Page 21 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Just get through tomorrow,” I whispered to my reflection in the steamy mirror. “Get De Luca what he wants, save Dad, and figure out the rest later. One disaster at a time, Ty.”
But even as I said it, I knew the truth. Whatever game the alphas were playing, I was already caught in it. And despite all my instincts for self-preservation, part of me was already anticipating the next move.
seven
. . .
Anders Knight focused on the pain. The iron cuff around his wrist was a constant reminder of their captivity, the chain rattling softly whenever he moved.
Not the injuries from the explosion, those were healing with the preternatural speed that had always marked him and his sworn brothers as dominant alphas. The bruises that should have lasted weeks were already fading to yellow, the deep lacerations knitting closed at a rate that would astonish medical professionals. It was a trait they’d all shared since childhood, this ability to recover from wounds that would keep ordinary men bedridden for months. Wyatt had once taken three bullets during a territory dispute and been back overseeing operations within days. Conall had survived a rival family’s car bomb that should have killed him, walking away with injuries that healed before their revenge plan was even set in motion.
No, the real pain was the burning restraint of playing weak when every instinct demanded action. The controlled rage at being imprisoned, drugged, and treated like breeding stocksimmered beneath his skin, fueling his determination rather than clouding it.
Pain kept his mind sharp. Pain was clarity. Pain was control.
He inhaled slowly, filtering through the cocktail of scents that filled their prison. Antiseptic from their initial treatment. The lingering cologne of Giovanni De Luca, who visited daily to observe them like specimens in a lab. The beta guards’ unremarkable scents, betraying their nervousness whenever they approached them.
And underneath it all, the unmistakable sweetness of omega in heat. Ty Hart’s jasmine and lily fragrance had intensified since yesterday, taking on notes of honey and sweet musk that signaled his heat’s progression. The scent clung to everything now, seeping through the ventilation system, under the door, embedding itself in the very walls of their prison.
“I’m going to tear De Luca apart with my bare hands when I get free,” Conall growled from his bed, his usual charm replaced by cold fury. “Piece by fucking piece.”
“One bullet,” Wyatt replied, his quiet voice carrying a lethal promise.
Anders said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. Of the three, his rage burned coldest, most calculated. The old don had made the gravest mistake of his life. Not just for the kidnapping, that alone would have earned him a swift death, but for the violation of attempting to use them as breeding stock against their will.
“De Luca’s desperation makes him sloppy,” Anders finally said, his voice a low rumble. “The doctor who checked our vitals this morning, did you notice his hands?”
“Trembling,” Wyatt confirmed. “Afraid.”
“As he should be,” Conall added with a predatory smile that held none of his usual warmth. “They all should be.”
“Two guards. Six-hour rotation. Fat one drinks,” Wyatt murmured.
Anders nodded once in acknowledgment. “The old man’s health is deteriorating faster than he’s letting on. Did you catch his breathing yesterday? The rattle in his chest?”
“Explains his desperation for an heir. For our genetic material,” Conall said.
The thought made Ander’s jaw clench, rage flaring hot before he banked it back to a controlled burn. The idea of being used, of having his legacy stolen, violated something fundamental in his alpha nature.
“Shift change,” Wyatt said, his eyes tracking the movement of shadows. “Left side weakness.”
The micro-communicator hidden beneath Anders’ pillow vibrated once, the signal that their security team had successfully infiltrated another level of De Luca’s compound. When they’d made contact yesterday morning, slipping the device to Anders during a guard change, their message had been clear: extraction was possible within twenty-two hours.
But Anders had made the strategic decision to remain in place. To gather intelligence. To understand De Luca’s operation from the inside before dismantling it completely.
What he hadn’t anticipated was Ty Hart.
“He’ll be back,” Conall murmured, his voice carrying the rough edge of alpha desire despite his anger. “The little taste we gave him yesterday won’t be enough.”
“Not nearly enough,” Anders agreed, his voice betraying more of his anticipation than he’d intended. “He’ll need more. And he’ll hate himself for wanting it.”
That was the most delicious part, the omega’s self-loathing coupled with desperate need. The way Ty fought his own biology even as it betrayed him. Most omegas Anders had encountered either embraced their nature without question or resentedit silently. None had ever challenged him so directly while simultaneously responding so perfectly to his touch.
“You enjoyed him,” Wyatt said.
Anders didn’t deny it. What would be the point? They knew each other too well for such pretenses. “He’s different.”
“Defiant,” Conall added with appreciation. “Even with slick running down his thighs and his body begging for it.”
