Chapter 2: One Last Drink, One Last Lie
The gravel crunched behind her.
Roxy didn't turn around. She took another drag of her cigarette, let the smoke curl out of her nostrils, and stared at the dark vineyard stretching beyond the gate. The security guard had disappeared somewhere—probably called inside by whoever was watching the cameras. Probably reporting that the crazy bitch with the smart mouth was loitering on the driveway, smoking like she had a death wish.
Let them watch.
Footsteps. Steady. Unhurried. The kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who'd never had to run from anything in his life.
"You're going to catch a cold."
Roxy barked a laugh. It came out harsh and ugly, scraping against the inside of her throat. "That's the least of my fucking problems right now."
Damien Moretti came to stand beside her. Not too close. Not too far. Just there, at the edge of her vision, his hands in his pockets and that same unreadable expression on his face. The moonlight caught the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw, and for a second—just a second—Roxy understood why people whispered his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"There's a side entrance," he said. "Leads to my study. We can talk without interruptions."
Roxy took a long drag of her cigarette, held the smoke in her lungs until it burned, then let it out slow. "I'm not really in a talking mood."
"No?" He tilted his head, that almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because you had a lot to say back there. About your father. About the farm. About executions."
The words hit her like a slap. She'd forgotten—momentarily, mercifully—that she'd said those things. That she'd opened her mouth and let the worst parts of herself spill out like blood from a wound.
"People say shit when they're angry."
"They do." Moretti's voice was level. Patient. "But they usually mean it."
Roxy turned to look at him. Really look at him, for the first time since he'd stepped out of the shadows in that VIP lounge and asked Bree what she took. His eyes were still cold, still flat, but there was something underneath them now. Something that looked almost like curiosity. Almost like hunger.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Answers."
"To what?"
"Everything."
The cigarette had burned down to the filter again. Roxy dropped it, crushed it under her heel, and reached for the pack in her pocket before remembering it wasn't hers—the guard had gone back inside.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm going to need more whiskey."
Moretti's mouth curved. Full smile this time. It didn't reach his eyes either, but it was something.
"Follow me."
He led her through a side door she hadn't noticed before, tucked behind a hedge that ran along the eastern edge of the estate. The door was unmarked, plain wood set into stone, and it opened without a sound when Moretti pressed his palm against a discreet panel beside it.
The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, lined with the same dark wood as the rest of the house. No portraits here. No chandeliers. Just walls and doors and the soft hum of some hidden ventilation system.
Roxy's heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she followed him, the sound echoing in the silence. She felt drunk. Not the good kind of drunk, the warm and floaty kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that made her limbs feel like they were filled with sand and her head feel like it was stuffed with cotton.
Moretti stopped at the end of the corridor. Opened another door. Stepped aside to let her through.
The study was a cavern.
That was the first thing Roxy thought, and it stuck. A cavern of polished obsidian and aged mahogany, the walls dark and gleaming, the furniture heavy and old. A single chandelier hung from the ceiling—crystal, flickering, casting jagged shadows over high-backed leather chairs that looked like they'd been worn smooth by decades of whispered deals.
The scent of whiskey and cigar smoke hung in the air like a warning.
And behind them, the door clicked shut.
Roxy heard the deadbolt engage. Deliberate. Quiet. Final.
She didn't turn around. Just stood there, in the middle of the room, listening to the sound of Moretti's footsteps as he crossed to a bar cart in the corner. Glass clinked against glass. Liquid poured. Two fingers of something amber and dangerous, exactly the way she'd seen it in the VIP lounge.
He came back. Held out a glass.
Roxy took it. Drank.
The whiskey burned going down, hot and sharp, and she welcomed it. Welcomed the way it cut through the fog in her head, the way it settled into her stomach like a coal fire. She drank again. Then she moved to one of those high-backed chairs and sat down, because standing suddenly felt like too much effort.
Moretti took the chair opposite hers. No desk between them. No barrier. Just two people in a dark room, the chandelier flickering above, the world outside fading into something distant and irrelevant.
"Tell me about the farm," he said.
Roxy laughed. "You don't waste time, do you?"
"I don't like wasting anything."
She took another sip of whiskey. Stared at the amber liquid. Thought about all the ways she could deflect, all the jokes she could make, all the walls she could throw up between herself and this man who was looking at her like he could see straight through them.
"I grew up on a farm," she said. "But not the kind you're thinking of. No cows. No corn. No fucking chickens."
"What kind of farm?"
"The kind where people disappear." She swirled the whiskey in her glass. "The kind where you learn how to dig a hole before you learn how to ride a bike. The kind where your dad teaches you how to use a knife when other kids are learning how to use a pencil."
Moretti didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just sat there, listening, his whiskey untouched in his hand.
"Go on."
"My dad was a... businessman." Roxy snorted. "That's what he called himself. Businessman. Like he was selling insurance or some shit. But what he really did was make problems go away. People owe him money? They disappear. People cross him? They disappear. People steal from him?" She paused. "They disappear slower."
The chandelier flickered. Shadows danced across Moretti's face.
"He had a lot of rules," Roxy continued. "Rules about loyalty. Rules about respect. Rules about what happens when you break the rules. And he made sure I knew them all. Made sure I understood exactly what happened to people who didn't follow them."
"How many?"
"Did I kill?" She looked up from her glass. Met his eyes. "Is that what you're asking?"
"Yes."
Roxy considered the question. Considered all the ways she could answer it. Considered the truth and all the weight it carried and all the ways it had shaped her into the person sitting in this chair, drunk and exhausted and past the point of caring.
"Twelve," she said. "Maybe thirteen. I stopped counting after a while."
Moretti's expression didn't change. "How old were you?"
"First one? Fourteen." She smiled, thin and sharp. "He was a guy who stole from my dad. Took some money from a safe. Thought he was smart. Thought he could get away with it. My dad caught him, tied him up, and gave me a knife."
"Just a knife?"
"Just a knife." Roxy took another sip of whiskey. "Told me if I didn't do it, he'd do it to me. So I did it. Took me a long time. Long enough that my hands were still shaking when I was done."
She could still remember it. The weight of the blade. The way the man had screamed. The way the blood had felt, warm and thick and wrong, coating her fingers like syrup. She'd thrown up afterward. Her father had made her clean it up.
"After that," she said, "it got easier. That's the thing nobody tells you. It gets easier. You do it once, you think you'll never be able to do it again. You do it twice, you figure out that you can. By the fifth time, you're not even thinking about it anymore. Just going through the motions."
"And after the executions?"
"What do you mean?"
"What happened to the bodies?"
Roxy laughed. Genuine this time, dark and humorless. "You really want to know?"
"I asked."
"We had a pig pen out back." She finished her whiskey, set the glass down on the floor beside her chair. "Pigs'll eat anything. Bones, teeth, everything. Leave them in there for a day, you've got nothing left but maybe a shoe. Bury the shoe, and you're done."
Moretti nodded slowly. Like he was filing the information away. Like he was building a profile in his head, piece by piece, slotting each detail into place with the precision of a man who'd built a thousand profiles before.
"And your father?"
"He died a couple years ago."
"How?"
"Heart attack." Roxy smiled, thin and cruel. "Or at least that's what the doctors said. Me, I think his heart just gave out because he couldn't stand watching me walk away. Couldn't handle the fact that I didn't want to be his little protégé anymore. Couldn't handle the fact that I wanted out."
"You wanted out."
"I wanted a normal life." She looked around the room—the obsidian walls, the leather chairs, the flickering chandelier and the locked door and the man sitting across from her with his cold blue eyes and his unreadable face. "As you can see, I'm doing great."
Moretti was quiet for a long moment. The whiskey sat untouched in his hand, the ice cubes melting slowly in the amber, and he studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"The people you killed," he said. "Did you know their names?"
"Some of them."
"Did it bother you?"
"At first."
"After that?"
"No."
He nodded. Took a drink. The first one he'd taken since they'd come into this room.
"Good," he said.
Roxy blinked. "What?"
"Did you think I'd judge you?" Moretti set his glass down on the arm of his chair. "I don't care what you did before. I care about what you can do now."
Roxy stared at him. The words didn't compute, didn't fit into any of the boxes she'd prepared. She'd expected disgust. Revulsion. Maybe even something worse. She'd opened herself up, shown him the darkest parts of her, the parts she'd spent years trying to bury, and he'd just... taken it. Absorbed it. Filed it away like it meant something.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that your friend stole something from me tonight." Moretti's voice was flat again, empty again, but there was an edge underneath it now—something cold and razor-sharp. "A ledger. Names, numbers, transactions. The kind of thing that could bring down an entire network if it got into the wrong hands."
Roxy's stomach dropped. "What network?"
"Mine." He leaned back in his chair. "The ledger was in a safe in my private quarters. Your friend got past two security systems, three guards, and a biometric lock. She's good. Very good. But not good enough to cover her tracks."
"Marco."
"Marco doesn't know." Moretti's jaw tightened. "If he did, he'd have come to me before she even left the building. He's loyal. But he's also blind when it comes to her. You know how that is."
Roxy didn't answer. She was still too hung up on the implication, on the weight of what he was telling her. Bree had stolen a ledger. A ledger that could destroy a man like Damien Moretti. Which meant Bree was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid or both.
"If it's that important," Roxy said carefully, "why are you still here? Why aren't you out there getting it back?"
"It's already been retrieved." Moretti's mouth curved. "I have people who are very good at their jobs. The ledger is back where it belongs. But that doesn't change the fact that your friend tried to steal it."
Roxy felt cold. "Are you going to kill her?"
"I was going to." He said it like it was nothing. Like it was just another decision he'd made that evening, along with what to have for dinner and which tie to wear. "But then you walked onto the driveway and told me you'd executed people for far less. And I got curious."
"Curious."
"Curious about what kind of woman offers herself up to save a friend who betrayed her. Curious about what kind of history creates that kind of loyalty. Curious about whether you'd be more useful alive than dead."
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact and calm, made her blood run like ice. Roxy felt suddenly, violently sober, the alcohol burning out of her system in a rush that left her head spinning and her hands clammy. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her voice steady. "Useful how?"
Moretti stood up. Crossed the space between them in three long strides. Stopped in front of her chair, looking down at her with those cold blue eyes, and for the first time since they'd met, she saw something flicker in them. Something that made her breath catch and her heart hammer in her chest.
"Your friend is going to walk out of here tonight," he said. "Because of you. Because you made a scene. Because you showed me something I haven't seen in a long time."
"What?"
"Fearlessness." He tilted his head. "Or stupidity. I haven't decided which yet."
Roxy's jaw tightened. "So what's the catch?"
"There's no catch." Moretti leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of her chair, bringing his face close to hers. Close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the flecks of silver in his eyes, feel the heat radiating off his skin. "I let her go. The ledger is back. Everyone moves on with their lives. But I want something in return."
"Money? I don't have—"
"I don't want your money." His voice dropped, low and rough. "I want you."
Roxy's breath caught. "What?"
"I want you to work for me." He straightened up, but didn't step back. Just stood there, towering over her, his shadow falling across her like a shroud. "You have skills. You have instincts. You have a certain... willingness to do what needs to be done. That's rare. I could use someone like you."
"And if I say no?"
"Then your friend dies." He said it flatly. No emotion. No regret. "I'm not a man who makes idle threats, Roxy. You've seen enough of this world to know that."
She had. The dark wood and the locked doors and the armed men lurking in the shadows. The kind of world where people disappeared and no one asked questions. The kind of world she'd spent four years trying to escape, only to find herself standing in the middle of it again.
"I'm not like you," she said.
"You're exactly like me." Moretti's mouth curved. "You just don't want to admit it."
The words landed like a knife between her ribs. Because he was right. He was right, and she hated him for it, hated herself for the way her blood had hummed at his casual cruelty, hated the fact that some broken part of her—the scarred girl from the farm—recognized the predator in his eyes and felt a dark, electric pull.
"What exactly are you offering?" she asked, and her voice came out huskier than she intended.
Moretti heard it. Of course he did. That unreadable mask of his cracked for half a heartbeat.
"The debts you owe to the life you left behind," he said, "get paid in the work I'll give you. There's no different currency. The only question is whether you'd rather owe it to me—or to the alternative."
Roxy stood up. Slowly. Carefully. Her heels brought her close to his height, but he was still taller, broader, the kind of man who could break her in half without breaking a sweat. She could feel the heat of him. Could smell the whiskey and cigars and something else underneath, something clean and masculine and dangerous.
"I want to be clear," she said, her voice quiet, "about exactly what I'm agreeing to."
Moretti's eyes flickered to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes. His jaw tightened. "The terms are simple. You come to work for me. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. You don't ask questions. You don't run." He paused. "And you don't pretend you don't want it."
The last words were low. Almost a growl. And Roxy felt them land somewhere low in her belly, a heat that spread through her like wildfire.
She was drunk. She was exhausted. She was standing in a dark room in a mafia boss's estate with her best friend's life hanging in the balance and a man who could kill her with his bare hands looking at her like he wanted to devour her whole.
And she wanted it.
God help her, she wanted it.
"Fine," she said. "I'm in."
The words hung in the air between them. Moretti's expression didn't change—not outwardly—but something shifted behind his eyes, something dark and hungry and barely restrained.
"Good."
He moved fast. One moment he was standing a foot away, the next his hand was wrapped around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her toward him with a force that made her gasp. His mouth crashed against hers, hard and demanding, no pretense of gentleness, no hesitation.
Roxy kissed him back. She kissed him like she was drowning and he was air, like she was burning and he was the only water for miles. Her hands found his shoulders, his chest, the hard planes of muscle beneath his expensive jacket, and she gripped him like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid.
He tasted like whiskey and something darker. His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming her mouth with an ownership that should have made her furious. Instead, it made her wet. Made her ache. Made her press her thighs together, trying to ease the sudden, desperate throbbing between her legs.
Moretti growled—low and rough in his throat—and spun her around, pushing her back against the wall. The obsidian was cold against her shoulders, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body as he pressed against her, his hips pinning her in place.
His mouth left hers, trailing down her jaw, her throat, teeth scraping against her pulse point in a way that made her head fall back and a moan escape her lips.
"You like that," he murmured against her skin. Not a question.
"Shut up."
He laughed. Actually laughed. A low, dark sound against her throat. "Make me."
Roxy's hands found the lapels of his jacket, shoved it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap of expensive fabric, and she didn't care. Her hands moved to his shirt—white, perfectly pressed, probably worth more than she made in a month—and started yanking at the buttons.
He caught her wrists. Pinned them above her head with one hand.
"Not yet."
"Fuck you."
"Soon." His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "But first, I want to see you."
His free hand found the hem of her dress. Lifted it slowly, deliberately, revealing her thighs, her hips, the edge of her tattoo. He traced the octopus with his fingertips, following one tentacle where it curled beneath the lace of her underwear.
"That's pretty."
"I know."
Another laugh. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, slow and methodical, until they pooled around her ankles. Then his hand was between her legs, fingers sliding through the wet heat of her, and Roxy's whole body arched off the wall.
"Fuck," she gasped.
"You're dripping." His voice was low, rough, almost reverent. "Did I do that?"
"You're—ah—" She lost the words when his thumb found her clit, pressure just right, circles that made stars explode behind her eyes. "Jesus Christ."
"Not quite."
He pushed two fingers inside her. No warning, no gentleness, just a thick, sudden fullness that made her cry out and clench around him. He pumped them slowly, curling his fingers just right, hitting a spot that made her knees buckle.
"That's it," he murmured. "That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."
She wasn't going to. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. But then his thumb pressed harder, his fingers moved faster, and a sound tore out of her throat that was half moan, half scream, completely involuntary.
"Good girl."
Roxy wanted to kill him. Wanted to claw his eyes out. Wanted to come so hard she forgot her own name.
He kept going—fingers pumping, thumb circling, mouth on her throat, her jaw, her ear—until she was shaking against the wall, her whole body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I'm—fuck—I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He stopped. Pulled his hand away. Stepped back.
Roxy nearly collapsed. She was so close, so desperate, her body aching with need, and he just—stopped.
"What the fuck?" she gasped.
"You said you wanted to be clear about exactly what you're agreeing to." Moretti was unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, deliberately, watching her with that cold, hungry look. "I want to be clear too."
He shrugged off the shirt. The chest underneath was exactly what she'd expected—sculpted, defined, muscles that had been earned through work and not just genetics. Scars here and there. A tattoo she couldn't quite make out in the dim light.
"On your knees."
Roxy's mouth went dry. "What?"
"You heard me." He unbuckled his belt. "On your knees."
She should have said no. Should have told him to go fuck himself. Should have walked out of this room and out of this house and out of this whole goddamn mess, Bree be damned.
But her legs were moving before her brain could catch up. Sinking to the floor. Knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. Looking up at him—this man, this stranger, this monster—with her heart pounding and her blood racing.
He pulled out his cock. Long, thick, already hard, the kind of cock that made a woman think about both pleasure and pain in equal measure.
"Suck it."
Roxy's jaw tightened. But her lips parted. Her tongue came out. She rose up on her knees, leaned forward, and took him into her mouth.
He was hot and heavy against her tongue. Salt and musk and something electric. She slid her lips down his shaft, taking him deeper, tongue working along the underside, and he groaned—a low, guttural sound that made her pussy clench with need.
"That's right," he breathed. "Just like that."
She'd done this before. She knew what she was doing. But something about being on her knees in front of this man—this dangerous, powerful, terrifying man—made it feel different. Made it feel like a surrender. Like a declaration.
She took him to the back of her throat, swallowed around him, and he swore.
"Fuck."
His hand fisted in her hair. Pulled her off him. Hauled her to her feet and spun her around, bending her over the back of the leather chair. The one she'd been sitting in. The one where she'd told him about the farm and the executions and the pigs.
He shoved her dress up over her hips. His hand came down on her ass—sharp, stinging, perfect. She gasped, arched, pushed back against him.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Fuck me." The words came out in a desperate, ragged breath. "Just fucking—"
He slammed into her.
No warning. No gentleness. Just his cock filling her, stretching her, driving deep with one brutal thrust that shoved the air from her lungs. She would have screamed, but his hand clamped over her mouth.
"Quiet," he breathed against her ear. "Unless you want the whole house to hear."
She didn't care. She cared about nothing except the feel of him moving inside her, pulling out and slamming back in, a punishing rhythm that made her see white behind her eyes.
He fucked like he did everything else—with precision, with control, with an unrelenting intensity that left no room for doubt about who was in charge. His hands held her hips in a viselike grip, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. He angled his thrusts, hitting that spot again, and again, and again, until she was moaning around his hand, tears pricking at her eyes from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it."
She did. God help her, she did.
He fucked her harder. Faster. The chair creaked beneath her, threatening to topple, and she braced her hands against the armrests, pushed back to meet each thrust, took him as deep as he could go.
Her orgasm hit her like a freight train.
It started somewhere deep in her core and exploded outward, a wave of heat and electricity that made her whole body convulse. She screamed—or tried to—her voice muffled by his hand. Her pussy clenched around him, gripping his cock like a fist, and he groaned, deep and dark.
"Good girl," he said again. "That's my good girl."
He came moments later, buried to the hilt inside her, his body shuddering against hers. One hand slid around her hip, fingers finding her clit, rubbing small, brutal circles that sent her spiraling into a second orgasm before the first had even fully faded.
Then he was still. Both of them were still. The apartment was silent except for their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the ventilation.
Roxy's cheek was pressed against the leather of the chair, her legs trembling, her whole body limp with exhaustion and satisfaction. She felt hollowed out. Emptied. Like something heavy had been carved out of her chest and left on the floor.
Moretti pulled out slowly. She felt his cum trickle down her thigh, warm and wet, and didn't move to wipe it away.
"Clean yourself up." His voice was cool again, controlled again, as if the past half hour had been nothing but a business meeting. "There's a bathroom through that door."
Roxy pushed herself upright. Her legs wobbled, nearly gave out. She caught the arm of the chair, steadied herself, and looked at him.
He was already dressed. Somehow, in the seconds since he'd pulled out of her, he'd managed to find his shirt, his tie, his jacket. He looked immaculate. Unbothered. Not a hair out of place.
She looked like she'd been fucked senseless against a leather chair.
Bitch.
But she didn't say it. Didn't have the energy. Instead, she stumbled toward the bathroom he'd indicated, her panties still around her ankles, her dress still bunched at her waist.
She didn't turn around to see if he was watching.
She knew he was.