Page 106 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
As they prepared to leave, Stefano extended his hand to Anders. “The Trinity has our full support in this. De Luca’s actions cannot go unanswered.”
Anders shook the offered hand, his grip firm. “We appreciate the alliance. When this is done, territorial boundaries will be redrawn to everyone’s satisfaction.”
As they walked toward their waiting car, Conall fell into step beside Anders. “The Vitales seem particularly invested in this alliance.”
“They recognize an opportunity,” Anders replied. “De Luca’s fall benefits everyone at this table.”
“Except De Luca,” Wyatt added with rare dark humor.
Anders didn’t smile, but satisfaction glinted in his ice-blue eyes. “Two weeks,” he said as they slid into the car. “Two weeks until De Luca pays for what he did. And then…”
“And then we claim what’s ours,” Conall finished, his green eyes darkening with anticipation.
Anders looked out at the city lights, somewhere among them their omega slept, unaware of how close they were, how carefully they were preparing for his return.
“Yes,” he agreed softly. “We claim what’s ours.”
twenty-five
. . .
I woke up with my face buried in the pillow, my body aching in a way that had nothing to do with my grueling work schedule. Another dream about them. Another night spent twisting in my sheets, chasing phantom touches that never quite satisfied.
“Get it together, Ty,” I said, pushing myself upright. “They’re just dreams. Not the universe’s way of telling you to revisit those three infuriatingly hot alphas who turned your world upside down.”
Bad idea. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea crashing through me. I barely made it to the bathroom before emptying what little remained in my stomach from last night’s dinner.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I gasped, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain. “Nothing says ‘good morning’ like intimate quality time with your toilet. We should really stop meeting like this.”
This was the third morning in a row I’d been sick. Probably a stomach bug, or maybe my body finally staging a revolutionagainst the restaurant’s questionable staff meals. I brushed my teeth twice, trying to banish the sour taste of sickness.
I stepped into the shower, momentarily surprised by the water pressure that was strong enough to actually rinse shampoo out of my hair without requiring contortionist moves. Another mysterious improvement to my apartment that had appeared in recent weeks. Like the new showerhead. And the fixed cabinet hinges. And the premium groceries that kept materializing in my refrigerator.
The shower helped with the nausea but did nothing for the strange sensitivity in my chest. Even the gentle spray felt uncomfortable against my nipples, which had been tender for days now. Painfully sensitive without any explanation.
“Probably just stress,” I told my reflection as I dried off. “Or maybe your body’s planning a surprise heat cycle. Because what this situation really needs is more biological complications.”
The kitchen greeted me with its now-familiar surprise—fresh fruit in a bowl that I definitely didn’t own, premium coffee in a machine that had appeared two weeks ago, and a loaf of artisanal bread that made my mouth water despite my nausea.
“Mrs. Patel’s outdoing herself again,” I said, cutting a thin slice of bread. “Nothing says ‘I’m worried about you’ like organic sourdough and berries that cost more than my hourly wage.”
The coffee smelled amazing but turned my stomach the moment I took a sip. I dumped it down the drain with a sigh. “Another simple pleasure denied. At this rate, I’ll be living on plain toast and tap water. The diet of champions and broke omegas everywhere.”
As I choked down the bread, I caught myself staring at the pillows I’d left on the couch last night—the ones from my bed that smelled so strongly of cedar and winter pine, cinnamon and warm vanilla, and fresh rain and cedar. The ones I’d been burying my face in while I slept. The ones that made me dreamof ice-blue, vivid green, and stormy gray eyes—of commanding hands, playful touches, and protective embraces that knew exactly how to make me surrender.
“Pathetic,” I told myself but didn’t move to put them away. Instead, I lifted one to my face, inhaling deeply before I had to leave for work. The scent sent a shiver of recognition through me, my omega instincts responding.
Mr. Iceflare. Mr. Enigma. Mr. Storm. My body remembered them. Remembered all of them. The way they’d surrounded me, claimed me, marked me until I couldn’t think straight.
“Just biology,” I reminded myself, tossing the pillow aside with more force than necessary. “Basic omega instincts responding to alpha pheromones. Nothing personal. Like being hungry when you smell pizza. Doesn’t mean you’re in love with the delivery guy.”
But it felt personal. It felt like my body was betraying me in the most intimate way possible, craving the touch of men who had been trapped in the same nightmare as me, who had been used just as I had been used, who had eventually become something I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, define.
This wasn’t the first time, either. Since escaping De Luca’s compound, I’d been plagued by these moments, times when my body remembered their touch with such clarity that I’d find myself breathless, my omega biology responding at the mere memory of being claimed.
“Get a grip, Ty,” I muttered, yanking on my jacket with more force than necessary. “They’re dangerous mafia alphas, not your soulmates. Next you’ll be picking out wedding invitations and planning how many pups you want. Trauma bonding isn’t the foundation for a healthy relationship.”
Even as I thought it, a treacherous voice in the back of my mind whispered that it hadn’t felt like that at the end. Before I ran. Before I escaped. It had felt like something else.
