Chapter Sixteen
Serena
I hope that was a bloody nightmare.
My eyes snap open, and I’m greeted by the familiar sight of my bedroom. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, and I realize I’m clean, dressed in my pajamas, tucked neatly under my sheets.
Please, God. Let last night be nothing more than a cruel, vivid nightmare.
But the memories hit me like a freight train, his hands, his lips, the way he consumed every part of me. My stomach twists.
After a month of carefully keeping my guard up, of keeping things professional, I let it slip. I let him in.
I could’ve stopped him, I tell myself that, over and over, but deep down, I know the truth: I didn’t want to. Or maybe I couldn’t. The line between those two things feels blurred, impossible to define now.
Oh my Gosh. I slept with him.
I slept with my first client.
My heart races as the weight of it crashes down on me. What if he reports me? That would be fun. Explaining to HR why their perfect little employee crossed a line so big it’s practically a chasm. And oh, wouldn’t it be just delightful if my parents found out?
The perfect daughter, the one who worked so hard to build a respectable career, slept with Moretti.
Freaking Moretti.
The name alone makes my pulse quicken. It’s not just the fact that he’s my client, it’s everything about him. The danger in his eyes, the way his presence fills a room, the pull he has over me that I can’t seem to shake.
I sit up, my head in my hands, trying to piece together how I let this happen. Last night wasn’t just a mistake. It was the mistake, and it feels like there’s no way to undo it.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s not true, I wasn’t thinking at all.
But honestly, how could I resist him? He’s illegally hot. The kind of man who could make even the most disciplined saint stumble. The fact that it took me this long to stay out of his bed, or his cell, to be precise, is nothing short of a miracle.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a whore. At least, I don’t think I am.
It’s just… when I was with him, it was like my entire body came alive. My skin burned, my heart raced as if it were trying to break free from my chest, and my pussy, well, she had been begging for him for weeks.
And really, who am I to deny her what she wanted? What I wanted?
I climb out of bed and catch my reflection in the mirror. My breath hitches. His marks are everywhere.
Faint bruises bloom on my thighs where his fingers had gripped me, possessive and firm. His teeth have left ghostly imprints on my breasts, and my lips are swollen, tingling with the memory of his touch.
I run my fingertips over the marks, feeling their heat beneath my skin. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to get through this day like nothing happened.
It’s Friday. Our weekly meeting is in two hours.
I stare at my closet, my mind racing. What should I wear? Would he notice me? Would he even look at me? My thoughts spiral. Does he think about me the way I think about him? Does he feel anything at all, or was this just another moment for him, something fleeting, something disposable?
No. I can’t do this right now. I can’t let myself think about him.
I step into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, covering me in a comforting warmth. I lather up, scrubbing at my skin like I can wash him away, his touch, his smell, his presence. But no matter how hard I try, the scent of mint lingers, faint but inescapable.
My vanilla shampoo doesn’t stand a chance.
Two minutes later, I glance down and realize my skin is raw, flushed red from scrubbing too hard. My hands freeze, trembling slightly, as the reality of it hits me.
And then, without warning, my eyes well up.
Tears spill over, hot and silent, blending with the water streaming down my face. I lean against the tile, my chest heaving as the weight of it all crashes down on me.
What am I supposed to do?
What do you do when you can’t escape someone who’s already inside you?
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel, and reach for my phone. A single notification lights up the screen, a text from Ian: “Meet me in 30 min.”
My chest tightens for a moment before I shake it off. Ian doesn’t ask without reason.
I dress quickly, opting for a long, tight skirt paired with a crisp white top.
My signature high heels add the final touch.
My hair goes up into a loose bun, effortlessly neat but far from perfect.
Grabbing my keys, I head out, making my way to the parking lot where my white Range Rover Evoque waits for me.
The drive to Critique, a quiet coffee shop we’ve frequented over the years, takes ten minutes. When I arrive, I spot Ian immediately. He’s sitting at a corner table by the window, his expression as composed as ever, holding two coffees, his white Americano and my decaf caramel latte with oat milk.
What can I say? He knows me well. I am that type of girl.
He stands as I approach, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. “What are you doing, Serena?” he asks, his voice low but familiar, and he pulls me into a hug.
His scent wraps around me, fresh snow, crisp and clean, the smell I’ve always loved. I hesitate briefly before hugging him back, a small smile playing on my lips.
“I got your text,” I reply, stepping back slightly. “I’m fine, thank you. Long time no see, Ian. I’ve missed you.”
His jaw flexes. Subtle, but noticeable.
That’s interesting. Ian rarely shows emotion, and even when he does, it’s controlled, deliberate. My curiosity piques, and I tilt my head slightly, studying him.
“Is everything okay, Ian?” I ask, my voice soft but direct.
After what feels like an eternity, Ian finally releases me from our five-minute hug. He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching before he speaks.
“We lost the case,” he says, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Moretti was released today. We didn’t have enough proof to keep that bastard in jail.”
“Ian—” I start, unsure what to say.
“I’m telling you,” he interrupts, his voice sharp, frustration bleeding through every word. “There’s so much corruption. Even if we had enough evidence to keep him locked up, he would’ve found a way out. You know what we were after, don’t you? It wasn’t just those damn files he has on everyone.”
His voice cracks, and I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, anger simmering just beneath the surface. His forehead vein pulses, a visible sign of his barely-contained fury.
“We wanted him because of the gun trafficking, Serena,” he continues, his tone rising as he gestures sharply. “He’s a fucking mobster. Every rich Italian fuck like him is tied to the mafia. Can you imagine? Such a goddamn cliché.”
I watch as he looks to the ceiling, almost as if searching for answers, and I feel rooted to the spot, too stunned to say anything.
“As far as we know, he’s killed at least ten people in illegal fights back when he was 23. By 24, he was running guns across borders like it was nothing. And you know what’s the worst part?” His voice drops, quiet but deadly, his words laced with venom.
“He doesn’t just use those files to blackmail people. He tortures them, Serena. He fucking kills them. And then he blackmails their families, pushing them until they either kill themselves or disappear to another fucking continent.”
His voice cracks again, and when I look at him, I notice tears glistening in his eyes. Ian doesn’t cry. Not ever.
My stomach twists, dread pooling in my chest. I don’t understand why he’s telling me all of this now, why he’s suddenly unraveling in front of me.
Does he know?
He’s a fucking monster, Serena,” Ian says, his voice sharp and full of conviction. “Have you ever wondered why all his enemies are dead? Every single one of them. The man is untouchable.”
He leans forward, his hands trembling slightly as he grips his coffee cup.
“He can’t kill us, yet. We’re the FBI. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come after us eventually.
He’s already made it clear we’re in his sights, and now we’ve lost him.
Completely. I don’t know if we’ll ever have another chance like this again. ”
Ian finishes speaking, his voice trailing off as he takes a sip of his coffee, his frustration palpable.
But I’m just standing there, frozen.
This morning, I was thinking about him, about his body, his hands, the way he felt inside me. I was reliving him. Now Ian is sitting here, calmly telling me that he’s a serial killer.
Nice.
“I’m sorry, Serena,” Ian says, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just needed to get it off my chest. You’re one of my closest friends, and I—I don’t know who else to talk to about this.”
He reaches out, placing a hand lightly on my leg, his touch meant to reassure.
“It’s fine,” I manage to say, though my voice barely sounds like my own. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, Ian. I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
The words tumble out, automatic, hollow. My head is spinning, too stunned to process anything.
Could I have done more? If I’d tried harder, could I have gotten something useful out of him?
But no, let’s be honest. I wasn’t trying to help Ian. I wasn’t thinking about evidence or cases. I was too busy thinking about his body, about the way he looked at me, about the way his touch set my skin on fire.
I was too busy thinking about his dick.
The realization crashes into me, cold and brutal.
I’m such an idiot.
“I had a meeting with him at 4 p.m.,” I say, my voice edged with irritation. “I’m guessing that’s cancelled? The least they could’ve done was let me know so I wouldn’t show up and look stupid.”
Ian glances at me, his expression softening slightly. “Yeah, I think they emailed you,” he replies, checking his phone again. “But you’ll probably still need to go in and give your report about him, you were his psychologist for the longest.”
“Mhm. Right. Okay,” I mutter, distracted. “I’ll head to the office now. Are you coming?”
He shakes his head, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Not today,” he says, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my cheek before turning to leave.
I grab my coffee and head straight to the office. The ride is a blur, my mind stuck in an endless loop of Ian’s words. By the time I arrive, Martha is already waiting for me, her usual efficient self.
I hand her my report on Lorenzo, feeling a strange pang of discomfort as she takes it.
She skims it briefly before giving me a tight-lipped smile.
“Your next client will be emailed to you on Monday,” she informs me, already moving on to her next task.
“Since it’s Friday afternoon, take the weekend to rest.”
Rest.
The word feels foreign. My mind is too restless, too full of Ian’s revelations: Italian mafia. Murderer. Gun trafficking. Illegal fights. Lorenzo is dangerous, no doubt about it, but why can’t I stop thinking about him?
He doesn’t mean anything to me. We’re not… anything.
But his voice, his touch, the way he looked at me, it all lingers, refusing to let go.
I shake the thoughts away and pull out my phone. What I need right now is a distraction.
“Fancy a girls’ night, my lovely?” I ask Sienna as soon as she picks up, my voice bright but pleading. A girls’ night is exactly what I need. After everything, I need to drink until the thoughts dissolve.
“I’m coming to pick you up at 10 p.m.,” she chirps back, her tone full of her usual energy. “Muuuaaahhh!”
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me smiling despite myself. God, I love her. Sienna is the sister I never had, the one person who always knows how to pull me out of my head.
Tonight is exactly what I need.