Page 14 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Just a second,” I called, my voice breathy. “Some of us were sleeping off a failed seduction, you know. It’s exhausting being this irresistible.”
I yanked a t-shirt over my head, grimacing as the fabric clung to my sweat-damp skin like plastic wrap on day-old leftovers. Between my thighs, I was mortifyingly ready, evidence of my body’s response trailing down my legs in a constant reminder of my biology’s betrayal. Traitor body strikes again, always showing up to the party with unwanted gifts.
When I opened the door, De Luca’s face contorted with disgust. “You reek of unsatisfied heat.”
“And good morning to you too,” I retorted, crossing my arms over my chest where my nipples had hardened traitorously. “Did you bring breakfast, or just your sparkling personality? Because I’ve got to say, one of those options is significantly more appetizing than the other.”
The slap came so fast I barely saw it coming. Note to self: antagonizing the psychopathic mafia don while in heat-induced misery isn’t your brightest idea.
“Your insolence is wearing thin,” De Luca said, stepping into my quarters as two beta guards followed behind him. “As is my patience.”
I touched my stinging cheek, fighting the omega instinct to cower. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I’m not my usual charming self. Being forced into this situation isn’t exactly on my bucket list. ‘Seduce captive alphas’ was right between ‘swim with sharks’ and ‘BASE jump without a parachute’ on my list of things never to do.”
De Luca settled into one of the plush chairs, gesturing for me to sit opposite him. “Sit.”
“I’m not a dog,” I said, but I perched on the edge of the sofa anyway, acutely aware of my nakedness beneath the thin shirt and the dampness still clinging to my thighs.
De Luca’s lip curled as he watched me struggle. “I don’t care how you do it, Mr. Hart. I don’t care what methods you employ. I care about results.” He pulled a phone from his pocket, his gnarled fingers swiping across the screen. “Perhaps you need additional motivation.”
He turned the phone toward me, and my heart stuttered. On the screen was a video feed of a hospital room. My father lay in the bed, tubes and wires connecting him to various machines. His face was still swollen from the beating, one eye completely shut, the other barely open. A breathing tube snaked down his throat.
“Dad,” I whispered, my anger evaporating into raw fear. Suddenly, my snarky comments felt hollow, meaningless in the face of what really mattered.
“As you can see, I’ve kept my end of our bargain,” De Luca said, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing the weather instead of my father’s life. “He’s receiving excellent care. For now.”
My fingers dug into my thighs. “For now?”
“Medical care is expensive, Mr. Hart.” De Luca zoomed in on my father’s bruised face. “One word from me, and they disconnect everything. Or perhaps administer something helpful for his pain. Something permanent.”
Another heat cramp tore through me, this one so intense I had to curl forward, a whimper escaping before I could stop it. Perfect timing, body. Really selling that whole “I’m not just a breeding machine” argument.
“You promised,” I managed through gritted teeth. “You said if I did this?—”
“If you succeed,” De Luca corrected. “Not if you try. Not if you make a token effort.” He pocketed his phone, his cold eyes boring into mine. “I need an heir, and I need it now. You have until tomorrow morning to show progress, or I’ll be forced to reconsider our arrangement.”
The implication hung in the air between us, heavy and threatening. I didn’t want to know what “reconsidering our arrangement” meant, but my imagination supplied several horrifying possibilities, each worse than the last.
“Fine,” I said, hating the tremor in my voice. “I’ll figure something out.”
De Luca studied me for a moment, then nodded once. “See that you do.” He rose from the chair, smoothing his expensive suit. “Remember, Mr. Hart, your father’s life depends on your persuasiveness.”
With that, he left, the guards following behind, leaving me alone with my fear, my heat, and the image of my father hovering on the edge of death.
“Fuck,” I whispered, dropping my head into my hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Another cramp seized me, this one so intense that tears sprang to my eyes. I curled into a ball on the sofa, my body burning from the inside out. This wasn’t just uncomfortable anymore, it was edging into dangerous territory. If my biology were a person, I’d be filing for a restraining order right about now.
I had no choice. I had to try again. Seduce the non-seducible. Charm the charmless. Convince three pissed-off alpha mafia bosses to donate to the “Keep Ty’s Dad Alive” sperm bank.
Just another Tuesday, really.
I dragged myself to the shower, cranking it to cold in a futile attempt to lower my body temperature. By the time I stepped out, my skin was flushed pink again, my scent glands throbbing at my neck. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—dilated pupils, swollen lips, the unmistakable look of an omega in desperate need of an alpha’s knot.
“You look like a walking porno cliché,” I told my reflection bitterly.
I grabbed a silk robe from the closet, the least offensive of De Luca’s disturbing collection, and belted it loosely around my waist. The cool silk offered momentary relief against my fevered skin, but I knew the comfort would be short-lived. Nothing would help except what waited for me in the next room.
“Just get it over with,” I said to myself. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid. A really sexy, potentially life-threatening Band-Aid.”
