring. It must have caught her when he grabbed, when he squeezed, when he treated her body like it belonged to him.
The cut was shallow. Barely more than a scratch. But it stung, and the sight of it—of her own blood welling up in tiny beads along the line—made something in her chest tighten.
"I need to sit down," she said.
Jules guided her to a chair. The leather was cold against her bare legs. Marcus was pacing now, muttering to himself, running his hands through his hair like he was trying to figure out how to escape.
"Maybe we should go," he said. "Jules. We should go. Now."
"Are you insane?" Jules snapped. "We're not leaving her."
"She's with Moretti. She's fine. We need to—"
"Sit down, Marcus."
He sat.
Vivi stared at the door. The door Dante had walked through with his hand on another man's shoulder. The door that had closed behind them with a click so soft it might have been a whisper.
She couldn't hear anything.
That was the worst part. The study was at the back of the house, tucked away from the party, separated from the main hallway by thick walls and heavy doors. Whatever was happening on the other side of that door—whatever Dante was doing to the man who had touched her—she couldn't hear it.
No shouts. No thuds. No pleading.
Just silence.
The fire crackled in the hearth. The embers glowed like dying stars, orange and red and fading. The party thrummed somewhere beyond, a distant heartbeat, mocking in its normalcy.
Three minutes.
She counted them in her head. One. Two. Three. Each second stretched like taffy, longer than it should have been. She watched the door. She watched the clock on the mantel—a gilded thing with Roman numerals and hands that moved too slowly. She watched her own hands, trembling in her lap, and wondered if she was in shock.
Then the door opened.
Dante walked in alone.
His tie was straight. His jacket was smooth, unrumpled. His hands—the hands that had been on that man's shoulder, the hands that had probably done things she didn't want to imagine—were clean.
Knuckles unmarked. No blood. No bruises.
He was carrying something. A throw blanket, black cashmere, soft as smoke. He must have grabbed it from the couch in the hallway, or maybe from one of the guest rooms. She didn't know. She didn't care.
He crossed the room in four long strides.
Jules and Marcus melted away. Vivi didn't see them move, didn't hear them leave, but suddenly they were gone—pushed out by the sheer force of Dante's presence, or maybe just smart enough to know when to disappear.
He knelt in front of her.
The fabric of his slacks whispered against the carpet. His knees pressed into the thick pile, and he looked up at her with those eyes—blue and piercing and utterly unreadable.
"You're bleeding," he said.
She looked down. The cut on her hip was still weeping, a thin trickle of red tracing a path toward her thigh. It wasn't serious. She'd had worse. But the sight of it, the knowledge of how it had gotten there, made her stomach turn.
"It's nothing," she said.
"It's not nothing."
He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. The cashmere was warm, softer than anything she owned, and it smelled like him—sandalwood and whiskey and something darker underneath. He tucked the torn lace against her skin, covering the exposed tattoo, covering the cut, covering the evidence of what had happened.
Then he leaned in.
His mouth pressed to her thigh.
She froze. Her breath caught. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, as his lips parted and his tongue dragged along the cut—slow, deliberate, tasting her blood.
The sting of it made her gasp.
He pulled back. His lips were red. Just a little. Just enough.
"There," he said. "Better."
She stared at him. Her heart was pounding. Her skin was hot. Between her legs, something was tightening, coiling, responding to the sight of him on his knees, his mouth stained with her.
"What did you do to him?" she asked.
Dante stood. He didn't answer. He just held out his hand—palm up, fingers loose, waiting.
"Come upstairs," he said.
She took his hand.
The party was still going. She heard it as they walked—laughter, music, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices. Normal sounds. Happy sounds. People who had no idea what had just happened in the study, who would never know, who would drink and dance and flirt while somewhere in this house, a man with a scar was learning what it meant to touch something that belonged to Dante Moretti.
She didn't look at anyone as they passed.
Dante's hand was warm around hers. His grip was firm but not painful. He led her through the crowd like she was the only person in the room, and maybe, to him, she was.
The stairs were long and curved. She focused on her feet, on the click of her heels on marble, on the way her torn dress shifted with every step. The blanket was still around her shoulders, a shield against the world.
The bedroom door closed behind them.
The silence was different here. Softer. The party was a distant hum now, muffled by walls and distance. The room smelled like him—sandalwood, whiskey, the faint ghost of gunpowder that she'd stopped noticing weeks ago.
Dante turned to face her.
His hands found the edges of the blanket. He pulled it away, let it fall to the floor. Then his fingers found the ruined lace of her dress—the torn seam, the exposed skin—and he began to peel it off her body.
He didn't ask.
He wasn't gentle.
The dress came away in pieces. He pulled it down her shoulders, over her hips, past the tattoo that had been on display for everyone in that study to see. It pooled at her feet like something dead, and she stepped out of it, stood before him in nothing but her heels and her underwear and the thin gold chain around her neck.
He looked at her.
No. Not looked. Devoured. His eyes moved over her body like he was memorizing every inch, like he was claiming it all over again, like he was reminding himself of what was his.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm—"
He pushed her.
Not hard. Just enough to make her stumble backward, to make her fall onto the bed, to make her land on the ruined silk with a gasp that was more surprise than pain.
He was on her before she could move.
His hands caught her ankles, spread her legs, and then his mouth was on her and she stopped thinking.
There was no preamble. No teasing. No gentle build. His tongue was inside her before she could draw breath, licking into her like she was something he needed to consume, like he was trying to erase the memory of anyone else's hands on her body.
She screamed.
Couldn't help it. The sound tore out of her throat, raw and broken, and she didn't care who heard it. The party, the guests, the whole goddamn city—let them hear. Let them know.
His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her open. His mouth moved against her cunt like it was the only thing in the world, like he could do this forever, like he wanted to.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Dante—"
He didn't respond. He just kept going. His tongue circled her clit, flattened against it, pressed down hard. Then two fingers pushed inside her, curling, finding that spot that made her vision go white.
She grabbed his hair.
Fisted her hands in those dark strands and pulled, hard, heels digging into his shoulders, back arching off the bed. She was close. So close. The orgasm was building, coiling, tightening in her belly like a spring.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please, don't—"
He didn't stop.
He sucked her clit between his lips, bit down—not hard, just enough—and she shattered.
The scream that tore out of her was loud enough to shake the walls. Her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair so hard it must have hurt. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her gasping, trembling, wrecked.
He didn't come up for air until she stopped shaking.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was wet, his chin glistening, his eyes wild. He looked like something feral, something barely contained.
"Nobody touches what's mine," he said.
Then he stood.
He was still fully dressed. Jacket, tie, slacks—all of it perfectly in place. The only thing out of order was his mouth, still wet with her, and the hardness straining against his zipper.
He unbuckled his belt.
Not to take it off. Just to free his cock, pulled through the opening of his fly, thick and flushed and ready. He didn't undress. Didn't kick off his shoes. Just climbed onto the bed, positioned himself between her legs, and pushed inside her.
She gasped.
He was big. She knew this. She'd known it for weeks. But like this—with her still sensitive from coming, still trembling—it felt bigger. Fuller. Like he was splitting her open.
He didn't wait.
He fucked her hard. Fast. Punishing. Each thrust drove her into the mattress, made the bed creak, made the broken headboard rattle against the wall. His belt buckle dug into her hip. The fabric of his slacks rubbed against her thighs.
He was still wearing everything.
That was the thing that undid her. The fact that he was fully clothed, that he was still dressed like the mob boss he was, while she was naked and spread out beneath him like a whore. It was degrading. It was filthy. It was the hottest thing she'd ever experienced.
"You like that?" he growled.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I like it." She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him deeper. "I fucking love it. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
His hand fisted in her hair, pulled her head back, exposed her throat. His mouth found her neck to claim it, to leave the mark of his teeth on her skin. She felt him everywhere—inside her, around her, on top of her.
The second orgasm caught her by surprise.
It rolled through her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and she cried out his name. Her cunt clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
He followed a moment later.
His hips stuttered. His teeth sank into her shoulder. And then he was coming, flooding her, groaning her name against her skin like a prayer or a curse.
They lay there for a long moment.
Him on top of her, still inside her, both of them breathing hard. The room was silent except for the distant thrum of the party and the sound of their hearts beating in tandem.
Then he lifted his head.
His eyes were softer now. The fury was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something almost tender.
But his words were hard.
"Nobody touches what's mine," he said again.
She looked up at him. Her lips were swollen. Her body was sore. Her mind was a mess of pleasure and fear that felt like love.
"I know," she said.
He kissed her forehead.
Then he pulled out, tucked himself away, and stood. His slacks were wrinkled. His tie was slightly askew. But when he crossed to the mirror and looked at his reflection, he adjusted it all—tie straight, hair smooth, expression neutral.
He looked like he'd just walked out of a board meeting.
"I have to go downstairs," he said. "People will notice if I'm gone too long."
She propped herself up on her elbows. "What about me?"
"You stay here."
"For how long?"
"Until I come back."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to demand answers about what happened to the man with the scar, wanted to know what he'd done, wanted to understand what she'd just gotten herself into. But the words died in her throat.
Because she knew.
She knew what he'd done. Not the details—not the specifics of fists and blood and bones—but the result. The man with the scar wouldn't be touching anyone ever again. He wouldn't be laughing at anyone's tears. He wouldn't be standing in Dante's study, smirking, drinking his whiskey. He was gone.
That was what it meant to be his.
Dante paused at the door. He didn't turn around. Just stood there with his hand on the frame, his back to her, his shoulders broad and straight.
"I'll send someone up with clothes," he said. "Something to eat. Whatever you need."
"I need you."
"Not tonight."
"When?"
He turned.
His face was unreadable. But his eyes—those blue eyes that had haunted her dreams since the first night—held something that looked almost like sadness.
"When I've handled things," he said. "When it's safe."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Vivi lay in the ruined bed. Alone. Naked. Sore. The taste of him still on her tongue. The weight of his word pressing down.
Mine.
She pulled the sheet up to her chin and stared at the ceiling.
She was in love with a monster.
And the worst part—the absolute worst fucking part—was that she didn't want to be anywhere else.
The party drained out of the house sometime after three in the morning.
She heard it go—the doors closing, the cars pulling away, the voices fading into the wet dark of the city. She lay in the same spot he'd left her, sheet pulled to her chin, eyes fixed on the cracked headboard. Her body still hummed with the ghost of him. Her thighs ached. The cut on her hip had scabbed over, a thin brown line that she kept touching with her thumb, pressing down until it hurt.
He didn't come back.
Not at four. Not at five. The sky outside the window shifted from black to charcoal to a pale, watery gray that meant morning was coming whether she wanted it or not. She must have slept at some point, because when she opened her eyes again the room was bright and her phone was buzzing on the nightstand.
Jules.
Six texts. Three missed calls. The last one just said: Please tell me you're alive.
She typed back with one thumb: Alive. Call you later.
Then she dropped the phone on her chest and stared at the ceiling for another hour.
Around noon, a knock came at the door.
Not Dante. A woman in a gray uniform, middle-aged, with kind eyes and a mouth that didn't smile. She carried a tray—coffee, fruit, eggs, toast, a glass of orange juice so fresh it still had pulp floating in it. Behind her, a second person wheeled in a rack of clothes. Dresses. Jeans. Tops. A leather jacket that looked like it cost more than Vivi's entire apartment.
"Mr. Moretti sent these," the woman said. "He said to tell you he'll be up later."
"Where is he?"
"Working."
Of course he was.
Vivi ate the eggs. Drank the coffee. Stared at the rack of clothes like it was a puzzle she couldn't solve. Then she stripped off the ruined underwear and the gold chain and stepped into the shower.
The water was hot. Scalding. She stood under it until her skin turned pink and the mirror fogged and the smell of him—sandalwood, whiskey, sex—washed down the drain. She scrubbed herself twice. Three times. Used the expensive soap that smelled like eucalyptus and something green, and when she got out, she wrapped herself in a towel the size of a small country.
The lotion was on the counter. She'd bought it herself two weeks ago—drugstore brand, coconut and shea butter, the kind that cost eight dollars and left a faint shine on her skin. She smoothed it over her legs, her arms, her stomach. Over the cut on her hip. Over her breasts, the tattoo on her back, the fading marks on her neck.
Then she pulled on the clothes.
Black boyshorts. An old Nirvana t-shirt, faded from too many washes, the smiley face cracked and peeling. She'd had it since high school. It was the softest thing she owned, and it smelled like her old apartment, like the life she'd had before she walked into this house and never walked back out.
She climbed onto the bed.
Legs propped up on the pillows, knees bent, phone balanced on her stomach. She scrolled without seeing. Instagram. TikTok. A news article about a body found in the river. She didn't read it. Just let the words blur together while the afternoon light crept across the floor.
The door opened at four.
She didn't look up right away. Just kept scrolling, kept her face neutral, kept her heart from doing that stupid skip thing it did whenever he walked into a room.
"Hey, babe," she said.
The footsteps stopped.
She looked up.
Dante stood in the doorway. Same suit as last night—different tie. Dark blue, almost black, knotted with that same precision she'd watched him achieve a hundred times. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it. His jaw was tight.
But his eyes—those blue eyes that could go flat and dead in a heartbeat—were somewhere else entirely. Softer. Warmer. Fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"What did you call me?" he asked.
"Babe." She shrugged. "You don't like it?"
He crossed the room slowly. Each step deliberate, measured, like he was approaching something he wasn't sure was real. When he reached the bed, he stood there looking down at her—at the Nirvana shirt, the bare legs, the phone still glowing in her hand.
"You're wearing my shirt," he said.
She glanced down. "This? No. This is mine. I've had it since I was fifteen."
"It was in my closet."
"It was in my drawer. Which is in your closet." She set the phone aside. "Semantics."
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she felt herself slide toward him, drawn in by gravity or something deeper. His hand found her ankle. His thumb pressed into the bone.
"You're okay," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I'm okay."
"Good."
He didn't say anything else. Just sat there, holding her ankle, looking at her like she was a painting he was trying to decode. The silence stretched. It wasn't uncomfortable—not exactly—but it was heavy. Loaded.
"What did you do to him?" she asked.
His thumb stilled.
"The man with the scar. What did you do?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah." She sat up, pulled her legs under her, faced him head-on. "It matters."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the city. The afternoon light caught the edges of his profile—the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the mouth that had been buried between her legs twelve hours ago.
"I made sure he won't touch anyone again," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She wanted to push. Wanted to demand details, wanted to know if there was a body somewhere, wanted to understand the full weight of what she'd signed up for when she said I'm yours three weeks ago in this very room. But something in his voice—something flat and final—told her that pushing wouldn't get her anywhere.
So she changed tactics.
"Come here," she said.
He turned. His eyebrow arched.
"I said come here."
He crossed the room. Stopped at the edge of the bed. She reached up, grabbed his tie, and pulled him down until his knees hit the mattress and his face was inches from hers.
"I don't care what you did," she said. "I don't care who you are. I don't care about the bodies or the business or the blood. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm still here."
She kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle. She kissed him like she was trying to prove something—to him, to herself, to the fucking universe. Her hands found his face, his hair, the collar of his jacket. She pulled him closer, dragged him down, until his weight pressed her into the mattress and his mouth opened under hers.
He groaned.
It was a small sound. Barely a rumble in his chest. But she felt it everywhere—in her lips, her throat, the pit of her stomach. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.
"The door," he said against her mouth.
"What about it?"
"It doesn't lock."
"So?"
"So anyone could walk in."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. His pupils were blown wide. His tie was crooked. His perfect, controlled exterior was cracking, and she was the one holding the hammer.
"Then we'd better be quiet," she said. "But I don't think I can promise that."
She pushed him onto his back.
He let her. That was the thing—Dante Moretti, the man who controlled everything, the man who made other men disappear with a single word, let her push him onto the bed like he weighed nothing. He lay there, chest rising and falling, watching her with those hungry eyes as she climbed on top of him.
She straddled his waist.
The Nirvana shirt rode up. The boyshorts did nothing to hide the heat between her legs, and she could feel him beneath her—already half hard, already straining against the fabric of his slacks.
"You're going to ruin this suit," she said.
"I have others."
"This tie, though." She ran her fingers down the silk. "It's nice."
"Buy me a new one."
"With what money?"
His hands found her hips. Gripped hard. Pulled her down against him until she gasped.
"I'll give you a credit card," he said.
"I don't want a fucking credit card."
"Then what do you want?"
She leaned down. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, blocking out the light, blocking out the world. Her mouth hovered over his, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips.
"I want you to fuck me like you mean it," she said.
His jaw tightened. His hands flexed on her hips.
"Like I mean what?"
"Like I'm yours. Like you'll kill anyone who touches me. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters."
He flipped her.
It happened so fast she didn't have time to react. One second she was on top, the next she was on her back, and he was over her, and his mouth was on her neck, her jaw, her collarbone. He bit down. She yelped. He licked the sting away.
"You are," he said. His voice was rough, unsteady, the most honest she'd ever heard it. "You're the only thing."
"Show me."
He pulled back just long enough to yank his tie loose, to tear at the buttons of his shirt. Buttons scattered across the floor—little plastic clicks that made her laugh, breathless and bright. He didn't laugh. He just kept going, stripping off his shirt, his belt, his slacks, until he was naked and hard and crawling back over her.
"You're still wearing clothes," he said.
"Problem?"
"No." He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her boyshorts. "But I'm going to fix it."
He pulled them down. Slow. Torturous. Dragging the fabric over her hips, her thighs, her knees. When they were gone, he didn't waste time. His hand slid between her legs, fingers parting her, finding her already wet and ready.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're soaked."
"Shocking. You've been gone all day."
"Did you touch yourself?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I wanted you to do it."
He pushed two fingers inside her. She arched. He curled them, pressed up, found the spot that made her vision white out. She grabbed his shoulders, nails digging in, and he didn't flinch. Just kept going—fingers working, thumb circling her clit, mouth on her neck, her ear, her jaw.
"Say it," he said.
"Say what?"
"You know what."
"I'm yours." She gasped. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
He pulled his fingers out.
She whined. Actually whined, a pathetic desperate sound that made him laugh—a real laugh, low and warm, the first one she'd ever heard from him. Then he was positioning himself between her legs, his cock pressing against her entrance, and she stopped caring about anything else.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
He pushed inside.
Slow. Deliberate. He watched her face the whole time—watched her mouth fall open, her eyes roll back, her breath catch in her throat. Once he was fully seated, he paused. Gave her a moment. Let her adjust to the stretch.
Then he started to move.
Fast. Hard. Relentless. Each thrust drove her deeper into the mattress, made the broken headboard rattle against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him closer, begged him for more.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
"Faster."
He gave her faster.
"Jesus, fuck, Dante—"
He caught her mouth with his. Swallowed her moans. His hips slammed against hers in a rhythm that was brutal and perfect. Sweat slicked their skin. The room smelled like sex and eucalyptus and the coconut lotion she'd put on an hour ago.
She came first.
It hit her like a kick to the chest—sudden, violent, devastating. She screamed into his mouth, nails raking down his back, cunt clenching around him so tight he groaned. He kept going. Kept fucking her through it, kept driving into her until she was shaking, gasping, oversensitive and desperate.
"Please," she said. "Please, please, please—"
He buried his face in her neck.
And then he came.
Hot and thick and deep inside her. His hips stuttered. His teeth found her shoulder. He bit down hard enough to leave a mark—another mark, another claim—and she felt him pulse inside her, felt the heat spread through her belly.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Him inside her. Her wrapped around him. Both of them breathing like they'd run a marathon. The afternoon light shifted from gold to amber to something softer.
Finally, he lifted his head.
His eyes were different now. Calmer. The storm had passed. He looked at her like she was something precious, something fragile, something he wasn't sure he deserved.
"You called me babe," he said.
"Yeah."
"I liked it."
"I know."
He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth, soft and slow and almost tender.
"I have to go," he said.
"You always have to go."
"I know."
She sighed. "Go. But come back."
"I will."
He pulled out. She winced. He stood, crossed to the closet, and pulled on fresh clothes—different suit, different tie, same precision. She watched him from the bed, still naked, still flushed, still tasting him on her tongue.
At the door, he paused.
"Vivi."
"What?"
"Don't leave this room today."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Not good enough."
He turned. His face was serious again, the softness gone, replaced by that mask he wore for everyone else. But his eyes—those eyes held something that looked almost like fear.
"Because there are people who know about you now," he said. "People who might try to use you to get to me. So until I've handled it, you stay here. Understood?"
She sat up. The sheet fell away. She didn't bother covering herself.
"Understood."
"Good."
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Vivi lay back down. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about the cut on her hip, the bruise on her shoulder, the fact that she was falling for a man who killed people and didn't lose sleep over it.
Then she reached for her phone and texted Jules: I need to tell you something.
The reply came almost immediately: Finally. What's wrong?
Vivi typed: Nothing's wrong. That's the problem.
She hit send. Set the phone down. Closed her eyes.
And waited for tomorrow.