Chapter 8 – Dario
The basement never sleeps, even when no one’s in it.
It holds too much history. Ghosts sit in the corners, pretending they’re furniture. The whiskey bottles lining the shelf aren’t decorative—they’ve all been drained by someone who came down here thinking they’d drink away a mistake and leave cleaner than they arrived.
Didn’t work for them.
It never works.
I sit on the edge of the worn couch, elbows on my knees, and listen to the jazz bleeding through the floorboards. Just brass now, soft and loose. Maybe Riley’s still up there cleaning glasses, pretending not to hear.
Across from me, Viviana stands near the shelf, not touching anything.
She hasn’t sat down yet.
The lamplight touches the side of her face, the faint curve of her neck. She looks like she’s trying to hold a shape she’s not sure belongs to her anymore.
She doesn’t look afraid.
She looks… ready.
“I’m not drinking,” she says.
I nod. “Didn’t figure you would.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“You asked questions. I’m answering.”
She glances at the record player, where the next track hasn’t clicked on yet. The silence—no, the stillness—settles between us.
“Why me?” she asks. “You could’ve walked away.”
I lean back.
“That night at the dock,” she says. “You didn’t even know my name. And you still stepped in. Again. And again. Even when I told you not to. So what the hell do you want from me?”
I don’t answer right away. She doesn’t rush me.
I pull in a breath.
“When I was seventeen,” I say, “my brother Massimo brought home a used motorcycle and parked it in our mother’s garden.”
That gets her attention. Her brow lifts, just slightly.
“She screamed at him for two hours,” I say. “He grinned the whole time. Told her it was freedom on two wheels. Said he bought it cheap from a guy who owed him a favor.”
“What happened to it?”
“He wrapped it around a stop sign three days later. Cracked a rib and a tooth. The bike didn’t survive.”
She smiles. Not wide, but real.
I let it sit for a second.
“He was four years older,” I say. “Faster. Smarter. Better at hiding things. When Caldera scouted him, I told him to say no. He said he’d handle it. That he had plans.”
I pause.
“He was good at plans.”
Her expression shifts—quiet, guarded. She steps a little closer.
I nod to the papers on the crate table. “He was supposed to run tech drops. Basic stuff. Handoff, walk away. But the last job…”
I close my hands.
“They gave us the wrong coordinates. Sent us into a trap. Corradino knew. He wanted the cargo to disappear. We were the sacrifice.”
Her voice is low. “You both went?”
I nod.
“I told him to hang back, let me scope it. He didn’t. We moved together.”
“What happened?”
I lift my hand, trace a scar near my collarbone.
“He bled out before the van even got away. I carried him two blocks through a freezing alley, and when I stopped, he was already cold.”
Viviana swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I am.”
“I was the one who said yes. Took the deal. Thought I could outsmart Corradino.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “That’s why you’re still doing this?”
“No,” I say. “That’s why I stopped trusting people who smile and make promises.”
She walks around the couch. Her arms are crossed, but her body isn’t tight anymore. She sits at the far end, just enough distance between us that it feels intentional.
“That’s not why you helped me,” she says.
I glance at her.
She holds my gaze. Doesn’t blink. “Massimo’s gone. I’m not him.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Then why?”
I look down at my hands.
“You didn’t flinch,” I say. “When the blood hit the ground. When I dragged a man off you. When another one came for you and I wasn't there.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you did.”
She’s quiet.
“You kept going,” I say. “Even after you saw how deep it gets. You still came back. You asked questions. You didn’t fold.”
“Maybe I should’ve.”
“But you didn’t.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the cushion.
“I didn’t step in to save you,” I say. “I stepped in because I thought you were already dead. And then you weren’t.”
She shifts toward me.
I don’t move.
“I keep waiting for you to run,” I say. “But you don’t.”
“Maybe I’m still deciding.”
I nod.
“The other night,” she says, voice tighter, “you didn’t treat me like I was broken.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was close.”
I exhale.
“You scare the hell out of me,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift, but only for a second.
“Because you remind me what it feels like to lose control.”
Viviana shifts closer. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”
I nod once.
She leans in. Not fast. Just enough that I can smell lavender and metal on her skin.
She reaches for my hand.
Fingers brush. Pause. Then lock.
I stare down at our hands.
She says, “Then stop holding back.”
No fear lingers in her. Not a damn trace.
I scan her face. Hunt for a crack. A no.
Nothing shows.
She doesn’t wait. Her hand slides to my neck, yanking me in, and her mouth meets mine.
It’s soft at first. A tease. Our breaths mix, rough and quiet, fabric rustling between us.
Her fingers climb my chest. Brush my collar. Dig into my skin, pulling me tight.
She moves first.
Not me.
She swings a leg over me, settling into my lap. Her thighs grip mine, and my hands land on her waist as her breath skips.
I hold still, waiting for her to pull back but she doesn’t.
She kisses me again, harder. No words. Just heat, coiling slow and thick.
Her hands dive under my shirt. My back arches when her palms press my spine.
She tugs the fabric up. Rips it off me. Tosses it somewhere.
Her fingers drag down my chest, tracing scars like they’re hers to claim. My skin buzzes where she touches.
She leans down. Presses her lips to a rough mark near my ribs.
Not asking. Owning.
I breathe out hard.
I reach for her shirt. Move careful. Give her an out.
She lifts her arms.
It’s gone.
Her bare skin grazes mine. Heat pools low. It’s steady, not wild yet.
Her hands frame my face.
I look up.
“I mean this,” she says.
No shake in her voice. No nerves.
She’s rock solid.
My chest pulls tight. A knot I can’t untie.
She pushes me back. I let her tip me onto the couch. Her thighs clamp around my hips, locking me under her.
Her nails rake my shoulders. She kisses below my ear, and her breath stumbles against my neck.
She peels her shorts off. Drops them. No pause.
My jeans are next. She pops the button, yanks the zipper down. I kick them free.
Her eyes roam me. My cock’s hard, jutting up, and she stares, unashamed.
She straddles me closer. Her pussy brushes my thigh, hot and slick, and I groan low. She smirks—just a flash—and grinds against me, teasing.
“Fuck,” I mutter, hands gripping her hips.
“Yeah?” she says, voice husky. “You like that?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her hand wraps my dick, stroking slow, firm. My hips buck, and she squeezes, dragging her fist up and down.
“Viviana,” I rasp.
“Say it again,” she demands, pumping faster.
“Viviana,” I growl, voice breaking.
She shifts. Lines me up with her pussy. Sinks down slow, taking me in, and I feel her stretch, tight and wet.
“Fuck, you’re big,” she breathes, pausing halfway.
“Take it,” I say, hands sliding to her ass.
She does. She drops lower, burying me deep, and rolls her hips.
I groan loud. “Right there,” I tell her, thrusting up.
“Yeah,” she gasps, meeting me. “Like that.”
Her hands brace on my chest. Nails bite in. She rides me, slow at first, then harder, her tits bouncing with every move.
I grab them. Pinch her nipples, rolling them between my fingers.
She moans sharp. “Fuck, yes,” she says, grinding down. “Keep going.”
I thrust harder. “You feel so good,” I grunt, watching her take me.
She smirks again. Lifts off me suddenly. I curse, but she’s not done. She spins, facing away, and straddles me reverse.
Her hands grip my knees. She lowers back onto my cock, slow, teasing, until I’m balls-deep again.
“Shit,” I say, hands clamping her hips. “Ride me.”
“Watch me,” she shoots back, and she does. She bounces, fast and rough, her ass slapping my thighs.
I groan. “Fuck, Viviana, you’re killing me.”
“Good,” she pants, slamming down. “Come for me.”
“Not yet,” I grit out. I sit up, grab her waist, and flip her onto her knees.
She laughs, low and wild. “Yeah, fuck me like that.”
I spread her wide. Thrust in hard. She pushes back, meeting every stroke, her pussy dripping down my cock.
“Right there,” she moans, rocking against me. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I pound into her, hands gripping her ass, spreading her cheeks. “You’re so wet,” I say, voice raw.
“For you,” she gasps. “Harder.”
I give it to her. Slam deep, relentless. She shouts, head dropping, and I reach under, finding her clit.
“Fuck, yes,” she cries, trembling as I rub her fast. “I’m coming.”
“Come with me,” I growl, thrusting wild now.
She does. Her pussy clamps down, pulsing hard, and she screams my name, soaking me. I lose it, thrusting once more, spilling inside her with a rough shout.
She collapses forward. I follow, chest pressed to her back, both of us panting.
“Fuck,” she mutters, laughing soft. “That was good.”
“Yeah,” I say, kissing her shoulder. “You’re unreal.”
She twists under me. Rolls onto her back. Pulls me down beside her.
“Not done,” she says, eyes glinting.
I raise a brow. “You serious?”
She climbs over me. Straddles my chest this time. “Dead serious.”
Her pussy’s right there, glistening, and she slides up, hovering over my face.
“Eat me,” she says, voice firm.
I grab her thighs. Pull her down. My tongue licks her clit, slow at first, tasting her.
“Fuck,” she moans, hands in my hair. “Right there.”
I suck her clit hard. She grinds against my mouth, riding my face.
“Yeah,” I say against her, muffled. “Take it.”
She does. Rocks faster, dripping onto my chin. “I’m coming again,” she gasps, thighs shaking.
I keep going. Lick her through it, feeling her pulse against my tongue as she cries out, loud and broken.
She slides off. Collapses beside me. Her chest heaves, sweat slicking her skin.
“Fuck, Dario,” she pants. “You’re too good at that.”
I grin. “You started it.”
She laughs. Reaches for my cock, still half-hard. “My turn again.”
She strokes me, slow and lazy, bringing me back to life. “Get hard for me,” she says, watching my face.
“Already there,” I grunt, hips shifting.
She climbs on top. Sinks onto me again, slower this time, savoring it.
“Fuck, you feel perfect,” I say, hands on her hips.
“Yeah?” she whispers, rolling her hips. “Tell me.”
“So tight,” I groan. “So wet. Keep going.”
She does. Rides me steady, leaning forward, her tits brushing my chest. “Come for me again,” she says, voice low.
“Come with me,” I shoot back, thrusting up.
She moans. Picks up speed. “Fuck, yes,” she gasps. “I’m close.”
I grab her ass. Pull her down hard. “Now,” I say, voice rough.
She shatters. Her pussy squeezes me, and she cries out, trembling. I follow, coming deep inside her, a low growl tearing from my throat.
We collapse together. Tangled, sweaty, breathless.
She drapes a blanket over us. Stays pressed against me, skin to skin.
“Damn,” she mutters, tracing my chest. “We’re good at this.”
“Yeah,” I say, hand on her back. “We are.”
The record upstairs clicks. A saxophone hums through the ceiling, low and smooth.
I lift a hand. Trace her wrist.
“Let’s destroy it all,” I say.
She doesn’t ask what I mean.
“Together,” she says.
I press my forehead to hers.
That’s a promise I won’t break.
She shifts closer. Her breath steadies against my neck.
I close my eyes.
The jazz plays on.
Her fingers lace with mine.
We don’t move.