Page 104 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Soon,” Anders promised, his hand resting on Conall’s shoulder in rare physical reassurance. The three sworn brothers shared not just their obsession with Ty but the pain of separation.
Wyatt moved to the nightstand, his attention caught by the framed photograph—Ty with an older man, both smiling in front of a bakery. He touched the frame with unexpected gentleness, a gesture so tender it revealed volumes about the taciturn alpha’s feelings.
“Father,” he said simply, identifying the man in the photo.
“The one De Luca threatened,” Conall added, his expression darkening. “Another debt the old man will pay.”
Anders watched as Wyatt carefully adjusted the photo’s position, the precise movement betraying how much their stoic brother cared. Unlike Anders’ calculated possession or Conall’s expressive desire, Wyatt’s feelings manifested in these small, protective gestures—quiet but no less profound.
“Mrs. Patel reports he’s still not baking,” Conall said, changing the subject as he returned to the kitchen. “Not once since he’s been here.”
“Trauma,” Anders replied, following him. “De Luca stole more than his freedom.”
“We’ll give it back,” Conall declared with fierce determination. “Everything the old man took. His joy. His confidence.” He arranged fresh flowers in the vase they’d brought last week—lilies.
Wyatt emerged from the bedroom, holding one of Ty’s shirts. He pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. Neither of the others commented—they understood. Each coped with the separation differently: Anders through strategic planning, Conall through talking about their little mouse, and Wyatt through these silent, sensory connections.
“New security protocols for tonight,” Anders said, bringing them back to the immediate concerns. “The restaurant incident changes things. Other alphas have noticed him.”
Conall’s expression hardened. “They won’t be a problem again.”
“No,” Anders agreed. “But we increase surveillance regardless. No one approaches him without our knowledge.”
Wyatt nodded once, replacing Ty’s shirt exactly as he’d found it. His attention to detail ensured their presenceremained undetected, a necessity until they were ready to reveal themselves.
“Mrs. Patel will be here soon,” Conall noted, checking his watch. “She likes to ‘accidentally’ run into me during our visits. I think she’s hoping to matchmake.”
A rare smile crossed Anders’ face. “If she only knew.”
“Woman’s intuitive,” Wyatt commented, surprising them both with the observation. “Suspects more.”
“But plays along,” Conall agreed. “Sees how much we care for him, even if she doesn’t understand the full picture.”
Anders moved to the door, his hand lingering on the frame. Leaving was always the hardest part of these visits—walking away from their omega’s space, back to the emptiness of waiting.
“Tonight,” he said, the word both promise and command. “After the Vitale meeting.”
The others nodded, understanding the unspoken plan. They would return after dark, as they did most nights, to watch over their sleeping omega from the shadows. Another ritual in their careful campaign of reclaiming what was theirs.
As they prepared to leave, each alpha made one final gesture of possession—Anders straightening a book on the shelf, Conall adjusting the flowers to perfect symmetry, Wyatt silently touching the doorframe where Ty’s height had been marked years ago.
Small claims. Tender markers. Promises of return.
“When we’re finished with De Luca,” Anders said, his voice dropping to a register that revealed the depth of his feeling, “when we’ve made him pay for daring to use us, to use what’s ours… we’ll come for our omega. And this time, there will be no escape.”
The words weren’t just Anders’ vow but a promise from all three, a shared determination that burned equally bright in each alpha’s heart.
The Vitale estate sprawled across ten manicured acres at the edge of the city, its Mediterranean architecture a testament to the family’s Sicilian roots. As the Trinity’s car passed through the wrought-iron gates, Anders noted the enhanced security—additional guards, new surveillance cameras, reinforced checkpoints. The bombing at the Montecito had left everyone more cautious.
They were greeted at the entrance by Marco Vitale, who led them through the mansion’s opulent interior to Stefano’s private study. The room was classic old-world wealth—leather-bound books, oil paintings, furniture that had likely been imported from European castles.
Stefano Vitale rose from behind his desk as they entered, his dark eyes assessing as always. At thirty-six, he carried himself with the authority of someone born to command, his tailored suit and perfect posture projecting power without effort.
“Knight,” he greeted, extending his hand. “O’Reilly. Slater. Good to see you fully recovered from De Luca’s treachery.”
Anders shook his hand firmly. “Vitale. Your brother mentioned the Corsinis would be joining us.”
“They’re already here,” Stefano confirmed, gesturing toward a door that led to an adjoining room. “Shall we?”
