Of course their suits are still perfect. Probably have magical blood-repelling properties because even their dry cleaner is probably terrified of them. ‘Sorry, Mr. Vitale, but we can’t get brain matter out of Armani. Have you considered switching to a more murder-friendly fabric?’
The doors opened, and they slid into the vehicle with synchronized precision—Stefano beside me, Marco and Matteo taking the seats facing us. The confined space immediately filled with their scents, intensified by adrenaline and violence—pine and winter from Stefano, cinnamon and amber from Marco, cedar and something darker from Matteo that probably had its own entry in the ‘Scary Shit That Turns Omegas On’ catalog.
My heat-affected body responded instantly—pupils dilating, breath shortening, skin flushing with unwanted arousal that made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Six months of suppressed need crashed over me like a tsunami, making me press back against the leather seats as if I could somehow escape their collective presence by becoming one with the upholstery.
Fuck. Months without them and my body’s ready to roll over like a trained pet who’s just spotted its favorite chew toy. The scent of violence on them should disgust me, not make mewant to lick it off their skin like some demented omega with a murder fetish.
“Drive,” Stefano commanded the suited man behind the wheel, and the SUV lurched forward, tires spinning on blood-soaked gravel as we accelerated away from the only home I’d known for eight years.
And there goes my childhood. Goodbye, cottage prison. Hello, mafia fortress where I’ll probably die in new and creative ways. At least the Wi-Fi will probably be better.
The sudden movement sent me sliding across the leather seat, and before I could catch myself—because apparently my coordination had gone on vacation along with my dignity—Stefano’s arm shot out, hauling me into his lap with casual strength that made my breath catch and my traitorous omega hindbrain purr with approval.
One of his hands settled possessively at my waist while the other adjusted his jacket around my shoulders, his fingers lingering against my skin with deliberate intent. I could smell the gunpowder on him, the metallic tang of blood clinging to his clothes despite their pristine appearance. His body radiated heat and violence, alpha pheromones pouring off him in waves that made my omega biology sing hymns of submission while my conscious mind composed angry death metal.
He just killed people. Minutes ago, those hands were snapping necks and doing things that would make serial killers weep with admiration. But he still smells like safety. Like home. Even with blood under his fingernails, my fucked-up omega brain thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I need professional help. So much professional help.
“Where’s Aunt Akiko and Uncle Jiro?” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my attempts to sound strong. The heat was making everything fuzzy around the edges, but terror cutthrough the haze like a knife through butter. “What happened to them? Are they—are they?—”
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t let these beautiful monsters have killed the only people who ever gave a shit about me. Because I don’t think I could handle that level of betrayal, especially not while my body is actively trying to seduce their murderers.
“Alive,” Stefano answered, his mouth too close to my ear, breath hot against my neck. The proximity sent unwelcome shivers down my spine even as relief flooded through me like a drug. “They’ve been relocated to a secure facility. They’ll remain unharmed as long as you cooperate.”
The clinical way he phrased it—like my loved ones were bargaining chips in some fucked-up game rather than actual human beings—sent a chill down my spine that momentarily cut through the heat fever.
Cooperate. Right. Because I totally have a choice when I’m sitting half-naked in the lap of a killer who just demonstrated his neck-snapping skills. ‘Please select your level of cooperation: willing submission or enthusiastic submission. Resistance is not currently available.’
“Cooperate with what?” I asked, trying to shift away from his lap only to find myself firmly secured by his arm. My thoughts felt like they were swimming through molasses, scattered by heat symptoms and the overwhelming scent of three alphas in a confined space. “Security? That’s what I thought you were—rent-a-thugs with anger management issues and tactical gear fetishes. Not the fucking Grim Reaper’s personal hit squad with a side hobby in omega kidnapping.”
Not the stuff of omega nightmares and wet dreams all rolled into one gorgeous, terrifying package that my brain can’t process properly.
Marco’s laugh carried no trace of the playful charm I remembered, his eyes darker than I’d ever seen them as he watched me squirm in Stefano’s lap like the world’s most uncomfortable entertainment. “Security? Oh, baby, that’s adorable. You thought we were what—glorified bodyguards? Rent-a-cops with daddy issues and good health insurance?”
His smile was back—that familiar teasing grin that had once made my stomach flip—but now it was painted with someone else’s blood. Literally. There were actual flecks of crimson on his collar, and my traitorous body pulsed with arousal instead of the revulsion any sane person would feel.
The cognitive dissonance is giving me whiplash. This is the man who kissed me like he was drowning and I was air, and he’s sitting there with blood spatter like it’s a fucking fashion accessory. And I want to lick it off him. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Did you miss us, pretty thing?” Marco asked, leaning forward until I could smell the death on him, see the flecks of someone else’s blood on his face like macabre freckles. “Because we certainly missed you. Didn’t we, Matteo?”
The casual way he asked it—like they hadn’t just murdered people, like there wasn’t violence still clinging to their clothes like expensive cologne—made something twist painfully in my chest. The heat was making it hard to process the jarring contrast between the alphas who’d haunted my dreams and these efficient killers who wore familiar faces.
They missed me. They actually said they missed me while sitting there covered in evidence of their latest hobby. Should I be flattered or terrified? Can I be both? Is there a support group for omegas who develop feelings for mass murderers?
“The Vitale Brotherhood doesn’t work for anyone,” Matteo said, his amber eyes cataloging my every reaction with thatunsettling intensity I remembered. “Your father worked with us.”
The name hit me like a physical blow, making my stomach drop somewhere into the vicinity of my feet even through the heat haze clouding my brain.
“The Vitale brothers,” I whispered, my brain finally catching up to the cosmic joke being played on me. “You’re them. The boogeyman stories my father used to tell?”
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I’ve been fantasizing about the Vitale brothers for a year. The mafia royalty even my father was scared of. This is so much worse than I thought. I’ve been getting off thinking about the apex predators of the criminal underworld. My taste in men is somehow even worse than I thought possible.
The rumors, the whispered conversations I’d overheard as a child before being hidden away like an embarrassing family secret—three alphas who controlled half the criminal enterprises on the West Coast. The Vitales. Not just any mafia family, but the one even my father had been cautious around, like they were forces of nature rather than men.
And I let them spank me like a naughty omega. I begged them to touch me. I came in their mouths while knowing absolutely nothing about who they really were. My ignorance is almost impressive in its completeness.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, my voice small and uncertain in a way that would have mortified me under normal circumstances. The heat was making everything feel too intense, too overwhelming, like someone had turned up the volume on my entire nervous system.
Probably to some mafia fortress where they’ll chain me to a bed and use me as their personal omega stress relief. Though, given how my body’s responding to their proximity, the chainsmight be redundant. I’d probably stay put just for the privilege of being their sex toy.
