Page 7 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
Anders fought through layers of fog, consciousness coming in fragments. The sterile smell of antiseptic… pierced through… something important… had to remember.
The explosion. His brothers.
He tried opening his eyes, but his lids felt welded shut. Voices filtered through the haze, distorted and warping.
“…stabilizing. He’ll pull…”
“…other two?”
“…concussions, lacerations…”
Conall. Wyatt. The names floated through his fractured thoughts. Alive. They were alive.
Where? Hospital. Danger. The realization should have triggered his alpha instincts, but his body refused to respond. His thoughts scattered and dissolved whenever he tried to focus.
Another voice. Different. Wrong.
“When can they be moved?”
Anders struggled to process the words. Moved? No. Trap. His alpha instincts flared weakly through the fog of his concussion.
“…need to remain under observation…”
“…wasn’t the question, Doctor.”
He commanded his body to move, to fight. Nothing happened. The disconnect between mind and muscle terrified him more than any enemy. An alpha rendered helpless.
Fragments of a plan formed, then dissolved. He’d feign… what was he going to feign? Unconsciousness. Yes. But wasn’t he already…?
A sharp sensation in his arm. Cold spreading. The fog thickened.
As darkness reclaimed him, a single coherent thought crystallized—revenge. But even that began to blur at the edges as his consciousness fractured once more.
The Trinity… something about the Trinity… and then nothing.
three
. . .
The heavy iron door creaked open, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the dungeon’s chill. De Luca’s bony hand gripped my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising force as he steered me inside, a prized specimen being presented to potential buyers.
“Welcome to your new accommodations, Mr. Hart,” he announced with disturbing pride.
I’d spent hours locked in a windowless room after being taken from the warehouse, with only my racing thoughts and growing anxiety for company. The grandfather clock in the hallway had struck midnight just before De Luca appeared, which meant my morning suppressants were already wearing off. Perfect timing. Just freaking perfect.
“Let me guess,” I said, “this is where you keep all your guests who aren’t here voluntarily?”
De Luca’s grip tightened painfully. “Your sense of humor will fade quickly, I assure you.”
The smell hit me—antiseptic mingled with sweat, blood, and something else. Something primal and overwhelming thatmade my inner omega whimper in response despite my brain’s desperate objections.
Alpha. Three distinct alpha scents, powerful enough to make my knees wobble and my core clench with unwanted heat.
“And here they are,” De Luca’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “The Vitale Brotherhood’s finest.”
My vision swam slightly, the first signs that my suppressants were fading faster than usual. Stress had a way of screwing with my body chemistry, and being forced into a breeding scheme by a mafia don definitely qualified as stressful. Go figure.
I blinked, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. The room was larger than I expected, stone walls lined with medical equipment that looked suspiciously like it belonged in a veterinary clinic rather than a human facility.
