Page 77 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
My body ached in ways that had nothing to do with our previous physical activities yesterday and everything to do with the sudden absence of their scents, their touch, their presence. It was withdrawal from a powerful addiction, one that came in three distinct forms of dangerous.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. “Shared trauma,” I said firmly to the empty room. “That's all this is. Classic psychological response to intense situations. Probably compounded by omega biology and excessive exposure to alpha pheromones.”
But even as I said the words, I knew they weren't true. What I was feeling went beyond textbook trauma bonding. It was deeper, more genuine, more terrifying. I was falling for them, with their distinct personalities and the unique ways they'd found to breach my defenses.
Mr. Iceflare with his commanding presence and unexpected moments of tenderness. Mr. Enigma with his playful seduction that somehow always saw straight through my bullshit. Mr. Storm with his quiet protection that made me feel safer than I had any right to in a literal hostage situation.
“This is insane,” I groaned, collapsing onto the bed. “They’re mafia alphas who literally threatened to hunt me down and make me pay for my role in their captivity. This isn’t a romance novel; this is a cautionary tale about terrible life choices.”
My body temperature was rising, not with heat but with something equally biological and frustrating. My skin felt too tight, uncomfortably constricting. My entrance prepared itself despite the absence of direct stimulation, my treacherous body calling for alphas who weren’t there.
“Stupid omega biology,” I said, stripping off my sweat-dampened shirt and tossing it aside. “Stupid alpha pheromones. Stupid mafia bosses with their stupid perfect muscles and stupid intense eyes and stupid tender moments that make me feel things I absolutely do not want to feel.”
A knock at the outer door interrupted my spiral into self-pity. I hastily pulled on a clean shirt before opening it, unsurprised to find one of De Luca’s goons—Peters, the one with the perpetual sneer and Napoleon complex.
“De Luca wants to know why you’re not with the alphas,” he said without preamble, his eyes roaming over me with inappropriate interest.
“I’m taking a mental health day,” I replied, crossing my arms defensively. “Even breeding omegas need personal time. It’s in the Geneva Convention or something.”
Peters’ lip curled. “De Luca doesn’t care about your ‘mental health.’ He cares about results, which you’ve failed to deliver. Three alphas at your disposal and still no conception.”
“Maybe the problem isn’t with me,” I shot back. “Maybe your boss’ prize studs aren’t as virile as he thinks.”
The backhand came fast, catching me across the cheek with enough force to make me stumble backward.
“Watch your mouth,” Peters snarled. “De Luca is losing patience. He’s already talking about more invasive procedures if you don’t get pregnant soon.”
My stomach dropped with sickening speed. “What kind of procedures?”
“The kind that don’t require your willing participation,” he replied with a nasty smile. “And as a bonus, he’s considering reducing your father’s medical care. Seems he’s not responding well to treatment lately.”
He held up a tablet, showing me footage of my father in his hospital bed. He looked worse than the last time I’d seen him—thinner, paler, with new bruises on his arms that were definitely not from his original injuries.
“That’s not from falling down stairs,” I said, my voice tight with barely contained fury. “You’re hurting him deliberately.”
Peters shrugged. “Accidents happen when patients don’t have attentive care. The quality of care tends to improve when certain omegas cooperate fully with their assignments.”
The threat couldn’t have been clearer if he’d written it in neon and stuck it to my forehead.
“Tell De Luca I’ll be back with the alphas within the hour,” I said, hating the defeat in my voice but seeing no alternative. “Just… leave my father alone.”
“Smart choice.” Peters smirked. “Though I don’t know why you’d need convincing. Most omegas would kill for the chance to be knotted by three prime alphas.”
I slammed the door in his face before I could say something that would get my father hurt even worse. Leaning against it, I let myself slide to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as I tried to control my breathing.
“This is fine,” I whispered, though the tremor in my voice betrayed the lie. “Just doing what needs to be done to protect Dad. Nothing personal. Just biology and survival.”
From the other side of the connecting door, I heard a soft thud, followed by the distinctive metallic clink of a chain. Then another. And another. The alphas were positioning themselves as close to my door as their restraints would allow.
“Little mouse.” Mr. Iceflare’s voice came through the wood, deep and commanding even muffled by the barrier between us. “Open the door.”
“Not happening,” I called back, though something in my chest tightened at the sound of his voice. “I’m enjoying my alone time. Very zen. Might take up meditation.”
“You’re in distress,” he replied, and I could picture him perfectly—standing tall, chain stretched to its limit as he positioned himself as close to me as possible, those ice-blue eyes fixed on the door with intense focus. “I can smell it from here.”
“Creepy but on-brand for you,” I shot back. “Maybe mind your own olfactory business and stop sniffing people through doors? It’s weird.”
A different voice joined in—warmer, more playful, but with an undercurrent of genuine concern. “We miss you, little mouse,” Mr. Enigma said. “The bed’s cold without you.”
