Page 27 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“We fit,” Wyatt said simply. “Lock and key.”
The implications settled over them, adding new layers to their already complex situation. If Ty Hart possessed some rare quality that created this unprecedented compatibility, it made De Luca’s interest in him more understandable—and potentially more dangerous.
eight
. . .
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the wild-eyed omega staring back at me. A week of unsatisfied heat had transformed me into something feral and desperate. My skin didn’t just burn—it felt superheated, as though someone had replaced my blood with molten lava as a practical joke. My pupils had consumed almost all of my hazel irises, and the scent glands at my neck had swollen to angry, throbbing knots that leaked omega pheromones continuously.
“Fuck,” I whispered, pressing shaking fingers to my neck where the glands pulsed visibly with each heartbeat. “This is heat toxicity starting. Just my luck. Dying of horniness wasn’t exactly how I planned to go out.”
It wasn’t just uncomfortable anymore; it was dangerous. Medical textbooks were very clear about what happened to omegas who went too long without relief during heat. Organ damage. Neurological complications. Even death in extreme cases. The tremors in my hands weren’t just from fear or exhaustion; they were the first sign that my body was beginning to shut down. My own personal biological countdown clock,ticking away the hours until my omega hormones literally killed me. Evolution’s cruel joke on my secondary gender.
In normal circumstances, I’d be in an emergency room by now, doctors pumping me full of heat suppressants and synthetic alpha pheromones to trick my body into thinking the heat had been satisfied. “Yes, you’ve been thoroughly fucked, now calm the hell down” in injectable form. But those medications were expensive and required careful monitoring. They could cause permanent damage to an omega’s reproductive system if administered incorrectly. And here, locked in De Luca’s compound, medical intervention wasn’t an option. There was no cavalry coming to save me with a needle full of suppressants and a lollipop for being a brave little omega.
I was on my own, with only one viable solution—the three alphas in the next room. My own personal nightmare trio, who’d gone from semiconscious breeding stock to fully aware, murderous captives who’d promised retribution once they were free. Just another Tuesday in the life of Ty Hart, omega extraordinaire.
I’d already thrown up twice this morning, unable to keep anything down. The cramping had intensified to the point where I’d blacked out briefly when I tried to shower. And the slick, God, it was constant now, my body desperately trying to prepare itself for a knotting that wasn’t coming. At this rate, I’d need to start wearing adult diapers just to avoid creating my own personal slip-and-slide wherever I walked.
The encounters with the alphas had only made things worse. What was meant to provide relief had instead cranked my heat to unbearable levels, like trying to put out a forest fire with a squirt gun filled with gasoline. I could still feel Mr. Iceflare’s mouth on me, his fingers inside me, Mr. Enigma’s lips on my nipples, Mr. Storm’s hands on my scent glands. The memoryalone was enough to make my body react eagerly. Traitor body, always ready to betray me at the first hint of alpha attention.
“Today or never,” I told my reflection, my voice cracking with dehydration despite how much water I’d forced myself to drink. “Either you get bred today, or you’re not walking out of here alive. No pressure or anything.”
De Luca had sent “supplies” after yesterday’s failure—scented oils designed to enhance my natural omega pheromones, a book of explicit omega presentation positions (complete with helpful diagrams that would make a porn star blush), and a note reminding me that my time was running out. The threat was clear: succeed or face consequences I couldn’t bear to contemplate. Just another Tuesday in captivity.
I unscrewed the cap on one of the oils, wrinkling my nose at the cloying sweetness. The label claimed it would “amplify natural omega attraction signals by 300%.” Right. Because what I needed was to smell even more desperate than I already did. “Eau de Begging Omega”—the fragrance no one asked for but everyone’s getting anyway.
But I couldn’t afford pride. Couldn’t afford morals. Couldn’t afford anything but success. Pride was a luxury for people whose fathers weren’t being held hostage by geriatric mafia dons with breeding fetishes.
I stripped naked, my clothes sticking to my sweat-slicked skin as I peeled them off. Even the soft fabric abraded my hypersensitive nerves unbearably. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the oil bottle as I poured some into my palm. If there was an Olympic event for “most pathetic omega,” I’d be taking home the gold medal right about now.
The oil tingled as I massaged it into the swollen glands at my neck, behind my ears, at my wrists. The scent bloomed immediately, my natural jasmine and lily amplified to an almost dizzying intensity, like someone had taken a flower shop andconcentrated it into weaponized form. I moved lower, applying the oil to my chest, my stomach, my inner thighs. By the time I finished, my skin glistened in the harsh bathroom light, and the scent of amplified omega pheromones filled the small space so completely that even I felt lightheaded from it. I smelled like a desperate omega’s wet dream, which, coincidentally, was exactly what I needed to be.
Another cramp seized me, this one so intense that I doubled over, a cry escaping before I could stifle it. My knees buckled, and I had to grab the counter to keep from collapsing. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, my body screaming for relief that only an alpha’s knot could provide. Omega biology was such bullshit. Who designed a system where you literally needed to get fucked or you’d die? Some sadistic alpha scientist, no doubt, who probably cackled in his lab while drawing up blueprints for the perfect biological trap.
When the worst of it passed, I straightened on shaky legs, catching my full reflection in the mirror. I looked like something from a fever dream, skin flushed deep pink from neck to thighs, eyes wild and desperate, cock hard and leaking against my stomach, thighs glistening with omega release that flowed continuously now. My chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths, each inhalation carrying the concentrated scent of my own need. I’d seen more dignified looking creatures on the Discovery Channel, right before they became lion food.
The “relief” had been a cruel tease. The alphas had played with me, brought me to the edge, given me just enough to keep me coming back but not enough to truly satisfy. And like the desperate omega I was, I’d taken what they offered, grateful for even the smallest respite from the burning need. My dignity was already in the toilet; might as well flush it completely.
But I wasn’t completely without a plan. If there was one thing I’d learned growing up as a male omega in a world thatsaw us as little more than breeding stock, it was how to use the assumptions people made about me to my advantage. Everyone expected omegas to be weak, submissive, easily controlled. And sometimes, appearing to be exactly what people expected was the smartest move. Playing dumb had saved my ass more times than I could count.
Let the alphas think they were in control. Let them believe I was just a desperate omega willing to take whatever scraps of pleasure they deigned to offer. Let them underestimate me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d used an alpha’s ego against him, though it might be the first time I’d done it while actively trying to get knocked up.
Because underneath the desperate need and biological imperative, I was working my angle. If I could make them lose control, truly lose control, I could get what I needed. A full claiming. A knot. A chance at conception that would satisfy De Luca and save my father’s life. The plan was simple: act pathetic, get bred, save Dad, figure out the rest later. One catastrophe at a time, as was the Hart family motto.
It was a dangerous game. These weren’t just any alphas. They were mafia leaders—powerful men used to getting exactly what they wanted. Men who had promised retribution once they were free. But right now, they were my only hope. My only chance to save my father and myself from De Luca’s wrath.
“Showtime,” I whispered, my voice barely recognizable even to my own ears. “Time to give the performance of your life, Ty. Oscar-worthy begging omega coming right up.”
I staggered to the door that connected my quarters to the dungeon, leaving a trail on the marble floor from my legs. My body was betraying me in new and creative ways every minute. I half expected to start spontaneously lactating next, just to complete the omega bingo card of humiliations.
My hand trembled as I turned the handle, pushing the door open with more force than necessary. This was it, my last chance to save my father and myself. All I had to do was seduce three alphas who’d rather kill me than fuck me.
The moment I stepped through, the atmosphere in the spacious chamber changed. Three pairs of eyes snapped to me, nostrils flaring as my amplified scent overwhelmed their senses. Unlike yesterday, when they’d maintained calculated indifference, today all three alphas sat up immediately, their attention laser-focused on my presence.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I said, my attempt at casual bravado undermined by the way my voice cracked. “Hope you’re all feeling extra alpha today, because I’m about five minutes away from a heat stroke. Anyone interested in playing doctor? I hear body heat is the recommended treatment.”
Mr. Iceflare’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he caught my amplified scent. “What have you done to yourself?” he demanded, his voice rougher than usual. “You smell like a walking pheromone factory.”
