Chapter 6: Sunset on the Balcony
The balcony was her favorite place in the house.
Not the bedroom with its massive bed and silk sheets. Not the marble bathroom with the rainfall shower and the heated floors. Not the study, which still made her skin crawl every time she walked past the door. The balcony. That was where she went when she needed to breathe.
She'd found it on the second day—after the party, after the man with the scar, after Dante had left her alone in his bed with nothing but her thoughts and the ache between her legs. She'd woken up disoriented, tangled in sheets that smelled like him, and she'd wandered the upstairs hallway until she found the French doors leading outside. The air had been cold. Sharp. It had cleared her head in a way nothing else could.
Now she sat in the same iron chair she'd claimed that first morning, a blunt burning between her fingers and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. The sunset was doing something obscene to the sky—orange bleeding into pink bleeding into a purple so deep it looked like a bruise. The city sprawled below like a living thing, all neon veins and shadowed arteries, and somewhere in the distance a helicopter circled the skyline.
She took a drag.
The smoke filled her lungs, warm and familiar. She held it there, counted to five, and let it go. The exhale was slow. Deliberate. She watched the smoke curl into the air and disappear.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Jules again. She'd been texting all day—are you okay, what happened, did you sleep with him, Vivi answer me—and Vivi had been ignoring every single one. Not because she didn't want to talk. Because she didn't know what to say.
Hey Jules, I'm fine. Just living with a mob boss who kills people and fucks me like I'm the last woman on earth. How's Marcus?
Yeah. That would go over well.
She stubbed out the blunt on the arm of the chair and lit the cigarette instead. The first drag was harsh. Bitter. It burned her throat in a way the weed didn't, and she liked it. The sting kept her present.
The purple boy shorts were new.
She'd found them in the dresser that morning—still in the package, tags attached, size small. Exactly her size. She hadn't asked who bought them or when or why. She'd just peeled off the sticker, pulled them on, and decided not to think about it.
The t-shirt was old. Faded. The Nirvana smiley face was cracked and peeling, and the cotton was so thin she could see the outline of her nipples through it if the light hit right. She didn't care. There was no one here to see.
She propped her feet on the railing and leaned back.
The chaise lounge was behind her, cushions still dented from her earlier nap. She'd spent most of the afternoon there—dozing, scrolling, watching Netflix with the volume off because she couldn't focus on anything longer than thirty seconds. Her brain kept circling back to him. To the way he'd looked at her when he said nobody touches what's mine. To the way his hands had felt on her body. To the way he'd left without saying goodbye.
She took another drag.
The nicotine hit her bloodstream and she closed her eyes. The wind was cool on her bare legs. The city hummed below. For a moment—just a moment—she felt almost peaceful.
Then her phone buzzed again.
She opened one eye. Glanced at the screen. Jules: If you don't answer me in the next hour I'm calling the police.
Vivi sighed. Typed back with one thumb: Don't call the police. I'm fine. I'll call you tomorrow.
The reply came instantly: Tomorrow? Where are you?
She stared at the screen for a long time. Then she typed: I'm at his place.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then: WHAT
Vivi didn't respond.
She set the phone face-down on the table and finished her cigarette in silence. The sky darkened. The city lights flickered on one by one, a constellation of neon and glass. She thought about her apartment—the tiny studio with the leaky faucet and the neighbor who played music too loud—and wondered if she'd ever go back. The thought felt strange. Distant. Like remembering a dream.
She didn't miss it.
That was the scary part. She didn't miss any of it.
She dozed off sometime after dark.
The chaise lounge was comfortable enough to sleep on, and the night air was warm, and she was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Her body was exhausted. Her mind was exhausted. Even her soul felt tired.
She dreamed about the ocean.
Waves crashing against rocks. Salt on her lips. The sun burning hot on her skin. She was swimming, but she wasn't moving. The current had her, pulling her under, and she wasn't fighting it. She was letting it take her.
Then something woke her.
A sound. A shift in the air. A presence.
She opened her eyes.
The balcony was dark except for the faint glow of the city below. The French doors were open. She hadn't left them open. She'd closed them before her nap, she was sure of it.
Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate.
She turned her head.
Dante stood in the doorway.
He was still in his suit—dark gray, perfectly tailored, the jacket open to reveal a crisp white shirt beneath. His tie was loosened. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it. His jaw was set.
But his eyes—
His eyes were on her.
She was still sprawled on the chaise lounge. Legs propped up, knees bent, one arm thrown over her head. The t-shirt had ridden up to expose her stomach, the soft curve of her waist, the purple boy shorts that barely covered anything.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
For a long moment they just looked at each other. The city hummed below. The wind rustled through the plants on the railing. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and faded.
Then he crossed the balcony.
He didn't hurry. Didn't rush. Each step was deliberate, measured, like he was approaching something he wasn't sure was real. When he reached the chaise lounge, he stood over her—tall and dark and utterly still.
"You're still awake," he said.
"Was sleeping."
"Not anymore."
"No." She stretched. Slowly. Let her back arch, her arms reach over her head, her toes point. "Not anymore."
His jaw tightened.
"You're wearing purple," he said.
"Found them in the drawer."
"They're yours."
"I figured."
He knelt beside the chaise.
The movement was sudden—one second he was standing, the next he was on his knees, his face level with hers. His hand found her thigh. Fingers spread over bare skin, warm and rough.
"You've been out here all day," he said.
"How do you know?"
"I checked."
"On me?"
"Twice."
She should have been creeped out. Should have felt violated, surveilled, controlled. Instead, something warm bloomed in her chest.
"Possessive much?" she asked.
"You have no idea."
His hand slid higher. Over her hip, her waist, the curve of her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through the thin cotton, and she shivered.
"You smell like smoke," he said.
"I was smoking."
"Weed or cigarettes?"
"Both."
"Bad habit."
"Lots of things about me are bad habits."
He leaned in. His nose brushed her jaw. His breath was warm on her neck.
"I don't care," he said.
His mouth found her throat.
She gasped. Couldn't help it. His lips were soft but insistent, pressing against her pulse point, her collarbone, the sensitive spot behind her ear. His teeth grazed her skin and she shuddered, hands fisting in the cushions beneath her.
"Dante—"
"Shh."
He kissed his way down her neck. Over her shoulder. Along the neckline of her t-shirt, which he pushed aside with his teeth. His tongue traced the curve of her breast, and she arched into him, desperate for more.
"I thought about you all day," he murmured against her skin.
"You did?"
"Couldn't focus. Couldn't work. Kept thinking about last night. About the way you screamed my name."
She flushed. "The whole house heard."
"Good."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, hungry, pupils blown wide. He looked like a man who hadn't eaten in days.
"I want you," he said.
"Then take me."
He grabbed the hem of her t-shirt. Pulled it up. She raised her arms and let him strip it off, tossing it somewhere behind him. Then his hands were on her breasts—cupping them, squeezing them, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked hard and aching.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He lowered his head. Took one nipple in his mouth. Sucked hard, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. She cried out, back bowing off the chaise, fingers twisting in his hair.
"Please," she said. "Please, Dante—"
He lifted his head. "Please what?"
"I need you inside me."
"Not yet."
"Fuck you."
He laughed. Low and dark and dangerous. Then he yanked the purple boy shorts down her legs and tossed them aside, and she was naked in the night air, spread out beneath him like an offering.
He knelt between her legs.
His hands found her knees. Pushed them apart. Wide. Wider. Until she was fully exposed, open, vulnerable, and he could see everything.
"You're wet," he said.
"How observant."
He slid one finger through her folds. Slow. Torturous. Gathering her wetness, spreading it around, pressing just barely inside her.
She whimpered.
"Beg," he said.
"I already did."
"Again."
She swallowed her pride. Let it go. Let him have this.
"Please," she said. "Please, Dante, I need your fingers, your mouth, your cock, anything. Please."
He pushed two fingers inside her.
She screamed.
The sound cut through the night air, high and desperate, and she didn't care who heard it. She didn't care about anything except the way his fingers were moving inside her—curling, pressing, hitting that spot that made her vision white out.
"Fuck, that's—"
"You like that?"
"Yes, yes, don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
His thumb found her clit. Circled it. Pressed down hard, in rhythm with his fingers, and she felt the orgasm building like a freight train, barreling toward her, unstoppable.
"I'm going to come," she gasped. "Dante, I'm going to—"
He pulled his hand away.
She almost cried. Seriously, genuinely almost burst into tears. Her body was strung tight, teetering on the edge, and he'd yanked her back at the last second.
"Why," she moaned. "Why would you—"
"Because I want you to come on my cock."
He stood. Unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his slacks. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, flushed, already glistening at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, then climbed onto the chaise, covering her body with his.
"Wrap your legs around me," he said.
She did.
He pushed inside.
She gasped. It was always an adjustment—he was big, bigger than anyone she'd been with, and the stretch bordered on pain. But it was a good pain. The kind that made her feel full, complete, claimed.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so tight."
"Move."
He moved.
Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust was measured, controlled, like he was savoring every inch of her. His mouth found her throat again, her jaw, her earlobe. His teeth grazed her skin and she shivered.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The chaise creaked beneath them. The wind whipped around the balcony, carrying her moans out into the city. She didn't care. Let the whole world hear. Let them know what he was doing to her.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
His eyes were on hers, intense and unblinking, as he fucked into her with a rhythm that was brutal and perfect. Over and over. Deeper. Faster. Until she was shaking, crying out, clawing at his back.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"You can."
He thrust harder. Faster. The headboard of the chaise slammed against the wall. Her nails raked down his back, drawing blood, and he groaned—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest.
"Now," he said. "Come for me now."
She shattered.
The orgasm tore through her like a wildfire—hot, consuming, devastating. She screamed his name, over and over, as he kept fucking her through it. Her cunt clenched around him, milking him, and she felt him swell inside her.
Then he came.
Hot and thick and deep. His hips stuttered. His teeth found her shoulder and bit down hard. She felt him pulse inside her, again and again, until there was nothing left.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Him inside her. Her wrapped around him. Both of them breathing hard, hearts pounding in tandem. The city lights glittered below. The wind whispered through the railings. The helicopter had moved on, somewhere else, someone else's emergency.
Finally, he lifted his head.
His eyes were softer now. Tired. Almost human.
"You're going to catch a cold," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're naked on a balcony in October."
"So are you."
He laughed. Actually laughed—a warm, genuine sound that made something in her chest flutter. Then he pulled out, grabbed her t-shirt from the floor, and helped her sit up.
"Come inside," he said. "I'll run you a bath."
"That sounds nice."
"It wasn't a suggestion."
"I know."
She stood. Her legs were shaky. Her body was sore. But she felt good—better than she'd felt all day. Better than she'd felt in years, maybe.
He wrapped an arm around her waist. Led her through the French doors, into the warm, dark bedroom. The sheets were still rumpled from last night. The lamp on the nightstand cast a golden glow.
"I missed you," she said.
He paused. Looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper.
"I missed you too," he said.
She believed him.
He led her to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. Poured in expensive-looking bath salts that smelled like lavender and cedar. While the tub filled, he stripped off his clothes—suit, shirt, tie, everything—and stood there in the steam, watching her.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're beautiful."
"Flattery."
"Truth."
She stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost too hot, and she sank into it with a sigh. He climbed in behind her, pulling her back against his chest, arms wrapping around her waist.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The water lapped at their skin. The steam rose around them. His thumb traced lazy circles on her stomach, and she closed her eyes, letting herself relax for the first time in days.
"What happened last night?" she asked finally.
His hand stilled.
"The man with the scar."
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me." She turned her head, looked at him over her shoulder. "I want to know the truth."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed.
"His name was Viktor," he said. "He worked for me. Ran a piece of my operation on the south side."
"Worked?"
"Past tense."
She swallowed. "You killed him."
"I had him killed."
The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Permanent. She should have been horrified. Should have been sick. Should have pulled away, gotten out of the tub, run as far and as fast as she could.
She didn't move.
"Because he touched me," she said.
"Because he touched what's mine."
She turned in his arms. Faced him. The water sloshed around them, and she had to brace her hands on his shoulders to keep from slipping.
"I'm not yours," she said.
"You are."
"You don't own me."
"I don't want to own you." His hands found her hips. Gripped hard. "I want to keep you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
She looked at him. Really looked. At the sharp lines of his jaw. The blue eyes that could go cold in an instant. The mouth that had been between her legs not an hour ago.
"You're a murderer," she said.
"Yes."
"You kill people."
"Yes."
"You're dangerous."
"Very."
"And you expect me to stay?"
"I expect you to do whatever you want." His grip loosened. His hands slid away. "I'm not keeping you here against your will. The door is unlocked. You can leave whenever you want."
She should leave.
She knew she should leave. Should walk out the door, call Jules, go back to her shitty apartment and her normal life and pretend none of this had ever happened. She should run. She should save herself.
Instead, she kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. Full of teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey and smoke. He groaned against her mouth, hands finding her waist, pulling her closer until she was straddling him in the tub.
"Vivi—"
"Shut up."
She reached between them. Found his cock, already hard again, and guided him to her entrance. Sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried inside her.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She started to move.
Slow at first. Rocking her hips, finding a rhythm. The water splashed around them, over the edge of the tub, onto the marble floor. She didn't care. All she cared about was him—his hands on her body, his mouth on her neck, his cock filling her up.
"Harder," he said.
She rode him harder.
Her hands braced on his shoulders. Her nails dug into his skin. She bounced on his cock with abandon, taking what she wanted, taking what she needed.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"So am I."
"Together."
"Together."
He grabbed her hips. Thrust up into her. Once. Twice. Three times. And then she was coming, crying out, body convulsing around him. He followed a moment later, groaning her name, spilling inside her for the second time that night.
They collapsed against each other.
The water had gone lukewarm. The steam had dissipated. The bathroom was quiet except for their ragged breathing.
"I'm not leaving," she said.
"I know."
"I'm staying."
"I know."
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why me? Why do you want me? I'm nobody. I'm a mess. I crashed your party and I don't know how to act in fancy houses and I say the wrong thing constantly."
He cupped her face in his hands.
"You say what you mean," he said. "You don't lie to me. You're not afraid of me."
"Everyone's afraid of you."
"You're not."
She thought about that. About the first night, when she'd stumbled into his study and insulted his whiskey and told him his decorating was tacky. About the way he'd looked at her—not with anger, but with something closer to wonder.
"No," she said. "I'm not."
"That's why."
He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth, soft and slow and tender.
"Come to bed," he said.
"Okay."
They climbed out of the tub. Dried off with fluffy white towels. He led her to the bed, pulled back the covers, and tucked her in like she was something precious.
When he climbed in beside her, she curled into him. Her head on his chest. Her arm around his waist. His heartbeat under her ear, steady and strong.
"I have to leave tomorrow," he said.
"Where?"
"Business. A few days."
She lifted her head. "Where?"
"Chicago."
"When?"
"Morning."
She didn't ask what kind of business. She didn't want to know.
"Come back," she said.
"I will."
"Promise?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed a kiss to her hair.
"I promise."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in days, she slept without dreaming.
And for the first time in days, she slept without dreaming.
No waves. No drowning. No falling through endless dark. Just the weight of his arm across her ribs, the steady rhythm of his breath against her hair, and the quiet hum of the city far below like a lullaby she hadn't known she needed.
She woke before him.
The bedroom was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking out any hint of morning. She didn't know what time it was—didn't want to check her phone, didn't want to break the spell. She just lay there, listening to him breathe, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.
Then she remembered.
Chicago. He was leaving for Chicago. Morning. Which meant now. Which meant any second he would wake up and pull away and become the man who walked out of rooms without saying goodbye.
No. Not this time.
She slipped out of bed carefully. Quietly. Her body protested—muscles sore from last night, thighs aching in a way that made her flush. She ignored it. Padded across the cold marble floor to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror.
Her hair was a disaster. Her eyes were still shadowed with yesterday's mascara. She looked like shit.
She didn't care.
She grabbed his shirt from the floor—the white one from last night, still smelling like him—and pulled it on. It hung past her thighs, sleeves falling over her hands. Then she went back to the bed and climbed in beside him.
He was still asleep. On his back now, one arm thrown over his head, the sheet pooled at his waist. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His lips were slightly parted. In sleep, he looked almost peaceful. Almost human.
She traced a finger down his chest.
His skin was warm. Smooth. She followed the line of hair that disappeared beneath the sheet, then circled back up to his collarbone, his neck, the sharp angle of his jaw.
His eyes opened.
They found her immediately. Focused. Alert. Like he hadn't been asleep at all.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning."
"You're leaving."
It wasn't a question.
He sat up slowly. The sheet fell away, and she caught a glimpse of his cock—soft now, but still thick, still impressive—before he reached for his boxers on the floor.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Early. Too early."
He found his phone on the nightstand. Checked it. His jaw tightened.
"I have to go."
"I know."
He stood. Walked to the closet. She watched him move—the muscles in his back, the way he carried himself even half-naked, like he owned every room he walked into.
He did own every room he walked into.
"Come here," she said.
He turned.
She was still in his shirt, still in his bed, still looking at him like he belonged to her. And maybe he did. Maybe that was the scariest part.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I said so."
He crossed the room. Stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. She reached up. Grabbed the waistband of his boxers. Pulled him closer.
"Vivi—"
"Shut up."
She tugged him onto the bed. He came willingly—more willingly than he'd admit—and she crawled on top of him, straddling his hips, his shirt riding up her thighs.
"You're going to make me late," he said.
"I don't care."
She leaned down. Kissed him. Soft at first, then harder, deeper, until he groaned against her mouth and his hands found her hips.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She ground against him. Felt him harden beneath her, his cock pressing against her through the thin cotton of his boxers. She was already wet. Already aching.
"One more time," she said. "Before you go."
He didn't argue.
He flipped her onto her back. Yanked off her shirt—his shirt—and tossed it aside. Then his mouth was on her breast, teeth grazing her nipple, and she cried out, back arching off the mattress.
"Fuck, Dante—"
He kissed his way down her stomach. Over her hips. Between her legs.
"No," she said. "Not like that. I want you inside me."
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, hungry.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He stripped off his boxers. Climbed between her legs. She reached down, guided him to her entrance, and he pushed inside.
She gasped.
It was different this time. Faster. Rougher. He fucked her like he was trying to prove something—to her, to himself, to whatever god was watching. The headboard slammed against the wall. The sheets tangled beneath them. She dug her nails into his shoulders and held on.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
"Faster."
He gave her faster.
"I'm going to come," she gasped.
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not yet."
He thrust deeper. Slower. Drawing it out, torturing her, and she hated him for it. Hated the way he controlled her body like he controlled everything else.
Then he reached between them. Found her clit with his thumb. Pressed down.
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her—violent, consuming, leaving her shaking and gasping and clawing at his back. He followed a moment later, groaning her name, spilling inside her with a violence that bordered on desperate.
They collapsed together.
Sweat-slicked. Breathless. His weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in her neck.
"I don't want to go," he said.
"Then don't."
"I have to."
"I know."
He lifted his head. Looked at her—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. Softened. Like he was memorizing her face.
"I'll be back in three days," he said.
"Three days."
"Maybe four."
"Maybe."
He kissed her. Soft. Tender. Then he pulled away and stood, and the moment broke.
She watched him dress.
Boxers first. Then slacks. Then the crisp white shirt, buttoned with practiced precision. He found a different tie in the closet—dark blue, silk—and knotted it without looking in the mirror.
A jacket. A watch. A gun holstered beneath his arm.
She should have been scared.
She wasn't.
He packed a small bag. Toiletries. A change of clothes. His phone, his wallet, a second phone she'd never noticed before. All of it neat, efficient, practiced.
Then he walked to the bed.
She was still naked. Still sprawled across his sheets, his come leaking down her thigh, her hair a mess, her lips swollen.
He looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Come here," he said.
She sat up. He leaned down, cupped her face, and kissed her. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't.
"I'll call you," he said.
"You better."
He stood. Grabbed his bag. Walked to the door.
Then he stopped.
Turned.
"I don't know where else I would go right now."
The words hit her like a punch to the chest.
He wasn't talking about her.
He was talking about himself.
She didn't know what to say. So she said the only thing that made sense.
"Goodbye, babe."
He blinked.
"Call me. Text me. I guess I'll be here—" She gestured vaguely at the bed, the room, the entire absurd situation. "—I don't know where else I would go right now."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
Actually smiled. Not the cold, controlled smirk he wore like armor. Something real. Something that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger. Almost boyish.
"I'll call you," he said.
"I know."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him. His footsteps faded down the hall. A car engine started somewhere below, and then even that was gone.
She was alone.
She lay back on the bed. Stared at the ceiling. Breathed in the smell of him—smoke and whiskey and sex—still clinging to the sheets.
Then she reached for her phone.
Jules had sent forty-seven messages.
She typed back with one thumb: I'm alive. I'm fine. I'll call you tonight.
Then she set the phone down and closed her eyes.
Three days.
She could wait.
She didn't have anywhere else to go.