Chapter 22 #2
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 cut through 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 that unsettling 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 chains might be redundant. I’d probably stay put just for the privilege of being their sex toy.
"Home," Stefano said simply, his hand sliding beneath the jacket to splay possessively across my bare chest. The heat of his palm against my skin sent another wave of confused pleasure racing through my system like electricity through water. "Where you belong."
Home. Right. Because being kidnapped by mafia royalty is totally a homecoming scenario. Should I expect a welcome mat and fresh-baked cookies? Maybe a 'Congratulations on Your New Life as Owned Omega Property' banner?
"I don't belong anywhere with you three," I managed, my voice cracking despite my attempts to sound defiant. "You disappeared. For six fucking months. Not a word, not a visit, nothing. And now you just… what? Decide I'm yours again?"
"Oh, we never left," Marco interrupted, sliding closer until his knees pressed against mine, that familiar predatory smile returning despite the blood spatter decorating his collar like macabre confetti.
"Those cameras in your bedroom, your bathroom, that reading nook in the garden—they showed us everything.
Every night you called our names in your sleep.
Every morning you touched yourself thinking about us. "
The revelation hit me like a physical blow, my stomach dropping as realization crashed through me. They'd been watching. Everything. All this time.
They saw me sobbing their names. Heard me begging phantom alphas while I tried desperately to recreate what they'd done to me. Witnessed every pathetic attempt to satisfy cravings only they could fulfill.
"You sick, voyeuristic pieces of shit!" I snarled, trying to claw my way out of Stefano's lap. "That's illegal! That's—that's—fuck, there should be a whole new category of felony for that level of stalker behavior!"
And the most fucked-up part? My traitorous omega biology thinks it's the hottest thing. What does that say about me? That I like being watched? That I'm so psychologically damaged I'm getting wet over my own stalking.
"That's ownership," Stefano murmured against my ear, his voice a dark promise that made my body respond despite my horror.
His mouth crashed against mine without warning, cutting off my protest with bruising force that made my head spin. His tongue rammed past my lips, so thick and desperate I choked on the invasion. The taste flooded my senses—pine and winter and something darker that my body recognized instantly.
Oh God. This. This is what I've been trying to recreate for six months. The way his tongue claims every corner of my mouth like he's mapping territory. The precise pressure that makes my toes curl. The perfect balance of dominance and skill that none of my midnight fantasies could capture.
My nails clawed at his shirt, tearing expensive fabric as my body battled between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to deepen the angle.
The sharp pain sent electricity racing down my spine, igniting memories of that night in the tent—how he'd held me just like this while Marco praised me, how Matteo had watched with those intense amber eyes while I fell apart between them.
I've spent six months dreaming about this. Waking up aching and empty because my own fingers couldn't recreate the way Stefano kissed me that night—like I was something he'd been starving for, something he'd burn the world to possess.
When his teeth sank into my lower lip, copper burst across my tongue, and I sobbed into his mouth.
The taste triggered another flood of memories—how he'd bitten me in the tent, marking me as they passed me between them.
How I'd screamed their names as pleasure crashed through me in waves.
How they'd owned every inch of me before disappearing like smoke.
His tongue thrust deeper, and I gagged slightly, the sensation sending shameful heat straight to my core.
This was exactly how he'd kissed me that night—invading every part of me, leaving no corner unexplored.
My body remembered what my mind had tried to forget, responding with muscle memory that had been imprinted beneath my skin.
When he finally released my mouth, I was gasping, lips swollen and tender, the copper taste of my own blood mingling with the lingering pine and winter essence of him. My body throbbed with need I couldn't suppress, months of phantom cravings finally answered by the real thing.
"Your body remembers," Stefano murmured, voice rough with satisfaction as his thumb traced the bite mark on my lower lip. "It knows who you belong to, even if you've been pretending otherwise."
"I don't belong to anyone," I gasped, though the breathless quality of my voice wasn't exactly selling my independence. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said LYING in neon letters.
"Fuck," Marco breathed, eyes fixated on my mouth like he was mentally calculating how soon he could claim it next. "Look at him. Already falling apart after one kiss. Six months without us, and he's ready to beg already."
I'm not ready to beg. I'm just… remembering. How it felt to be completely consumed by them. How nothing I've tried since has come close to the way they dismantled me piece by piece that night. The way they broke me down until I was sobbing "Daddy" while coming harder than I ever had in my life.
"You can't just—" I tried, but my voice sounded wrecked even to my own ears, nothing like the defiant tone I'd intended. "Where the hell have you been? Six months of nothing and now you show up covered in blood, acting like you own me?"
Now you're back like avenging angels of death and sex, like nothing happened, like you didn't disappear without explanation, like you didn't leave me wondering if that night meant anything to you while it completely fucked up my entire existence.
Stefano's hand slid from my jaw to my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse with just enough pressure to remind me how easily he could stop it.
"We've always been there," he said, eyes tracking every micro-expression that crossed my face.
"Watching. Waiting. Making sure nothing threatened what's ours. "
His mouth descended again, this time with calculated slowness that was somehow more devastating than the earlier brutality.
His lips moved against mine with deliberate precision, coaxing rather than commanding.
The gentleness was worse than force—it reminded me of how they'd bathed me after breaking me apart, how they'd held me with surprising tenderness after pushing me past my limits.
Just like when they'd reduced me to nothing but need and surrender before building me back up with gentle touches and soft praise. "Good boy," they'd called me, and God help me, I'd believed them.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, asking permission this time rather than demanding entrance. The contrast to his earlier assault made something in my chest ache with confused longing. I opened for him without conscious thought, welcoming the invasion I'd spent months dreaming about.
He tasted exactly as I remembered—pine and winter and something darker that belonged uniquely to him.
The perfect blend of flavors I'd tried to recall during countless frustrated nights alone.
My body responded instantly, heat pooling between my thighs, my cock hardening against his thigh in shameful recognition.
I hate that they know what they do to me. Hate that after everything—the abandonment, the surveillance, the casual violence—my body still recognizes them as something it needs. Something it's been desperate for.
"I don't belong to you," I whispered against his mouth when he finally let me breathe. The words felt hollow even as I said them, undermined by the way my body trembled with need in his arms. "I'm not yours."
The SUV began to slow, tires crunching over what sounded like gravel rather than the rough forest road. I blinked through my arousal-addled haze, trying to focus on anything besides the throbbing need between my legs.
"What—?" I started, but the question died as the vehicle emerged from the dense tree line.
An airstrip. A fucking airstrip carved into the middle of the wilderness, the runway stretching out like a dark ribbon against the green forest. And at the far end, gleaming white against the afternoon sun, sat a private jet.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.