Page 90 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said. “With stimulants.”
My stomach lurched violently. Stimulants. Chemical shortcuts to heat that would turn me into a desperate, mindless breeding machine. I’d heard horror stories about omegas whose bodies couldn’t handle the artificial cycle—hearts giving out, brains cooking from fever, bodies simply shutting down from the strain. De Luca might as well have announced he was planning to set me on fire and see if I survived.
“One day,” I managed to say, hating how my voice betrayed me by trembling. “At least give me one day to recover.”
He studied me through narrowed eyes, his gaze calculating the exact value of my continued survival against his desperate need for an heir. I could practically see the math happening behind those cold eyes.
“One day,” he said finally. “Then we proceed, with or without your cooperation.”
After he left, I collapsed back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. One day. Twenty-four hours before they’d pump me full of chemicals and throw me back to the alphas. My body still ached from their previous attentions—phantom sensations of hands on my skin, mouths marking me, bodies claiming mine with relentless determination.
The alphas were breaking free tonight. Which meant I had hours, not days, to execute my own escape plan. My only advantage was that no one expected the omega breeding toy to make a run for it.
As evening crept over the compound, the daytime bustle faded to the skeleton crew of night guards. The lock on my door might as well have been Fort Knox for all my ability to pick it. I’dtried a hairpin earlier in the week, channeling every spy movie I’d ever seen, but apparently real locks required more than determination and a bendy piece of metal. I was trapped until someone decided to open the door, a scenario that grew less likely by the minute as the compound prepared for lockdown.
I couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if I stayed. If I waited for the alphas to come for me, as they’d promised with possessive certainty. Would it really be so terrible, going with them? They’d been gentle, almost tender. They’d promised protection, care, pleasure that made my nerve endings sing.
My brain conjured images of Mr. Iceflare’s eyes softening when he called me “little mouse,” his hands cradling my face with unexpected tenderness. Mr. Enigma’s laugh when I’d sassed back, genuine amusement rather than anger at my defiance. Mr. Storm’s silent vigilance, positioning his body between mine and the guards whenever they came too close, a living shield of muscle and menace.
Stop it, you absolute disaster,I scolded myself, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids.That's the omega talking. They're mafia lords who see you as property, not a person. They'd keep you as a pet, not a partner. Trauma bonding is not a viable dating strategy.
But what if there was more to it? What if the connection I’d felt wasn’t just biology or circumstance? What if there could be something real between us, something beyond captivity and coercion?
You're romanticizing dangerous mafia alphas, I reminded myself harshly.Classic trauma response. Next you’ll be planning your wedding and picking out curtains. ‘Oh yes, I’d like the centerpieces to reflect how we met—perhaps tiny handcuffs filled with flowers?’
No, I had to escape. Had to reclaim my freedom, my life. Had to find a way to save my father that didn’t involve becominga possession to three alpha mafia lords who probably had a timeshare in hell.
Just before midnight, I heard it—a muffled thump from the direction of the alphas’ chamber, followed by a sound that might have been a choked-off scream or possibly the world’s worst impression of a dying whale.
My heart slammed against my ribs violently. It was happening. They were breaking free.
More sounds followed—scuffling, something heavy hitting the floor, voices too low to make out the words but carrying the unmistakable tone of violence. I should run. Now. Before they came for me. Before they could make good on their promises to claim me properly, to take me with them, to make me theirs in ways that my traitorous body was entirely too excited about.
But my body refused to move, paralyzed by a toxic mixture of fear and unwanted anticipation. Part of me, a part I refused to acknowledge without signing legal documents stating it wasn’t my fault, wanted them to come through that door. Wanted to see them at full strength, unrestrained, in all their terrifying glory. My omega instincts screamed at me to wait, to submit, to let my alphas claim me properly without restraints or witnesses.
What is wrong with me? Did I suffer a head injury I don’t remember? Was I always this much of a disaster, or is it a recent development brought on by exposure to too much alpha pheromones?
The sounds grew louder, more chaotic. A gunshot rang out, then another, the noise bouncing off concrete walls. This wasn’t just the alphas breaking free—this was something bigger. A raid. A rescue. A full-blown action movie happening right outside my door, and I didn’t even have popcorn.
Their men had come for them. Because of course they had. Men like that didn’t just disappear without someone coming to find them, guns blazing and explosions optional but preferred.
That realization finally broke through my paralysis. I moved to the door, pressing my ear against it. The hallway outside was chaos—shouting, running footsteps, more gunshots. Not ideal escape conditions, but maybe the confusion would work in my favor.
If only I could get through this damn door.
As if in answer to my thoughts, a red light began flashing above the door, and a mechanical click sounded from the lock. The security system, it must have a fail-safe that unlocked doors during emergencies. Or maybe the alphas’ men had hacked it. Either way, I wasn’t about to question this stroke of luck. Gift horses, mouths, etc.
“Thank you, emergency protocols,” I whispered, patting the doorframe. “I’ll send you a Christmas card if I survive this.”
I cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor. Guards ran in the distant, weapons drawn, none of them paying attention to me. They were focused on the threat coming from outside, their expressions a delightful mix of terror and “I don’t get paid enough for this.” Good. That meant the opposite direction might be clear.
Taking a deep breath, I slipped into the hallway and ran toward the service entrance, keeping close to the wall. The compound was in chaos—alarms blaring, men shouting orders, gunfire echoing through the concrete corridors. The emergency lights cast everything in a pulsing red glow that made the scene look nightmarish.
I ducked into an alcove as two guards sprinted past, their weapons drawn and expressions suggesting they were reconsidering their career choices. “They’ve broken through the east wing!” one shouted into his radio, his voice cracking nervously. “We need backup!”
East wing. That was away from the kitchen and service entrance. Perfect. At least something was going my way tonight,which probably meant the universe was saving up an extra special disaster for me later. Balance and all that.
I continued through the hallway, my heart pounding. Every shadow looked like a threat, every sound a warning. The smell of gunpowder and blood hung in the air, growing stronger as I passed a corridor where a firefight had clearly taken place. A body lay slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath it. I didn’t stop to check if it was one of De Luca’s men or one of the alphas’.
