Page 114 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Well, shit,” I said, my fingers gripping the edge of the console. “This is definitely not the bathroom.”
Fists and bullets clashed violently on the monitors. The men on the screen moved with deadly intent, their shadows dancing across the walls as if mocking my stillness. I couldn’t tear my gaze away, couldn’t suppress the terror that clawed at my chest.The De Luca Cartel’s men were outnumbered, their movements desperate and disjointed against an enemy with precision that cut through the night.
And then, amid the chaos, a shock of black hair that glinted under the artificial light.
My heart stopped, then lurched painfully against my ribs. Three months of running, of hiding, of pretending I didn’t wake up reaching for him in the darkness, and there he was.
Mr. Iceflare.
He moved with incredible power, his broad shoulders plowing through adversaries with ease. His ice-blue eyes, even through the grainy footage, held a glacial calm that belied the violence of his actions. Blood spattered across his face as he drove his fist into a man’s throat, and I felt an answering pulse between my thighs that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with three months of denial.
“Mr. Iceflare,” I whispered, my throat suddenly desert-dry, my voice a reverent curse. My fingers unconsciously rose to my lips, remembering the bruising pressure of his mouth, the commanding slide of his tongue against mine. “Of course it would be you.”
My omega instincts, the ones I’d been ruthlessly suppressing since my escape, surged to life with a vengeance. Mine, they whispered. Alpha. Safe. Home.
I shoved the thoughts down viciously, but my body had already begun its betrayal. My omega biology responded instantly, my scent glands throbbing painfully at my neck as if straining toward him through the screen. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my core, the way my nipples had hardened against the fabric of my shirt.
Beside him, another figure wove through the fight with remarkable grace, and my breath caught on a sob I refused to release.
Mr. Enigma.
His dark-brown hair fell in waves that seemed untouched by the struggle around him, those green eyes I’d dreamed about for months focused with lethal clarity on his opponents. He dispatched them with strikes so precise they seemed choreographed, beautiful in their brutality. I remembered those hands on my skin, gentle despite their deadly skill, remembered his laughter against my neck as he teased reactions from my body I hadn’t known were possible.
My hand pressed against my stomach, a protective gesture that had become instinctive these past weeks. Was it his child I carried? The thought made my omega instincts flare with excitement, my biology apparently thrilled by the possibility despite my mind’s horror.
A third man hung back slightly, his stance calculated and watchful, and my heart gave another painful lurch.
Mr. Storm.
Dark-blond hair tousled from combat, his stormy gray eyes scanned for threats with an intensity that made me shiver. Every movement he made was measured and deliberate, from the way he aimed his weapon to the protective glances he shot toward his comrades. I remembered the surprising gentleness of his hands, the reverence in his touch despite his taciturn nature. How he’d cleaned me after the others had claimed me, his calloused fingers unexpectedly tender.
“The unholy trinity,” I said, my fingers unconsciously finding the scent glands at my neck, pressing against them as if I could somehow stop the flood of pheromones my body was releasing in response to the sight of them. “Just my fucking luck.”
These were not faces one forgets easily—not when they’ve haunted your dreams and fueled your nightmares in equal measure. Not when you’ve spent weeks in their arms, surrendering to their touch, crying their names as they claimedyou over and over. Not when you’re carrying one of their children.
My breath hitched, the thunder of my heart deafening in the stillness. I continued to watch, transfixed, as they moved through their enemies with remarkable precision. They were incredibly coordinated, their movements fluid and unyielding. They fought as one entity, three bodies with a single purpose, communicating without words in a way that spoke of years of trust and shared blood.
I shouldn’t have found them captivating, not when fear laced every part of my being at the sight of them. Yet there was a strange allure in their coordination, in the silent language they spoke as they fought side by side. It was almost like watching a dark ballet, where each step, each turn was meant for survival rather than applause.
And God help me, I wanted to be back in the audience. Wanted to be the sole focus of that lethal grace, that predatory attention. Three months of freedom, and my body still recognized them as mine in a way that terrified me.
“Stop being impressed by the men who are literally here to kill everyone,” I scolded myself, pressing a hand against my racing heart. “This isn’t a superhero movie, Ty. This is your actual life. They’re not here to rescue you. They’re here to reclaim you.”
The distinction shouldn’t have sent another pulse of heat through me, but it did. My omega instincts apparently found the idea of being “reclaimed” by three alpha mafia lords thrilling rather than terrifying. Traitor.
Then it happened.Heflicked his gaze upward, directly at the security camera, and for one impossible moment, I felt his ice-blue eyes pierce through the lens and find me. A shock of recognition passed between us, transcending technology anddistance. My heart leaped into my throat. I stumbled backward, a silent scream lodged in my chest.
“No, no, no,” I hissed, backing away from the monitors. “Don’t you dare look at me like you know I’m watching.”
But he knew. Somehow, he knew I was there. I could see it in the sudden intensity of his gaze, the slight tilt of his head as he communicated something to the others. They would come for me now. There would be no escape.
And God help me, part of me didn’t want to escape. Part of me—the omega part that had been sleeping with pillows that smelled like them, that had called their names in the darkness as I touched myself, that had wept with relief when the pregnancy test came back positive—wanted to be found. Wanted to be claimed again. Wanted to surrender to the connection that had formed between us despite the circumstances of our meeting.
“Stupid omega biology,” I growled, mentally cataloging three possible escape routes even as my body ached to run toward them rather than away. “Not today, Satan. Not. Today.”
With one last lingering glance at the monitors, at the men who had claimed pieces of my soul I’d never get back, I bolted from the room. The corridors echoed with chaos, but it was my chance, my chance to slip through unnoticed and find my father before they found me.
I had quickly scanned the building layout displayed on one of the security monitors before leaving. The cells would be in the lower level. I just needed to find the stairs down.
