Chapter 3: The Debt Comes Due
The bathroom was all black marble and gold fixtures, the kind of cold opulence that made Roxy's skin prickle. She stood at the sink with her ruined panties in one hand, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was worse. There was a red mark on her throat that would bloom into a bruise by morning, and her lips were swollen and slick.
She looked like she'd been fucked within an inch of her life. Because she had.
"Get it together, Vega," she muttered to herself.
She cleaned up as best she could—splashed cold water on her face, finger-combed her hair, wiped the smeared mascara from under her eyes. The panties she shoved into her bra because there was no trash can and she wasn't about to leave them on Moretti's marble floor like some kind of trophy.
When she came out, he was standing by the window. His back was to her, hands in his pockets, looking out at the moonlit estate. The chandelier shadows played across his shoulders, and she caught herself staring at the way his jacket stretched over the muscles beneath.
He didn't turn around.
"There's a car waiting for Bree. Marco's driving her home."
Roxy's heart lurched. "She's okay?"
"She's fine." A pause. "For now."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Roxy swallowed hard, her throat still raw from earlier, and crossed her arms over her chest. The lace dress suddenly felt flimsy, exposing—which was ridiculous, given what he'd just done to her. Given what she'd just let him do.
"So what now?"
Moretti turned. His eyes found hers across the dim room, and something in his expression shifted. Not softening, exactly. More like sharpening. Zeroing in.
"You're staying the night."
It wasn't a question.
"The deal starts now," he continued, moving toward her with that unhurried stride. "Not Monday. Not tomorrow. Now."
Roxy's mouth went dry. "You said you wanted me to work for you."
"I did." He stopped a foot away. Close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the sandalwood cologne, the faint undertone of sex that clung to both of them. "And I do. But that's not all I want."
She should have run. Should have told him to fuck off, should have walked out that door and never looked back. But her feet were rooted to the floor, and her heart was hammering against her ribs, and there was something in his eyes that made her feel like prey caught in a trap.
"Come here."
"No."
His eyebrows lifted. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I'm not going to beg," she said.
"You won't have to." He reached out, caught her wrist in his hand, and pulled her toward him. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just inevitable, like the tide coming in.
His other hand found the zipper of her dress.
"Turn around."
She did. Slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze over her shoulder as she presented her back to him. The zipper slid down with a whisper of metal on fabric, and then his hands were on her shoulders, easing the dress off her arms, letting it fall to pool around her heels.
She stood there in nothing but her bra and the tangled mess of her hair. The air was cool against her skin, and she shivered—not from the cold.
Moretti's hands found her hips. Traced the lines of her octopus tattoo where it curled around her waist. Then higher, up her ribs, unhooking her bra with a practiced flick of his fingers. He peeled it away from her skin and let it drop.
His lips touched her shoulder.
Not a kiss. Something softer. Something that made her breath catch in her throat.
Then lower. His mouth traced the curve of her shoulder blade, following the outline of her phoenix tattoo with his tongue. Feather by feather. Line by line. Slow enough to make her knees weak, deliberate enough to make her ache.
"Beautiful," he murmured against her skin.
"Thanks. Four hundred bucks."
He bit her—sharp, quick, a flash of pain that made her gasp. Then his tongue soothed the spot, and his hands tightened on her hips, and she felt him hard against her back.
"Bed."
"What about—"
"Bed. Now."
She walked. On shaky legs, in her bare feet, toward the massive bed with its black silk sheets that gleamed like oil in the dim light. She'd never seen sheets like that before. Never felt anything like them beneath her knees as she crawled onto the mattress, turned, and faced him.
Moretti was already undressing. Jacket off, tie yanked free, shirt unbuttoned with quick, efficient movements. He didn't take his eyes off her as he stripped, and she found herself staring at the hard planes of his body—the broad chest, the ridged stomach, the scars that crisscrossed his ribs like a map of old violence.
When he was naked, he was magnificent. There was no other word for it. Standing there in the moonlight, cock hard and thick against his stomach, every muscle defined and coiled with tension.
He could break me in half.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it made her wet.
He joined her on the bed in one smooth motion. His hands found her ankles, yanked her down flat on her back, and then he was on top of her—heavy, hot, his weight pressing her into the silk.
His mouth crashed down on hers. This kiss was different from the ones before. Hungrier. Angrier. Like he was trying to consume her from the inside out. She bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he growled against her mouth.
"Fucking hell, woman."
"You like it."
"I like you." He said it like a confession. Like a curse. "I don't know why, but I do."
Then he flipped her over.
One moment she was on her back, staring up at him. The next she was face-down on the black silk, his hand between her shoulder blades pressing her into the mattress, his knee wedging her thighs apart.
"Don't move."
"Wasn't planning on it."
His laugh was low and dark. "You never plan on anything, do you?"
Before she could answer—before she could think of a smart retort—he grabbed her wrists. Pulled them up above her head. Pinned them there with one hand, his grip like iron, tight enough that she couldn't have escaped if she tried.
And then his other hand was on her ass. Squeezing. Spanking. She yelped, arched into the sting, and he did it again. Harder.
"You like that."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I like it. Fuck, I—"
He spanked her again. Then his fingers slid between her legs, found her wet and wanting, and pushed inside her without warning. Three fingers, thick and rough, pumping into her pussy while his thumb pressed against her asshole.
"Awfully wet." His voice was a growl against her ear. "Been thinking about this all night?"
"Since the driveway."
"Dirty girl."
"Yeah." She was past shame. Past pretense. "Get on with it."
He pulled his fingers out. She heard the slick sound of his hand on his cock, and then he was there—the blunt head of him pressing against her entrance, hot and heavy and impossibly thick.
"Beg."
"No."
He didn't move.
"Fuck you."
"Not yet."
She bucked her hips, tried to push back against him, but he held her steady. His hand tightened on her wrists. His weight pressed her deeper into the mattress.
"I said beg."
Roxy's jaw clenched. She could feel her pulse in her throat, could feel the heat of him just barely inside her, could feel the ache that was spreading through her whole body.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
"Good girl."
He slammed into her.
The sound that came tearing out of Roxy's throat wasn't quite human. It was somewhere between a scream and a sob, lost in the fabric of the pillow she'd buried her face in. He was so deep, so full, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain—but her body just swallowed him up like it was what she'd been built to do.
And he didn't give her a moment to breathe.
His fingers dug into her wrists like a shackle as he started moving, a rough rhythm that had her seeing stars before he'd even properly found his stride. Every thrust hit something deep inside her, some spot that made her toes curl and her vision blur.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't trying to be. Each slam of his hips drove her further into the sheets. The bed frame groaned. The headboard knocked against the wall. And he kept going—steady, punishing, a brutal cadence that turned her thoughts to static.
"This is what you are now," he said against her ear. "You understand?"
She couldn't answer, could only gasp. His hand tangled in her hair, yanked her head back, forced her to arch her spine against the weight of her own trapped arms.
"Say it."
"I'm—"
"Say it."
"Yours." The word came out as a sob. "I'm yours."
"Louder."
"YOURS."
"Good girl." He bit her shoulder. Hard. She felt the skin break; felt the copper tang of blood well up; and it only made her clench around him tighter. "Mine to use. Mine to keep. Mine to fuck whenever I want."
"Yes—"
"Whenever I want," he repeated, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Wherever I want. However I want."
"Please."
"Please what?"
She didn't have words anymore. Just sounds. Just the raw, animal noise of a woman being taken apart piece by piece. The headboard slammed. His hips slapped against her ass. And then his hand slid beneath her, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough circles that sent her spiraling into the abyss.
She came with a scream. Her whole body convulsed around him, gripping his cock like a fist, and he snarled against her shoulder—a sound of pure, possessive triumph.
"Perfect." His voice was none too steady. "Fucking perfect."
She thought he'd finish. Instead, he pulled out. Then his hands were on her, flipping her over again, onto her back. His eyes burned down at her—cold blue flames, wild and black, wilder than she'd ever seen a man.
He grabbed her hips. Hooked an ankle over each of his shoulders. And drove into her again.
From this angle, she could see him. Could see his face, the set of his jaw, the sweat beading on his brow. Could see the moment he was lost in her. He held her gaze as he fucked her—slow and deep now, every push grinding against something that made her whimper.
His eyes never left hers. Even when her vision went hazy and her mouth went slack and her body started shuddering toward that edge again.
"That's it," he murmured. "Look at me. Don't look away."
She couldn't have even if she'd wanted to. His eyes held her like a physical force, pinning her as surely as his body did, and when she came—for the third time, for the hundredth time, she'd lost count—she came staring into those cold blue eyes, shattering around him like something fragile hitting the floor.
He watched her fall apart. Watched it all—the way her breasts moved, the way her thighs shuddered around his neck, the way her mouth opened on a sound that never quite came out.
Then his rhythm changed. His jaw tightened. His eyes went half-shut. And with one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let go.
She felt it—hot and thick, spilling inside her in pulse after pulse. Felt the way his body shuddered against hers, heard the rough sound torn from his throat. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, and she didn't care.
When it was over, he stayed inside her for a long moment. Neither of them moved. Then, slowly, he pulled out.
She watched him walk to the bathroom. Heard the water run. Watched him come back with a wet cloth.
He cleaned her up. Gently. Without a word.
Then he tossed the cloth aside and pulled the black silk sheet up over her body. Tucked it around her shoulders like she was something precious.
"Sleep."
Roxy blinked at him from the pillow. Her body was wrecked. Her mind was blank. She could barely keep her eyes open.
"Bree—"
"Already gone. Marco took her home. She's safe." He slid into bed beside her—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. "You start tomorrow."
"What time?"
"Early."
"Fuck you."
His laugh was the last thing she heard before the darkness swallowed her whole.
When she woke, the sun was barely up. The bed beside her was empty. The sheets were cold.
And on the pillow next to her head, there was a black velvet box. No note. No explanation. Just a box.
She opened it.
Inside was a necklace. A silver chain with a small phoenix pendant—wings spread, beak open, flames licking up its body. The same bird inked across her shoulder blades. The same fire she'd come from.
There was only one way this ended for a bird like her.
She snapped the box shut, found her dress and heels and a robe she didn't remember wearing, and went to find her new boss.
The hallway stretched longer than she remembered.
Roxy padded barefoot across the cold marble, her heels dangling from two fingers, the robe—black silk, his, definitely his—cinched loose at her waist. Her hair hung in a tangled curtain around her face, still smelling like his pillows, his cologne, the ghost of last night's whiskey on his breath.
The walls were lined with art she couldn't name. Abstract things in dark colors, all sharp angles and bleeding edges. She passed a window and caught her reflection—bruised throat, swollen lips, one strap of her dress hanging off her shoulder like she'd been dragged through a hedge backward.
Accurate, honestly.
The kitchen was at the end of the corridor. She knew because she could smell coffee—rich, dark, the kind of smell that made her mouth water and her head ache in equal measure. Her stomach growled loud enough to echo off the marble.
She pushed through the door.
Moretti was at the counter. White shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading something on a tablet propped against the espresso machine. He didn't look up when she entered, just reached for a second cup—already poured—and slid it across the island toward her.
"You're up early."
"It's seven." She took the cup. Drank. The coffee was bitter and perfect and burned going down. "You let me sleep in your bed."
"I did."
"Why?"
He looked up then. Those cold blue eyes found hers across the island, and for a moment, something flickered—there and gone before she could name it.
"Because I wanted to."
Roxy snorted. "That's it?"
"That's it."
She took another sip of coffee. Let the silence stretch between them, thick and uncomfortable. The kitchen was nothing like she'd expected—modern, industrial, all stainless steel and clean lines. No signs of staff. No signs of anyone but him.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Like the dead." She set the cup down. "Where's Bree?"
"Home. I told you." He turned back to his tablet. "Marco drove her. She's fine."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Roxy wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that Bree was okay, that the ledger was back, that the world hadn't tilted on its axis while she was getting fucked six ways to Sunday in a mob boss's bedroom. But there was something in his tone—too flat, too controlled—that made her skin prickle.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Moretti's fingers stilled on the tablet. He looked at her again, and this time, the flicker was back. Something that might have been amusement. Might have been warning.
"Your friend is resourceful."
"That's not an answer."
"No." He pushed the tablet aside. "It's not."
The door behind her opened. Roxy turned.
A man walked in—tall, broad, dark hair slicked back, wearing a suit that probably cost more than her rent. He stopped short when he saw her, eyebrows lifting a fraction of an inch.
"Boss."
"Marco." Moretti didn't look up. "You're back."
"Just got in." Marco's eyes slid to Roxy, then back to Moretti. "Everything went fine. She's home safe. Didn't say a word the whole drive."
"Sounds like her." Roxy's voice came out sharper than she intended. "She's good at keeping her mouth shut when it suits her."
Marco's jaw tightened. "You're the friend."
"Depends who's asking."
"Enough." Moretti's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Marco, you're dismissed. I'll call you if I need you."
Marco nodded. Turned. Left without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Roxy crossed her arms. "He doesn't like me."
"He doesn't like anyone." Moretti stood, taking his coffee with him. "Except your friend. Which is a problem."
"Why?"
"Because Marco's loyal. But he's also blind when it comes to her. You said that yourself." He moved around the island, closing the distance between them with that unhurried stride. "If she asks him to do something stupid, he'll do it. No questions asked."
"She won't."
"You don't know that."
Roxy met his gaze. "I know her."
Moretti stopped a foot away. His eyes searched hers, looking for something—doubt, hesitation, the lie he was sure she was telling. He wouldn't find it. Roxy had spent too many years learning how to hide exactly what she was feeling.
"Maybe you do." He reached out. Caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Tilting her face up. "You're going to need to change."
"What, this dress not up to your standards?"
"The dress is fine." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "The heels are fine. But you're not going to a party anymore. You're working for me now."
Roxy's mouth went dry. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're going to need to learn how I do things. How this family operates. Who the players are." He let go of her chin and stepped back. "You said you wanted to work for me."
"I said I'd work for you to save Bree."
"Same thing." He took a drink of his coffee. "You'll shadow me for the next week. Learn the business. Learn the people. And then you'll make your first run."
"Run?"
"You'll see." He set his cup down. "First things first. You need better clothes. Better weapons. Better everything."
"I have my own gun."
"The .38 you keep in your shoulder bag?" His mouth curved. "I saw it. It's cute."
Roxy bristled. "It works."
"It works if you want to kill someone who's standing very still and not shooting back." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and slid it across the counter toward her. "There's a room on the third floor. It's yours."
She stared at the key. "What?"
"Your room. Since you're staying here."
"I didn't agree to that."
Moretti's eyes darkened. "You agreed to work for me. That means being where I can find you. Which means living here." He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Unless you'd rather go back to whatever rat-hole apartment you've been crashing in. I looked into your background, Roxy. You don't even have a lease."
Her jaw clenched. "You have people dig into everything?"
"I have people dig into everyone." He straightened. "Eat something. You look like you're going to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." He nodded toward a cabinet. "There's bread. Eggs. Figure it out."
Roxy wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that she wasn't some stray he'd picked up off the street. But her stomach growled again—loud, demanding, traitorous—and she closed her mouth.
Moretti smirked. "That's what I thought."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen. Leaving her alone with the coffee, the key, and the lingering smell of him on her skin.
She stood there for a long moment. Then she grabbed the bread and started making toast.
Thirty minutes later, she found the room.
Third floor. End of the hall. The key turned in the lock with a smooth click, and the door swung open to reveal—not much. A bed. A dresser. A window. Basics, but clean. The sheets were white, not black. The walls were grey. It looked like a hotel room, not a home.
Roxy dropped her heels by the door. Set the necklace box on the dresser—she'd meant to leave it in his bedroom, but it was in her pocket now, the velvet warm from her body heat. She pulled off the robe and let it pool on the floor.
Then she went to find the shower.
The bathroom was small but functional. She turned the water on hot, stripped out of her dress, and stood under the spray until her skin turned pink. Ten minutes. Maybe more. She scrubbed the dried sweat and other things from her body, washed her hair with someone's lavender shampoo, and made a mental list of everything she was going to need.
Clothes. Toothbrush. A lock for her door.
A way out.
When she was done, she toweled off, put the black lace dress back on, and slipped the necklace over her head. The phoenix settled against her sternum—warm, heavy, the fire meeting her skin like an answer to a question she hadn't asked. Her damp hair fell around her face in dark tangles. She didn't bother fixing it.
She didn't bother with the heels either. Just grabbed them, left the room, and headed back down toward the kitchen.
Her bare feet made no sound on the marble.
She was halfway down the corridor when she heard voices. Moretti's—low and controlled. And another voice, higher, sharper, a woman's voice she didn't recognize.
"—can't keep doing this, Damien. You said you'd handle it. You said—"
"I know what I said."
"Then what the fuck is taking so long?"
Roxy stopped. Her heart hammered in her chest. She shouldn't be listening. She should keep walking, find a different route, pretend she hadn't heard anything.
Instead, she pressed herself against the wall beside the open door and peered through the crack.
A woman stood in the study—the same study where Roxy had told her story, where Moretti had fucked her against the leather chair. Blonde. Tall. Sharp cheekbones and a slit of a mouth, wearing a red dress that probably cost more than Roxy's entire wardrobe.
She was furious. And Moretti—Moretti looked at her with something that might have been patience. Might have been contempt.
"The situation is handled," he said. "The ledger is back. The thief didn't see anything that matters."
"Except you let her go."
"I let her friend."
The blonde's eyes narrowed. "What friend?"
"Doesn't concern you."
"Everything concerns me." She stepped closer to him. "I've been covering for you with the Commission for six months, Damien. Six months of lies and misdirection. And now you're telling me you let someone walk because of some—some girl?"
"She wasn't some girl."
"And what does that make her?"
The silence stretched. Roxy held her breath.
Then Moretti's voice—low, cold, final. "It makes her mine."
The blonde stared at him. Then she laughed. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious."
"No, you're not." Her laugh died. Her face went hard. "You're reckless. You're arrogant. And you're going to get us all killed."
She turned and stalked toward the door.
Roxy barely had time to pull back before the door swung open. The blonde froze when she saw her. Looked her up and down—the damp hair, the wrinkled dress, the bare feet, the necklace resting against her sternum.
Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition. Or maybe disgust.
"You must be the friend."
"I'm nobody's friend," Roxy said.
The blonde's mouth curved. Not a smile. A blade. "We'll see."
She walked past her. High heels clicking on the marble. Disappearing down the corridor without another word.
Roxy stood there for a moment. Then she turned and walked into the study.
Moretti was at the window. Back to her, hands in his pockets, looking out at the estate. The same pose he'd been in last night. The same stillness. The same coiled tension.
"Who was that?"
He didn't turn around. "Valentina."
"And who's Valentina?"
"My wife."