Page 115 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
Deeper into the bowels of the building I ran until I could hear nothing but my own ragged breathing and pounding footsteps. The dungeon loomed before me, its oppressive darkness swallowing me whole.
But then gunshots reverberated closer than before, and panic surged anew. Darting into a nearby room, I pressed myself against the wall and prayed for invisibility.
“Become one with the wall, Ty,” I whispered to myself. “Channel your inner chameleon. Or better yet, your inner ‘not about to die today.’”
A crackle of static cut through the silence before a voice growled over the radio, “They’re all down… And fucking De Luca’s dead.”
My blood ran cold. De Luca dead? The implications were vast and terrifying. If he was truly gone, my father might finally be safe. But it also meant there was nothing holding the alphas back from taking what they considered theirs.
Me. And the child I carried.
“Find our little omega before my patience runs out,” came another voice that vibrated with restrained power—Mr. Iceflare, his tone sending shivers of both fear and anticipation down my spine.
“Be patient; we’ll find him.” Mr. Enigma’s voice, warm even through the static, carried a chilling certainty that made my knees weak. “He’s around here.”
They were looking for me. Not my father. Me. My hand pressed protectively over my stomach. Us.
“Stupid scent blockers,” I cursed under my breath. “You had one job. ONE. JOB.”
Panic clawed at me as I realized hiding was futile; they would find me no matter what. I could already feel it—that telltale prickle at the back of my neck, the heightened awareness that came when an alpha was near. My body was betraying me, my omega instincts responding to the proximity of dominant alphas despite my desperate attempts to suppress them.
The air in the room grew thick with anticipation, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on my arms stand on end. I knew before the door opened. Knew who would be standing there. Knew my time had run out.
The door swung open with a menacing creak, revealing a towering figure in the doorway, a looming specter against the dim light filtering in from the hallway. My heart skittered to a stop, then hammered with renewed fervor.
He filled the frame with his imposing presence, those ice-blue eyes finding mine with unerring precision in the darkness. Three months since I’d seen him in the flesh, yet my body recognized him instantly, responded to him as if we’d never been apart. A wave of heat washed through me, my scent glands throbbing painfully as they released pheromones in a desperate bid for his attention.
His scent hit me with overwhelming force—cedar and winter pine with notes of bergamot, now underscored with something metallic. Blood. The scent wrapped around me completely, making my knees weak and my mind fuzzy. I’d spent months sleeping with pillows that carried traces of this scent, but the reality was so much more potent, so much more overwhelming.
Terror clawed up my throat, warring with a treacherous joy that I refused to acknowledge. This was Mr. Iceflare fully awake. Fully aware. And clearly furious.
I tried to retreat, my back pressing into the cold wall as if I could somehow melt into it and escape his piercing gaze. His presence commanded the space, the air around him seeming to thrum with authority. He moved toward me, each step measured and deliberate, and I could feel the room shrinking with every inch he closed.
His eyes raked over me, a slow, deliberate assessment that felt like a physical caress. I could almost feel the heat of his gaze as it lingered on my face, my throat, the place where my pulse hammered visibly beneath my skin. My scent glands throbbed in response, a treacherous reaction I couldn’t control.
When his gaze dropped to my stomach, something flashed in his eyes—a possessive hunger that made my breath catch in mythroat. He knew. Of course he knew. Alphas could sense these things, especially when the child might be theirs.
“There you are, little thief.” His voice wrapped around me, a low growl that vibrated through the stillness. I flinched at the title—thief—though what had I stolen? His tone held an edge that spoke of retribution and a chilling promise.
“Thief?” I managed, raising my chin despite the tremor in my voice. “That’s rich coming from someone who just stole an entire building through murder. What’s next, are you going to accuse me of breathing your air?”
His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes, but something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly. Had I imagined it? The flash of relief beneath the anger? The hint of concern beneath the cold fury?
He stepped closer, and I pressed harder against the wall, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the intoxicating blend of alpha pheromones and adrenaline that clung to his skin. My body responded instantly, traitorously—nipples hardening to painful points, my entrance preparing itself, a whimper building in my throat that I barely managed to suppress.
I knew if I let him touch me, I was done for. Three months of pretending I didn’t want this, didn’t need this, would crumble faster than a sandcastle at high tide. My hard-won independence would vanish the moment his lips touched mine.
“You stole something far more valuable,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave that made my inner omega whimper with need. He reached out, one finger tracing the line of my jaw with surprising gentleness that contrasted sharply with the steel in his eyes. “And I’ve come to collect.”
Before I could muster another snarky response or a plea, he was upon me. His hands framed my face with a grip that was anything but gentle, and then his lips crashed against mine.
The kiss was a claiming, a punishment, a homecoming all at once. I thrashed against him, pushing at his chest, clawing at his arms—anything to break free from this invasion. This was raw. Possessive. Personal. Terrifying.
And God help me, it felt like coming home.
His mouth was hot and demanding against mine, forcing my lips apart. When his tongue swept inside, claiming me with a possessive stroke that sent heat spiraling through my body, I bit down—or tried to. He anticipated the move, his thumb pressing painfully into the hinge of my jaw, forcing it open wider.
“Fight me all you want, little omega,” he growled against my mouth. “It only makes this sweeter.”
