I Ran From My Ex, Straight Into My Best Friend's Father
Description
"Stay away from him," Gianni growled, blood still fresh on his knuckles. "You're mine now." Catarina didn't plan to fall for her best friend's father. But one violent night, one stolen kiss, and one locked door changed everything. Now she's trapped in his mansion, caught between the man who bruised her and the man who broke every rule to protect her. But Gianni has secrets-and she's not the only one he's hiding. Love wasn't supposed to feel like this. Dangerous. Addictive. Unforgivable.
Chapter 1
Feb 7, 2026
Caterina
“Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” Tatiana says, leaning over the center console, her elbow squeaking on the leather while she tries to steady a glass of champagne.
She flicks her blond hair out of her face, eyes glossy with all the toasts she insisted we attend. “You just graduated, and your boyfriend of five years didn’t show up to the ceremony… and didn’t spend the night with you after?”
I press my teeth together, a smile that isn’t a smile. Her bluntness always lands like a slap—accurate, stinging, impossible to ignore. Five parties later, I feel like I clapped for everyone else’s shining life while mine hovered at the edge, dim and not entirely mine.
“He had to work early,” I say, repeating the line Luciano feeds me when he wants to be unassailable. “He’s trying to be responsible.”
“An adult asks for the day off for something important,” she says, shrugging. “He knew your date for months. I don’t buy it, Caterina.”
There’s no answer that will satisfy her or soothe the ache I’ve already rehearsed in private. I don’t know why I stay. Fear of the empty space if I let go? Habit dressed up as loyalty? Hope that’s thin as thread?
“Hey,” I say, pivoting because I can’t stand the mirror she’s holding up. “His absence means I get you all night. And… your boyfriend isn’t joining us either.”
Her smile falters. “Yeah. We’re both unlucky.” A beat. “He had other things to do.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he didn’t either.
Roger turned the wheel, guiding us onto the long road to the Rossetti estate. My stomach tightens the way it always does when we approach this place—like the air changes density. The stone wall rises out of the dark; a guard lifts the gate with a nod. On the other side, the world is manicured and watchful. There’s so much land that even the bodyguards live in little houses like chess pawns along the perimeter.
It’s my favorite stage for a fantasy I never speak aloud.
Gianni Rossetti. Dangerous in the way that makes men careful and women straighten without meaning to. My father—Detective, capital D—calls him a headache with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He says Rossetti Explosives is the clean suit draped over a mess of mob ties. He warns me. He always warns me. And still, the thought of Gianni’s voice, rough and low, has lived under my skin since I was a teenager and realized power wasn’t just a word, it was a temperature.
Tatiana drains her glass and blinks at me. “What were we talking about?” She taps her chin. “Right. Luke the jerk.”
“He’s not a jerk,” I say, out of reflex.
Maybe if I repeat it enough, it’ll be true. Maybe words can sand down edges.
“He is,” she insists. “It’s your graduation day, your once-in-a-lifetime. He knew your dad invited him to dinner. He couldn’t make one night happen?”
“He had to cover a shift,” I say, softer. “The gym is a big investment. If he wants to take it over, he has to be serious.”
“Serious people still show up for the person they love.” She burps, mortified, then laughs. “Sorry. I just hate watching you get hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” I lie, because the hurt is strange—dull where it should be sharp. What does it mean when a person you’ve built a future with can’t pierce you? What does that say about the future?
The driver parks in front of the main entrance like we’re arriving at a quiet hotel. He’s already out, opening the door with a little bow that Tatiana always pretends to hate. I grab my overnight bag and step aside so she can climb out without flashing the world. She sways.
We slip into the cool quiet of the house. Peace lives here—polished floors, expensive restraint, the hum of expensive machines behind the walls. My father’s house is small and warm and crowded with questions. This one holds its breath.
“Should’ve eaten,” Tatiana mutters, leaning heavier.
“You had half a sandwich.” I park her on a kitchen stool, fish out a granola bar and water, and press them into her hands. “Help yourself before your stomach files a complaint.”
Then we climb the hall, our footsteps echoing. “Is your dad home?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m asking about the weather and also the storm.
“He’s working,” she whispers. “Always.”
He said after lunch he’d be late. He’s always late. Not the careless kind—late like he belongs to a thousand hungers and this house is only one of them.
Rossetti Explosives looks legal on paper. The paper lies in neat stacks while men with guns live on the property. My father’s mouth flattens every time he says the name. He wants handcuffs. He gets press releases.
In the bathroom, I sit Tatiana on the closed toilet lid and slide a cotton pad over her lash line. She sighs, eyes half-closed. “I don’t deserve you, C.”
“Don’t start.” I smile and keep my hand gentle. “We take turns. That’s how friendship works.”
“No sickness tonight,” she promises, trying for a joke. It lands fragile and sweet.
I get her into pajamas, then into bed. By the time I’m finished washing my face and brushing out my hair, the room is silvery with moonlight. I slide into my side of the bed. The mattress dips; Tatiana turns toward me.
“It’s just me,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says, a small, sleepy smile. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For giving you a hard time about Luciano. You’re right. Christopher isn’t a prize either.” Her voice thins. “Sometimes I don’t even think he likes me.”
It startles me. Tatiana’s armor is flashy, but it’s armor all the same.
“I’m sure he does,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s not to like?”
“You know what I mean. He’s hot and cold. One minute I’m the only person in the room. The next I’m… noise.” She stares past me. “It’s confusing.”
“How long has it been like that?” I ask, because if he’s making her small, I want a list and a plan.
“Not long.” A beat. “I’m worried there’s someone else.”
“Someone else?” I blink. “He’d be an idiot. If he is, better to know.”
“I’m hoping France fixes us,” she murmurs, eyes closing. “A month together.”
“I hope so,” I say softly, though a month can magnify whatever already exists. If he hurts her in another country, there won’t be enough air in the world.
Her breathing evens. I lie awake, pulse still loud from the day. I did it—I graduated. Dad was incandescent. “You’re lucky to have a job lined up,” he said, pride tightening his voice.
Lucky. The word sits oddly. Economics felt safe. Safe job. Safe boyfriend. Safe future. Safe is a room where nothing breaks—and nothing catches fire. Lately I keep wondering who decided I don’t get flames.
It’s like I’m performing a play someone else wrote. I can pace faster or slower, but the set pieces don’t move. The exit is painted on.
Enough. A snack, some tea, a breath in the dark.
I slide out of bed without waking Tatiana and pad into the hall. I try not to think Gianni’s name, but it’s too late—the syllables are a key I keep hidden under my tongue. He has a presence that makes rooms correct themselves. He rarely smiles with his mouth, but sometimes the lines beside his eyes soften like a secret only he hears. Tattoos under his cuffs. A scar along his knuckle. The way he watches the world like he already knows the end of it. I have imagined standing close enough to feel the heat of him and what it would be like to be chosen by a man who never needs to explain himself.
He will never know. He’s my best friend’s father, decades older, a man my father would arrest if he could. The crush is a private religion—no congregation, no confession.
The kitchen is dim, the patio lights beyond the sliding doors casting a faint glow across the marble. I open the fridge. Everything is symmetrical and fresh. I consider tea, then reach for a yogurt smoothie like I’m choosing ease over ritual. I twist off the cap and sit at the island, tracing the grain of the wood with my fingertip.
“Safe,” I mouth, and the word feels like a small, locked box.
Then I hear it.
Not a voice. A sound that erases everything else—low, breathless, unmistakable. A moan. Another follows, longer. The hairs at the back of my neck rise. I hold the bottle midway to my lips and forget to breathe.
Somewhere in this quiet, curated house, someone is not being safe at all.
I Ran From My Ex, Straight Into My Best Friend's Father
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