Page 3 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“You are whatever I say you are,” he snapped. “Your father owes me half a million dollars. His life is forfeit. Yours too, unless you cooperate.”
I wanted to spit in his face, to tell him where he could shove his breeding scheme, but the thought of my father dying on that cold concrete floor stopped me. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
“Male omegas are so rare,” De Luca continued, his voice taking on that disturbing clinical tone again. “Your fertility rates are remarkably high, especially compared to female omegas. Nature’s compensation for biological improbability, I suppose.”
“Thanks for the biology lesson,” I said. “Next you’ll be telling me about the birds and the bees.”
He ignored my sarcasm. “I need an heir,” he continued. “Someone to carry on my legacy, to take over the cartel when I’m gone. But not just any child will do.” His eyes gleamed with fanatical intensity. “I need one with the right qualities. Strength. Intelligence. Power.”
“Alpha qualities,” I said flatly, the full horror of his plan crystallizing in my mind.
“Precisely.” His smile sliced through me, cold and lethal. “And what better source than the Vitale Brotherhood? One of the most powerful alphas in the city, perhaps the country.”
He moved to a small table in the corner of the warehouse, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter with the casual air of a man who’d just closed a routine business deal, not orchestrated multiple kidnappings.
“For months,” he said, swirling the liquid in his glass, “I’ve been laying the groundwork. The breeding facility is prepared. The medical team is standing by. All I needed was the right omega and the right alphas.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “And now I have both.”
A door at the far end of the warehouse opened, and a small man in a meticulously pressed suit entered with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to blood and death. He carried a sleek medical bag, his eyes clinically assessing my father’s prone form with the detached interest of a butcher examining meat.
“You called for me, Don De Luca?” His voice was crisp, professional.
“Ah, Dr. Rossi, excellent timing.” De Luca gestured toward me with his glass. “I need you to examine this young man. Confirm his omega status and assess his fertility. And then prepare for your second assignment, the extraction from Saint Michael’s.”
The doctor approached with the efficient movements of a man who’d done this countless times before. There was no hesitation in his step, no moral conflict in his eyes, just the cold calculation of a professional doing his job.
“Get away from me,” I warned as he came closer. “I’m not a lab rat for your twisted experiments.”
Dr. Rossi didn’t even acknowledge my protest, simply looking to De Luca with an expectant expression.
“Antonio, Vito, hold him still,” De Luca ordered.
The men gripped my shoulders, pressing me back against the chair as the doctor set his bag down on a nearby table and methodically withdrew a small device that resembled a modified thermometer.
“These measures hormone levels and pheromone signatures,” he explained with clinical detachment, as if I were a patient in his office rather than a captive. “Resistance will only make this more uncomfortable for you.”
I jerked my head away. “Don’t touch me! What part of ‘no’ is confusing to you people?”
Antonio’s fingers dug into my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “Stay still, pretty boy, or we’ll knock you out like your old man.”
Dr. Rossi grasped my jaw with latex-gloved fingers and pressed the device against my scent gland. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound as it beeped softly. He studied the small digital display with the focus of a scientist reviewing data.
“Well?” De Luca prompted.
“He’s an omega,” Dr. Rossi confirmed, his tone matter of fact. “Healthy, with remarkably high fertility markers. He’s not in heat currently, but his cycle appears to be approaching. According to these readings, he should naturally enter heat within the next twenty-four hours.”
“His medical records?” De Luca inquired.
Dr. Rossi consulted a tablet. “Interesting. He’s on triple the standard suppressant dosage. Unusual for someone his age.” The doctor’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Notes indicate extremely intense heat cycles that border on dangerous without medication.”
De Luca’s smile widened, predatory and triumphant. “Exceptional fertility and intense heats? Perfect. This exceeds my expectations.” He turned to me with renewed interest. “You’ve been hiding quite a gift, Mr. Hart.”
The doctor reached into his bag and produced a small vial and syringe. “This will neutralize any blockers or suppressants in his system, allowing his natural heat cycle to progress normally.”
“No!” I renewed my struggles, panic surging through me.
My mind raced with terrifying thoughts I wouldn’t dare voice aloud. My heats weren’t just “intense,” they were debilitating, almost dangerous. Without my carefully calibrated medication regimen, I’d be reduced to a desperate, mindless creature driven by biological need so severe it bordered on torturous. The triple dose of suppressants wasn’t an indulgence, it was survival.
But telling De Luca that would only please him more. I could see it in his eyes; my suffering would be a feature, not a bug, in his twisted plan. The more desperate my heat, the more likely I’d conceive quickly.
