The Fixer Bonus – The Fourth Watch

🔥 The Fourth Watch 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from The Fixer

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the warehouse wall, the glass penthouse, the campaign office tie, the gala collision, the library ladder, the parking garage Escalade, the bolognese that held a family together, the Holloway takedown, the hotel suite with the silk sheets, the California king that changed everything, and a man who put three phones in a drawer and chose to be himself. You’ve watched Damien learn he wasn’t a service. Grant learn he wasn’t a title. Corbin learn he wasn’t an algorithm. And Dante learn he wasn’t his father. Thank you for giving them your time. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MMMM sexual content told from Dante Moretti’s first-person POV, including simultaneous penetration, oral sex, rimming, possessive dirty talk, praise kink, power exchange, body worship, edging, multiple orgasms, biting/marking, and the kind of emotional vulnerability that a mob boss only shows behind closed doors. Set three months after the epilogue — the first night in the Prospect Street house. Intended for readers 18+ only. This content was deemed too explicit for retail platforms.

The Fourth Watch

Set three months after the epilogue. The first night in the Prospect Street house. Dante’s birthday. Told from Dante’s POV.

DANTE

I’ve killed men with less planning than what these three put into my birthday.

The Prospect Street house is new. Three weeks new — boxes still in the upstairs hallway, Corbin’s study half-assembled, Grant’s garden a patch of turned earth that he stares at through the kitchen window with the focused optimism of a man who has never successfully grown anything but is approaching horticulture with the same energy he once applied to legislation.

The kitchen, though — the kitchen is done. Because the kitchen was the first room finished, on my explicit and non-negotiable instruction, because a house without a functioning kitchen is just a building with opinions. The Wolf range. The butcher-block counters. The brick pizza oven in the garden that Corbin selected with the algorithmic precision of a man who researched pizza ovens the way normal people research cars, and that I’ve already used seventeen times because I am Italian and a pizza oven is not a luxury, it’s a human right.

Sofia’s room is done too. She insisted on decorating it herself — the walls are a shade of green she calls “sage” and I call “looks fine.” She’s hung string lights. She’s put up photographs — not the old Moretti family portraits from the brownstone, but new ones. The four of us at her seventeenth birthday. Corbin helping her with calculus at the brownstone table, both of them scowling at the same equation. Grant in the Georgetown garden, dirt on his khakis, holding up a tomato seedling with the triumphant expression of a man who has just performed a miracle. And one I didn’t know she had — me and Damien, in the brownstone kitchen, shot from the doorway while neither of us was looking. I’m at the stove. He’s at the counter. Our heads are tilted toward each other — not touching, just inclined, the way bodies lean toward their gravitational center. She captioned it on the back: Home.

That’s the photograph that gets me. Every time. Not because it’s a good photo — it’s blurry, shot on her phone, the lighting is terrible. Because it’s evidence. Proof that this thing I built from blood and bone and a dead wife’s last request is real. That the man at the counter is mine. That the kitchen is ours. That the lean — the instinctive, unconscious, gravitational lean of two bodies toward each other — is the truest thing I’ve ever been captured doing.

It’s 8 PM on a Saturday. My birthday. Forty-six. A number that, in my line of work, is not guaranteed. My father died at fifty-two. His father at forty-eight. The Moretti men do not, as a rule, achieve longevity. We burn bright and fast and leave behind kitchens that smell like garlic and daughters who are too smart for us and, if we’re very lucky, someone who leans toward us when we’re not looking.

I’m lucky. Absurdly, impossibly, against-every-statistical-probability lucky. I have three someones.

Dinner was downstairs — the first meal in the new kitchen, cooked by me because no one else is trusted with the Wolf range (Grant attempted to use it last week and nearly incinerated a pot of water, which Corbin described as “thermodynamically remarkable” and which I described as “banned from the stove until further notice”). Bolognese, because it’s always bolognese. My mother’s recipe. The one that has carried the Moretti family through weddings and funerals and a daughter’s first heartbreak and the night four men sat at a brownstone table and became a family.

Sofia ate with us — she’s here for the weekend, moving between the brownstone (which we’ve kept, because you don’t sell the ancestral seat, even when the ancestors in question include a man who once used the basement for storage that I am not going to describe in the presence of my daughter’s photograph) and the new house as her schedule demands. She gave me a card that made me cry and a vintage cookbook she found at a used bookstore in Georgetown that made me cry harder. Then she hugged me, said “Happy birthday, Dad. Try not to be weird tonight,” and left for Aunt Teresa’s with a look that said she knew exactly what was going to happen after she left and had made peace with it the way teenagers make peace with everything: by pretending it doesn’t exist.

She’s smarter than all of us combined. Maria would be so proud.

And now the house is empty except for the four of us, and Damien is looking at me from across the kitchen table with an expression I’ve learned to read like weather — the darkening of his eyes, the slight part of his lips, the shift in his posture that says the dinner portion of the evening is over and the birthday portion is about to begin.

“Upstairs,” he says.

Not a command — Damien doesn’t command me. Nobody commands me. But when he says “upstairs” in that voice — the low, warm, certain voice that has been guiding me through the most important experiences of my life for nine months — my body responds before my brain has finished processing the word. I’m already standing. Already moving. The soldier in me, responding to an officer. The man in me, responding to a lover. The animal in me, responding to the only person on earth who has ever made me want to follow instead of lead.

Grant is already on his feet — the senator, always responsive, always ready to be directed. But the posture is different now than it was in the early days. He’s not deferring. He’s collaborating. The blue eyes are bright with anticipation, and the smile he gives me as we file toward the stairs is warm and conspiratorial and says, clear as language: We planned this. For you. Happy birthday.

Corbin stands last. Adjusts his cuffs. The gesture that used to mean he was composing himself now means he’s savoring the moment — the particular pleasure of a man who has spent weeks planning something and is about to execute it with the precision he brings to everything.

“The master bedroom,” Corbin says. “I’ve adjusted the lighting to optimal parameters. The temperature is twenty-one point five degrees Celsius, which accounts for the metabolic heat generated by—”

“Corbin,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Shut up and come upstairs.”

“Understood.”

The master bedroom of the Prospect Street house is the room Corbin designed. Not with an architect — himself. The dimensions, the lighting, the placement of the bed, the orientation of the windows. Every variable optimized for what he euphemistically calls “multi-occupant use” and what I call “the four of us need a bed that doesn’t sound like a shipwreck.” The California king from the brownstone was transferred here — the same frame, the same mattress, the same aircraft-carrier dimensions that Sofia accurately described on delivery day. The headboard is tufted gray velvet. The sheets are white silk. The lighting is — and I’ll give Corbin this — perfect. Warm amber from recessed fixtures, adjustable, casting the room in the specific glow that makes skin look like it’s been lit by candles without any actual fire hazard.

Damien walks to the center of the room. Turns. Looks at the three of us standing in the doorway.

“Tonight is yours,” he tells me. “Your birthday. Your rules. Whatever you want — however you want it — from any of us. That’s the gift.”

I look at them. Three men in my doorway. My doorway, in my house — the house that Corbin bought and Grant is learning to garden and Damien filled with candles and Sofia filled with photographs and I fill, every evening, with the smell of whatever I’m cooking because that is my love language and I will die on this hill.

Three men who love me. A senator, a billionaire, and the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. Standing in amber light, offering me everything, on the night I turn forty-six in a body that has survived things that should have killed it and a heart that has survived things that should have closed it.

Maria said: Open up. Find someone. Let them in.

I found three someones. I let them all in. And they’re standing in my bedroom asking what I want for my birthday.

What I want is simple. What I want is the thing I’ve been afraid of since the first night in the warehouse, since the first time Damien’s hand touched mine and my entire identity restructured around the contact.

“I want to be in the center,” I say.

The room shifts. I see it register — on Damien’s face first (the recognition, the understanding, the man who reads bodies for a living reading mine), then on Grant’s (the surprise, the warmth, the immediate willingness), then on Corbin’s (the calculation, the recalibration, the algorithm adjusting to an input it didn’t predict).

I’ve never been the center. In nine months of this — the rotation, the suite, the brownstone nights, the California king mornings — I’ve been the wall. The anchor. The outside edge, holding the perimeter, the protector who makes sure everyone else is safe. The center has always been Damien, because Damien is the center, the axis, the point where the three of us converge.

But tonight — just tonight — I want to know what it feels like. To be surrounded instead of surrounding. To be held instead of holding. To let three people touch me from every direction and discover whether the man underneath the armor — the man Maria married, the man Sofia calls Dad, the man who learned to cry in a kitchen and laugh on a floor and love in an Escalade — can survive being the most vulnerable person in the room.

“Come here,” Damien says. Soft. The voice he uses when the walls are coming down and he wants me to know the landing will be safe. “All of us. Come here.”

They come to me. Three bodies, converging. Damien in front — always in front, always the face I see first, the face that started everything. His hands find my jaw. The same gesture from the first night, from the office floor, from every moment of tenderness he’s drawn from me like water from stone. He tilts my face down — I’m taller, broader, the logistics of kissing me require a slight adjustment of angle — and he kisses me.

The kiss is slow. Deep. The kind that says I know you and I see you and tonight you don’t have to be strong. I feel my shoulders drop. The armor — the Moretti posture, the boss’s rigidity, the forty-six years of don’t show weakness — releases. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough that when Grant’s hand settles on my lower back, I don’t tense. Enough that when Corbin’s fingers find the hem of my shirt and begin to lift, I raise my arms and let him.

The shirt comes off. The air hits my bare skin — twenty-one point five degrees, apparently — and three pairs of hands replace the fabric. Grant’s on my shoulders, warm and solid, kneading the tension that lives in my traps like a second skeleton. Corbin’s on my chest, tracing the tattoos — Sofia’s name over my heart, the saint on my ribs, Maria’s date on my forearm — with the focused attention of a man reading braille. Damien’s on my face, still kissing me, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones while his mouth takes mine apart.

I am being undressed by three men, and the vulnerability of it — the sheer, staggering exposure of standing bare-chested in amber light while six hands learn my body from three directions — is the most frightening and the most freeing thing I have ever experienced.

“The bed,” Damien murmurs against my mouth. “On your back. In the center.”

I go. I lie down in the middle of the California king — the aircraft carrier, the landing pad for feelings — and I look up at the ceiling that Corbin designed and the lights that cast their amber glow and I think: This is what Maria meant. This is what she saw, in the months before the end, when she pressed my face between her hands and said don’t you dare close up. She saw this room. This bed. These men. She saw the future I was too afraid to imagine, and she pushed me toward it with her last breath.

Damien kneels on the bed to my left. Grant to my right. Corbin at my feet. Three men, positioned around me, looking down at me with three expressions that are each, in their own language, saying the same thing.

You’re safe. We’re here. Let go.

Damien starts. He always starts — the conductor, the orchestrator, the man who reads rooms and bodies and knows, with the intuition that used to be a survival skill and is now a love language, exactly what each person needs and when they need it.

What I need is his mouth. On my chest. On Sofia’s name, the way he kissed it in the brownstone kitchen the night he told me he loved me. His lips press there — over my heart, over my daughter’s name — and the gesture is so tender, so specifically ours, that my eyes sting before he’s even moved.

He works down. Ribs. Stomach. The trail of dark hair below my navel. I hear my belt being unfastened — Grant’s hands, I realize, working from my right side, the senator’s precise fingers making quick work of buckle and button. Corbin takes the jeans — pulls them down my legs from the foot of the bed with the efficiency of a man who considers clothing removal an engineering problem and solves it accordingly.

I’m naked. On my back. In the center of a bed that holds four and a life that holds everything. Three men, still partially dressed, arranged around me like points on a compass. North, south, east. The fourth direction — west — is the direction I’m facing. The ceiling. The sky. The open, undefended, terrifyingly vast space above me that I’m choosing to face instead of guard.

“Christ,” Grant breathes. Looking at me. The full body, the scars, the tattoos, the evidence of a life lived in a way that the senator’s world doesn’t prepare a man to witness. “Dante, you’re—”

“Don’t say beautiful. I can’t—”

“Beautiful,” Grant says. Because Grant Calloway does not take direction from anyone, including the man whose body he’s currently worshipping with his eyes. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I once watched a sunset from the Capitol dome.”

“The sunset didn’t have this many scars.”

“The sunset didn’t have this much story.”

Corbin, from the foot of the bed: “Your resting heart rate is approximately sixty-eight BPM. It just increased to ninety-four. The compliment had a measurable physiological—”

“Corbin, I swear to God—”

“—impact. Which I find endearing.” He pauses. “Happy birthday, Dante.”

And then he lowers his head and takes me in his mouth.

I did not expect that. From Corbin — methodical, analytical, the man who approaches everything with a plan and a spreadsheet — the sudden, decisive act of putting his mouth on me without preamble or preparation is a shock that travels from my cock to my spine to the back of my skull like a lightning strike. My hips jerk off the mattress. My hand flies to his hair — silver-streaked, usually sharp, now falling across my thighs — and I grip.

“Fuck—”

He’s good. Of course he’s good — Corbin has spent nine months learning my body the way he learns everything: with comprehensive, meticulous, relentless attention. He knows the spot below the head. He knows the pressure. He knows that the combination of tongue and suction that makes my vision blur is a specific ratio that he has almost certainly calculated and committed to memory.

While Corbin works me from below, Damien and Grant work me from above. Damien’s mouth on my neck — biting, marking, the territorial claiming that he learned from me and now deploys against me with devastating accuracy. Grant’s mouth on my chest — gentler, more exploratory, the senator learning the landscape of a body he’s been sharing a bed with for months but has never been the primary navigator of. His tongue finds my nipple and the flat, wet pressure of it makes me groan so loud the amber-lit ceiling seems to vibrate.

Three mouths. Three different rhythms. Three different languages of touch, layered and overlapping, creating a sensory input that my brain cannot process in sequence — it can only receive in aggregate, the way you receive a symphony, not as individual instruments but as a single, overwhelming, devastating sound.

I’m shaking. The tremor that starts in my thighs and moves upward, the body’s response to the volume of input — too much pleasure, too many sources, the nervous system overloading in the way that Corbin described in the hotel suite when he talked about the system crash. I’m crashing. The control I’ve held for forty-six years — the Moretti discipline, the boss’s composure, the walls I built out of my father’s fists and my wife’s death and the absolute, nonnegotiable requirement that Dante Moretti never show weakness — is crumbling under the combined assault of three men who have decided that tonight, the strong man gets to be held.

“Let go,” Damien whispers. In my ear. The same words he used in the Escalade, the same words he’s used a hundred times. But tonight they carry a different weight, because tonight I’m not fighting the letting go. I’m choosing it. “We’ve got you. All three of us. Let go, Dante.”

I let go.

The tears come first. Not from pain — from the release of pressure that has been accumulating for forty-six years. The tears of a man who was taught that crying is weakness and is discovering, in the arms of three people who love him, that crying is the strongest thing a body can do. They run from the corners of my eyes into my hair and onto the silk sheets and nobody stops. Nobody comments. Damien kisses the tears from my temples. Grant presses his lips to my shoulder. Corbin doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but his hand — the one braced on my thigh — squeezes. Once. The data point that says I see this. It matters. Continue.

What follows is the most thorough, devastating, comprehensive physical experience of my life.

They take turns. Rotate. The choreography is not planned — it’s emergent, the word Corbin used in the hotel suite, the dynamics arising from the interaction rather than from a script. Damien inside me — slow, deep, face to face, the position that was our breakthrough in the Escalade, the one that rebuilt me from the inside — while Grant strokes me and Corbin feeds me his cock with a gentleness I didn’t know his body contained. Then a shift: Grant inside me — tentative at first, the senator’s caution, but growing bolder as my body responds, as my groans encourage, as the clench and pull of my muscles around him tells him what my voice can’t form: more, deeper, don’t stop. Meanwhile Damien rides me from above, his body taking mine while Grant fills me from behind, and the sensation of being inside someone and being entered simultaneously is a paradox that my nervous system resolves by shutting down everything except sensation.

Corbin orchestrates. From beside us, from above us, his voice cutting through the heat like a blade made of ice and love: “Slower. He needs slower. His breathing pattern indicates approaching threshold — reduce intensity by twenty percent and extend the plateau.” And the insane thing — the beautiful, ridiculous, only-in-this-family thing — is that it works. Damien and Grant adjust. The pace slows. The plateau extends. And the orgasm that has been building in me for what feels like hours retreats just enough to keep building, climbing higher, the wave rising and rising without breaking.

“I need—” I can’t finish the sentence. Language has left me. I’m operating on a frequency below words, in the territory of sounds and breath and the involuntary vocabulary of a body that has been taken apart by three experts and is being reassembled into something stronger.

“We know,” Damien says. The conductor. The man who reads bodies. “We know what you need.”

They give me everything. All three, together, the full configuration — Damien and Grant inside me simultaneously while Corbin’s mouth works me and his hands grip my thighs and the combined input of three men loving me from every direction crests and breaks and the orgasm, when it comes, is not a single wave but a tsunami.

I come with a roar that shakes the headboard. The sound that belongs in the warehouse, in the parking garage, in the old life where the only outlet for this much feeling was violence. But tonight the feeling is love, and the roar is not rage — it’s release. Pure, total, body-shaking release that starts at the base of my spine and detonates outward through every nerve ending, every muscle, every cell. I feel it in my teeth. I feel it in my scars. I feel it in Sofia’s name on my chest and Maria’s date on my arm and the watch on my wrist that ticks in time with three other watches on three other wrists.

They follow. One by one, triggered by my body or my voice or the sight of Dante Moretti coming undone in their hands. Damien first — always my Damien, always responsive to me, his body clenching and his voice breaking on my name. Grant second — the cry muffled against my shoulder, his hips driving deep, his arms around me with the desperate strength of a man who has found something he will never let go. Corbin last — silent, as always, the composure holding even in extremity, but his hands on my body tighten and his breath stops and I feel the pulse of him against my skin and the silence is louder than any scream.

We collapse. Four bodies, one bed, the amber light painting us in gold. I’m in the center. The center. The place I asked for. The place I’ve never been. And it feels like — it feels like—

It feels like home.

Not the brownstone. Not the new house. Not any building with walls and a roof and a kitchen that smells like garlic. Home as a state. Home as a frequency. Home as the specific, unreplicable sensation of being held by three people who chose you — not because you’re strong, not because you’re the boss, not because the name on your back carries sixty years of fear and respect — but because you’re you. Dante. The man who cooks. The man who cries. The man who learned, at forty-six, that the bravest thing is not to fight but to lie down and let the people who love you prove it.

“Happy birthday,” Damien says. Against my chest. His voice is wrecked. His body is tangled with mine and Grant’s and Corbin’s and the sheets and the pillows and the evidence of what we just did. “Was it—”

“Don’t ask if it was okay. Don’t you dare ask if it was okay.”

“Was it—”

“It was everything. It was—” My throat closes. The tears again — different this time, not the release tears but the gratitude tears, the tears of a man who was given the one thing he didn’t know how to ask for. “It was what Maria wanted. For me. This. You. All of you.”

Grant’s hand finds mine. Squeezes. The senator, saying without words: She’d be proud.

Corbin’s arm settles across my waist. The billionaire, holding me the way he’s learned to hold — not with precision, not with optimization, but with the simple, human, algorithm-defeating act of putting his body against mine and staying there.

Damien presses his lips to Sofia’s name on my chest. The kiss that started everything. The gesture that means: I see your whole life. I honor it. I’m part of it now.

I close my eyes. The amber light glows behind my eyelids. The house on Prospect Street settles around us — new walls learning to hold a family, new rooms learning to hold love, a kitchen downstairs that still smells like bolognese because the best meals leave ghosts and the ghosts are welcome here.

Forty-six years old. A body that has survived everything. A heart that has survived more.

And three watches, on three wrists, ticking in time with mine.

Happy birthday, Dante.

Welcome home.

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With love,
Jace Wilder