Chapter 7: Red Lace and a Photograph
The third day arrived without ceremony.
No text. No call. No knock at the door. Just sunlight bleeding through the curtains and the hollow ache of a bed that was too big for one person.
Vivi woke slowly. Groggy. Her mouth tasted like cheap vodka and her head throbbed with a dull, persistent rhythm. She'd finished the bottle last night—or most of it, anyway—and the evidence was still scattered across the nightstand. Empty glass. Crumbled pack of cigarettes. Her sketchbook, open to a page she didn't remember drawing.
She looked at it.
A face. His face. Rough lines, smudged graphite, but unmistakably him. The sharp jaw. The cold eyes. The mouth that had been between her legs three nights ago.
She closed the sketchbook.
Sat up.
The room spun for a second, then settled. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom, her reflection in the mirror looking back at her like a warning.
Dark circles. Tangled hair. The faint imprint of his teeth still visible on her shoulder.
She turned on the shower.
The water was hot. Almost scalding. She stood under it for a long time, letting it beat against her skin, wash away the sweat and the smoke and the lingering smell of him on her body. Then she grabbed the razor.
She shaved her legs slowly. Carefully. Ankles to knees to thighs, the blade gliding through the foam, leaving smooth skin behind. She shaved under her arms. Around her bikini line. She washed her hair with the expensive shampoo that smelled like sandalwood and cedar—his shampoo, she realized, and didn't care—and conditioned it until it was soft and silky.
When she stepped out, she felt almost human again.
She dried off with one of the massive white towels. Wrapped it around her body. Walked back into the bedroom and stood in front of the closet.
She hadn't brought many clothes. Just the dress from the party—still crumpled on the floor somewhere—and a few things Jules had packed for her. But she'd found other things in the dresser. Things that fit her too well to be coincidence.
She pulled open the drawer.
Purple boy shorts from yesterday. Black lace from the day before. And at the bottom, tucked beneath everything else, a pair of red lace underwear that barely qualified as clothing.
She picked them up.
The lace was delicate. Intricate. The kind of thing you wore when you wanted to be looked at. When you wanted to be touched. When you wanted someone to lose their mind.
She put them on.
They hugged her hips like a second skin. The lace stretched across her ass, leaving most of it bare. The front was barely there—a scrap of red fabric that covered only the essentials. She turned to look at herself in the mirror.
The phoenix tattoo on her back rippled with the movement. Dark ink against pale skin. Wings spread wide, flames licking up her spine.
She looked like trouble.
She liked it.
She didn't bother with a shirt. Just the red lace and her damp hair, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and climbed onto the bed.
On her stomach. Legs spread. Back arched.
She angled the phone. Took a picture.
Ass up. Phoenix on full display. Red lace hugging her hips like it had been made for her.
She sent it to Dante.
Miss you babe.
Then she tossed the phone aside and reached for her sketchbook.
The afternoon bled into evening.
She didn't check her phone. Didn't look at the screen. Didn't wonder why he hadn't replied. She just drew. And drank. And smoked. And drew some more.
The vodka was back on the nightstand—a fresh bottle she'd found in the study, top-shelf, probably worth more than her rent. She took shots straight from the bottle, chased them with nothing, and let the warmth spread through her chest.
Her sketchbook filled up fast.
First, the balcony. The iron railing. The city sprawled below like a tapestry of light and shadow. She drew it from memory—the way the sunset had painted the sky, the way the wind had whipped her hair, the way he'd looked at her when he found her there.
Then, his hands.
She drew them from memory too. The long fingers. The calluses on his palms. The way they'd felt on her body—rough and demanding and everywhere at once. She drew them wrapped around a glass of whiskey. She drew them pressed against her throat. She drew them between her legs.
The lines got looser as the bottle emptied.
Dirtier.
She drew herself. Naked. Sprawled across his sheets. Legs open. Mouth parted. She drew the way he'd looked at her—hungry, possessive, like she was the only thing in the world worth having. She drew the way he'd fucked her on the balcony, under the stars, her purple boy shorts shoved aside.
She drew until her hand cramped.
Then she drew some more.
Netflix played in the background. Something mindless—a reality show about rich people yelling at each other. She wasn't watching. She was drinking. Smoking. Drawing. Waiting.
The phone stayed silent.
She didn't check it.
She just kept going.
Another shot. Another cigarette. Another page filled with graphite and want.
The sun set. The room darkened. She didn't turn on the lights—just let the glow from the TV and the city outside cast shadows across the bed.
She was drunk now. Properly drunk. The kind of drunk where everything felt soft and warm and slightly unreal. She lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't look.
She took another drag. Another shot. Another page.
The buzz came again. And again. A steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.
She ignored it.
Drew his mouth instead. The way it curved when he smiled—that rare, real smile he'd given her before he left. The way it felt against her skin. The way it tasted like whiskey and promises.
Buzz.
She closed her sketchbook.
Buzz.
She reached for the bottle.
Buzz.
She finally looked at the phone.
Three messages. All from Dante.
She opened them.
The first: a picture. His view from a hotel room—somewhere high up, the Chicago skyline glittering in the distance. A glass of whiskey on the windowsill. His hand in the foreground, fingers wrapped around the glass.
The second: You're drunk.
The third: I can tell from the way you're drawing.
She stared at the screen.
Then she laughed.
How the fuck did he know?
She typed back: Maybe. So what?
The reply came fast: So nothing. I like it.
She bit her lip. Took another shot. Typed: When are you coming home?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Tomorrow.
She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Tomorrow.
She typed: Good. I miss your cock.
Sent it before she could think.
The dots appeared again. Stayed for a long time.
Then: You're going to pay for that.
She grinned. Typed: Promise?
His reply was immediate: Go to sleep, Vivi.
She could almost hear his voice. Low and rough and full of warning. She shivered.
But she didn't go to sleep.
She poured another shot. Lit another cigarette. Opened her sketchbook to a fresh page.
And she drew him.
All of him.
The way he'd looked when he first saw her on the balcony—standing in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes hungry. The way he'd looked when he was inside her—focused, desperate, like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
She drew until the bottle was empty.
Until the cigarette burned down to her fingers.
Until her eyes were too heavy to keep open.
Then she closed the sketchbook, set it aside, and lay back on the bed. The red lace hugged her hips. The phoenix stretched across her back. The city glittered beyond the window.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow.
He was coming home tomorrow.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
The dream came again.
The ocean. The waves. The salt on her lips. She was swimming, but she wasn't moving. The current had her, pulling her under, and she wasn't fighting it.
But this time, she wasn't alone.
He was there. In the water with her. His hands on her waist, pulling her close. His mouth on her neck, her jaw, her lips. His voice in her ear—low and rough and full of something that felt like forever.
"I've got you," he said.
And she believed him.
She woke to sunlight.
Bright and golden and streaming through the curtains she'd forgotten to close. She groaned, rolled over, and immediately regretted it. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray. The bottle on the nightstand was empty.
But the phone was buzzing.
She reached for it blindly, squinted at the screen.
Dante: On my way.
She sat up.
The room spun. She ignored it. Typed back: What time?
The reply came fast: One hour.
One hour.
She looked down at herself. Red lace. Messy hair. The lingering smell of smoke and vodka clinging to her skin.
One hour.
She had one hour to make herself presentable.
She moved fast.
Shower first. Hot and quick, scrubbing away the evidence of last night. She washed her hair again—no time to condition, but she did anyway—and shaved her legs again, just in case. Brushed her teeth twice. Rinsed with mouthwash until her gums burned.
Then she stood in front of the closet.
What the fuck did you wear when a mafia boss was coming home to you?
She didn't know.
She pulled open the dresser. The purple boy shorts were still there. The black lace. A few other things she hadn't noticed before—a silk slip, sheer and dark, that would leave nothing to the imagination.
She grabbed the slip.
Pulled it over her head.
It clung to every curve. The silk was cool against her skin, sliding over her hips, her breasts, the curve of her ass. She looked at herself in the mirror.
Her nipples were visible through the fabric. Dark and hard and obvious. The slip ended just below her ass, leaving her legs bare. The phoenix tattoo peeked out from beneath the strap.
She looked like a wet dream.
She left her hair down. Damp and wavy and tangled. She didn't bother with makeup—just a swipe of lip gloss, a dab of perfume on her wrists, her neck, between her breasts.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
The hour crawled by.
She checked her phone every two minutes. Watched the clock on the nightstand. Listened for the sound of a car, a door, footsteps in the hall.
Nothing.
She lit a cigarette. Smoked it by the window. Watched the city wake up below—the cars, the people, the endless motion of a world that didn't know or care that she was waiting.
Then she heard it.
A car. Engine cutting off. A door opening. Closing. Footsteps in the hall.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She stubbed out the cigarette. Stood. Smoothed down the slip. Tried to look casual, like she hadn't been counting the minutes.
The door opened.
Dante stepped inside.
He looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble on his jaw. But when he saw her—standing there in the silk slip, hair damp, lips parted—something shifted in his expression.
Something hungry.
"Hi," she said.
He didn't answer.
He crossed the room in three long strides, dropped his bag on the floor, and pulled her into his arms. His mouth found hers—hard and desperate, like he'd been starving for her. She gasped against his lips, hands fisting in his shirt, and he deepened the kiss until she couldn't breathe.
"I missed you," he said against her mouth.
"I know."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes raked over her body—the silk slip, the hard nipples, the bare legs. His jaw tightened.
"You're wearing that on purpose," he said.
"Maybe."
"You're trying to kill me."
"Maybe."
He picked her up.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and let him carry her to the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress—not gently—and stood over her, stripping off his jacket, his tie, his shirt.
She watched.
The muscles in his chest. The scars on his ribs. The tattoos she hadn't noticed before—dark ink curling over his shoulder, his bicep, his forearm.
"You have tattoos," she said.
"You have a phoenix on your back."
"Fair point."
He unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his slacks. Stepped out of them, then his boxers, and stood there completely naked.
His cock was already hard. Thick and flushed and glistening at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, watching her watch him.
"Take off the slip," he said.
She sat up slowly. Reached for the hem. Pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.
Now she was naked.
He looked at her like she was a meal.
"Lie back," he said.
She did.
He climbed onto the bed. Covered her body with his. His mouth found her neck—hot and insistent—and she moaned, arching into him.
"I thought about you every night," he murmured against her skin.
"Did you?"
"Couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Kept thinking about the way you taste."
His mouth moved lower. Over her collarbone. Her chest. He took one nipple between his lips and sucked hard, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. She cried out, fingers twisting in his hair.
"Dante—"
"Shh."
He kissed his way down her stomach. Over her hips. He paused at the red lace—the same underwear from the picture she'd sent—and looked up at her.
"You wore these for me," he said.
"I wore them for me."
"Liar."
He hooked his fingers under the lace. Pulled it down. Slow. Torturous. Until she was completely bare, completely exposed, completely his.
Then he buried his face between her legs.
She screamed.
His tongue was hot and rough and everywhere. Licking through her folds, circling her clit, pushing inside her. She bucked against his mouth, hands fisting in the sheets, and he held her down with one arm across her hips.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Dante, please—"
He didn't stop.
He ate her like he was starving. Like he'd been thinking about this for three days and couldn't wait another second. His tongue worked her clit in tight circles while his fingers pushed inside her—two, then three—curling against that spot that made her see stars.
"I'm going to come," she gasped. "I'm going to—"
He pulled his mouth away.
She almost cried.
"No," she moaned. "No, please—"
"Not yet."
He climbed up her body. Kissed her—she could taste herself on his lips—and positioned himself at her entrance.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
He pushed inside.
She gasped. It was always an adjustment—he was so fucking big—but the stretch felt good. Right. Like he belonged there.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—"
"I know."
He started to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust was measured, controlled, like he was savoring every inch of her. His eyes never left hers. His jaw was tight. His breath came in short, sharp bursts.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The bed slammed against the wall. The headboard cracked. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her nails into his back, and he groaned—low and rough—and fucked her faster.
"You're mine," he said.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Dante. I'm fucking yours."
He kissed her. Hard. Bruising. His tongue in her mouth, his cock in her cunt, his hands gripping her hips so tight she knew there would be bruises.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"You can."
He reached between them. Found her clit with his thumb. Pressed down hard.
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her—violent, consuming, leaving her shaking and screaming and clawing at his back. He kept fucking her through it, and she felt him swell inside her, felt him pulse, felt him come with a groan that sounded like her name.
They collapsed together.
Sweat-slicked. Breathless. His weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in her neck.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then he lifted his head.
"I missed you," he said.
"You said that already."
"I know."
She smiled. Reached up. Touched his face—the sharp jaw, the stubble, the lips that had been between her legs five minutes ago.
"I missed you too," she said.
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her mouth.
"Don't send me pictures like that again," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because I almost left Chicago early. Almost said fuck the deal, fuck the consequences, and got on a plane."
"Why didn't you?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because I knew you'd be here when I got back."
She looked at him. At the man who killed people. At the man who owned her body and her heart and probably her soul. At the man who had just fucked her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You were right," she said.
"I usually am."
She laughed. Smacked his chest. He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one.
"Shower," he said.
"Again?"
"With me."
"Okay."
They climbed off the bed. Walked to the bathroom. Stepped into the shower together, and he washed her hair, her body, her back. His hands were gentle now—tender in a way she hadn't expected. He kissed her shoulder. Her neck. The spot behind her ear.
"I have to go again tomorrow," he said.
She froze.
"What?"
"Another meeting. New York this time."
"How long?"
"Two days."
She turned to face him. Water streamed down her face, her hair, her breasts.
"You just got back," she said.
"I know."
"You're leaving again?"
"I have to."
She stared at him. At the water dripping from his hair, his jaw, his lips. At the man who kept leaving her.
"Take me with you," she said.
He blinked.
"What?"
"Take me with you. To New York."
"Vivi—"
"I'm serious. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of sitting in this house, drawing pictures of you, drinking myself to sleep. Take me with you."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"It's not safe," he said.
"I don't care."
"There are people in New York who want me dead."
"Then I'll watch your back."
He laughed. Actually laughed.
"You're not a bodyguard."
"No. But I'm yours." She touched his face. "You said it yourself. I'm yours. So take me."
He looked at her. Really looked. At the determination in her eyes. The set of her jaw. The way she refused to back down.
"Okay," he said.
She blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. You can come."
She threw her arms around his neck. Kissed him hard. He caught her, held her, kissed her back.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
He pulled back. Looked at her.
"I mean it, Vivi. New York is dangerous. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No wandering off. No talking to strangers. No—"
"I know. I know."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He sighed. She could tell he was already regretting it. But he didn't take it back.
"Pack a bag," he said. "We leave at six."
She kissed him again. Then she climbed out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and ran to the bedroom.
New York.
She was going to New York.
With him.
She pulled out her phone. Typed a message to Jules: I'm going to New York.
The reply came instantly: WHAT
She grinned. Typed back: I'll explain later.
Then she tossed the phone aside and started packing.
She packed a bag fast.
Her hands shook as she yanked open drawers. She grabbed the red lace, the purple boy shorts, a black satin and lace dress that she found hanging in the back of the closet—tags still attached, her size, of course. She didn't question it. She just stuffed everything into a duffel bag she found in the corner of the bedroom.
Black sweater. Flats. A pair of jeans. The Nirvana t-shirt. Toiletries from the bathroom—the expensive shampoo, her toothbrush, the lip gloss she'd been wearing the first night.
She did her makeup in the bathroom mirror. Quick and precise. Mascara, eyeliner, a swipe of something nude on her lips. She blow-dried her hair until it fell in soft waves past her shoulders, then pinned one side back with a bobby pin she found on the counter.
She stared at herself.
She looked like someone else. Someone who belonged in his world. Someone who could walk into a room full of dangerous men and not flinch.
The black satin and lace dress hugged her body like it had been sewn onto her skin. The lace overlay was delicate—intricate floral patterns that revealed glimpses of the satin beneath. It fell to mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare, and the neckline plunged just low enough to be interesting.
The black sweater went over it. Soft cashmere. Warm.
She slipped on the flats. Grabbed her bag. Walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Dante was waiting in the foyer.
He was on his phone, brow furrowed, jaw tight. He'd changed into a fresh suit—charcoal gray, perfectly cut—and his hair was still damp from the shower. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
His eyes traveled over her slowly. Deliberately.
"You look—"
"Don't say nice."
"I was going to say dangerous."
She smiled. "Good."
He pocketed his phone. Reached for her bag. She let him take it.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded.
He opened the front door. The night air hit her—cool and sharp, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust and something electric. A black car waited in the driveway, engine already running.
She stepped outside.
He followed. His hand found hers—fingers lacing together like they'd done it a thousand times. The warmth of his palm against hers was steady. Grounding.
They walked to the car.
Before she climbed in, she turned. Looked up at him. 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 hours ago.
She kissed him.
Soft. Slow. Full of everything she couldn't say.
When she pulled back, his eyes were darker. Hungrier.
"I'll listen," she said. "No wandering. No talking to strangers."
He opened his mouth—probably to add more rules, more warnings—but she pressed a finger to his lips.
"I just want to be with you."
He stared at her.
Then he nodded. Once. Sharp.
"Get in the car."
She climbed in.
The leather seats were cool against her legs. The interior smelled like him—whiskey and cedar and something darker underneath. She buckled her seatbelt and watched him walk around the car.
He slid into the driver's seat.
The engine purred. The gates opened. The car pulled onto the street, and the city swallowed them whole.
She didn't look back.