The Mafia Alpha’s Forbidden Omega (The Omegas of Crime City #2)

1. Dante

DANTE

T he leather of the antique chair is freezing against Dante’s bare thighs, but the cold does nothing to soothe the sudden, violent heat spike tearing through his veins.

He sits frozen in the dim Rossi estate office, his fingers digging into the carved mahogany armrests until his knuckles turn white.

Across the desk, his father’s hands shake uncontrollably as the old man pours another glass of dark whiskey, the amber liquid spilling over the rim.

"It's done," his father says. The words hit the air like a heavy iron cage dropping into place.

Dante's stomach drops.

Done . Just like that.

Twenty-two years of being Dante Rossi, heir to the Rossi empire, reduced to the past tense.

His omega biology betrays him instantly.

The natural, intoxicating aroma of sweet honey and smoke that usually marks his skin turns sharp and sour, drenching the air in the acrid, cloying stench of raw, unadulterated fear.

His opening twitch-pulses beneath his trousers, weeping a panicked, thin slick that smells like prey cornered by a predator.

"What's done?" Dante asks. He forces his jaw to lock, trying to keep the frantic tremor out of his voice. He’s heard the whispers for weeks. He knows about his father’s catastrophic gambling debts, the bled-dry accounts, and the way the Vitale family has been circling their weakened territory like sharks scenting a slaughter.

His father gulps down the whiskey, the glass clinking sharply against his teeth. "The breeding arrangement. With the Vitale syndicate."

There it is. The word arrangement is just a euphemism. A pretty way to say you're being sold like livestock .

"I'm a person, not a commodity," Dante says, his voice steady despite the panic clawing at his throat.

He's been trained his entire life to be composed, to show nothing. The Rossi family survives on perception—and perception is about to be destroyed the moment anyone learns what's happened.

But his inner brat flares to life through the terror clawing at his throat.

“I’m the Rossi heir, not your fucking livestock!” Dante spits, standing up abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor with a harsh, screeching whine.

"You're an omega in a family without leverage," his father says, and the cruelty in his voice is something new.

Something Dante recognizes as desperation wearing the mask of authority.

"The Vitales want stability. Total submission.

They want to know the Rossi family won't become a problem.

They want a symbolic gesture of good faith.

A permanent biological anchor to seal the debt. "

“And I'm the symbolic gesture? The anchor?” Dante’s voice breaks, his chest tight.

"You're my most valuable asset," his father corrects, and something in Dante's chest cracks. Asset . Not son. Never son. Just property. Just collateral.

"When?" Dante asks, because he already knows this is happening. Knows that his father doesn't make decisions like this lightly, and once decided, they're irreversible. Knows that the Vitale family—specifically Marco Vitale—doesn't accept negotiation or refusal.

"Three days," his father says coldly. “Cathedral wedding. Private pews. You will wear his collar, accept his marking bite at the altar, and provide immediate consummation in the vestry. He expects you to be pregnant before the month ends.”

The words blur together and the room spins. Dante hears them as if from a distance, his omega instincts screaming warnings that his alpha side refuses to acknowledge.

The Vitales are brutal. Everyone knows this. Marco Vitale, especially, is known for being cold, calculating, and utterly without mercy. He's killed for less than a misplaced word. He's destroyed entire families for perceived disrespect.

And Dante is supposed to marry him. Have his heir.

Dante’s omega core throbs in absolute terror, yet a dark, forbidden spike of heat hits his lower belly at the thought of the brutal alpha’s knot stretching him open.

"Does he know?" Dante asks. "Does Marco know I'm..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but his father understands. Does Marco know he's being married off to an omega who's already terrified, already resentful, already counting the days until he can escape?

His father looks up, a grim, terrifying smile touching his lips. "He requested you specifically, Dante. He told me he looks forward to breaking a bratty Rossi omega."

The words land like ice water. Requested him specifically.

Which means Marco knows everything. Knows Dante is young, knows he's beautiful in that ethereal omega way that makes alpha predators salivate, knows he's from a weakened family with no allies left.

Knows he'll be vulnerable in Marco's compound, dependent on Marco for every breath.

Knows, in other words, that Dante will be completely under his control.

The three days pass like a prisoner being fattened for the slaughterhouse.

His mother—distant, medicated, barely present—allows stylists to dress him in a white silk wedding suit that clings to Dante’s athletic frame like a second skin.

They perfume him with scents designed to enhance his natural omega aroma.

They tell him to smile, to look obedient, to appear grateful for this "opportunity. "

Dante smiles with teeth like weapons.

By the time he stands at the altar of the grand cathedral, his biology is already hyper-reactive, his hole weeping a thin, anxious line of slick into his underwear under the heavy, predatory stares of the entire Vitale crime family.

The cathedral is filled with made men and their associates—every mafia family in Crime City represented.

The Vitales sit on one side, the Rossis on the other, with Dante positioned as the bridge between them.

The bridge that will seal an alliance in blood and semen and the paranormal binding that comes with a mated pair.

Then Marco Vitale stalks down the aisle, and the air evaporates from Dante's lungs.

Dante's breath catches in his throat, and he has to force himself to keep breathing, to keep from showing the reaction that ripples through his body.

Marco Vitale is larger than any photograph captured—at least six foot four, built like violence given human form.

His suit is expensive Italian silk, perfectly tailored to show off a frame of pure muscle and lethal grace.

A jagged, unbent scar cuts from his temple down to his hard jawline.

His alpha pheromones hit the altar before he even reaches it—a suffocating, massive wave of heavy tobacco, crushed black pepper, and raw, territorial dominance.

But it's his eyes that steal Dante's breath entirely.

They're dark, almost black, with predatory intelligence burning behind them. There's no softness there. No mercy. No part of Marco's expression that suggests he has any capacity for kindness or gentleness.

When those eyes find Dante's, Dante feels something shift deep in his omega biology—a recognition that comes from somewhere ancient and paranormal, something encoded into his DNA that screams danger, danger, danger .

He looks like he wants to skin me alive right here , Dante thinks, his heart hammering against his ribs as his core pulses with a sudden, traitorous burst of thick, hot slick.

Perfect , Dante's traitorous body seems to think. This is exactly what you need .

Marco approaches the altar with the slow, deliberate pace of a predator circling prey.

He doesn't acknowledge the priest or the gathered families.

His attention is entirely focused on Dante, measuring, assessing, clearly cataloging every detail of the omega's appearance as if committing it to memory for later dissection.

Marco stops directly in front of him. He doesn't look at the priest. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a heavy, thick collar made of blood-red leather, lined with blunt steel studs and fitted with a solid brass D-ring at the throat.

The cathedral goes dead silent.

"Kneel, Rossi," Marco commands. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through the marble floorboards and slams into Dante’s omega core like a physical blow.

Dante locks his knees, his jaw tight. "I'm not a dog, Vitale."

Marco doesn't argue. He moves with blinding, mafia-trained speed. His massive, scarred hand hooks around the front of Dante’s throat, his thick fingers squeezing until Dante's vision blurs around the edges. He forces Dante down onto his knees with unyielding weight.

Dante chokes, saliva pooling in his mouth as Marco wraps the heavy red leather around his neck. Click . The lock snaps into place.

"You are my property now," Marco growls, leaning down so his hot breath brushes Dante's burning ear. He grabs the brass D-ring, yanking Dante’s head up brutally to force him to look into his dark eyes.

"You will wear my mark, you will take my knot, and you will stay on your knees whenever I command it. Speak your vows."

Tears of forced compliance prick Dante’s eyes from the heavy grip on his throat. He swallows hard, his voice raw as the collar constricts his neck. "I... I take you, Marco Vitale... to obey without question. To let you use my body, to take your seed, and to carry your heirs until death."

Marco’s grip tightens, his thumb pressing into Dante's carotid artery until his head spins.

"I take you, Dante Rossi, as my Omega. I vow to claim every wet inch of your body, to punish your defiance with my belt, and to execute any man who dares to look at what belongs to me. Till death do us part."

"The kiss," the priest whispers, trembling.

The kiss is brief and brutal. Marco grabs the back of Dante's neck with one scarred hand and pulls him close, kissing him like he's claiming territory. Dante tastes blood—whether it's his or Marco's, he can't tell.

Marco tastes like dark liquor and pure dominance. When he finally pulls away, a thick string of saliva hangs between them, and Dante’s lips are bruised and swollen.

The reception is a nightmare of false congratulations and thinly veiled threats.

Dante sits beside Marco, watching the alpha's hand rest on his thigh with casual ownership.

They don't speak, don't acknowledge each other with anything except proximity and the occasional touch that's just short of a claim.

When Marco finally stands to leave, he simply extends his hand toward Dante. No request. No question. Just expectation of obedience.

Dante takes it, and the moment his skin touches Marco's, electricity runs down his spine.

His omega biology responds instantly, pheromones shifting into something dangerously close to submission scent.

He has to force himself to walk normally, to appear composed, to not betray just how terrified and desperately aroused he is becoming.

The Vitale compound materializes through the rain-soaked streets like something conjured from a nightmare. High walls topped with broken glass that catches the occasional streetlight like teeth.

Guards stationed at every entrance with the posture of men who've killed without hesitation before. The architecture is brutalist—function over form, intimidation made concrete and steel.

Marco leads Dante through corridors that feel like passages to hell. The penthouse is at the top of the compound, separated from the rest of the family's operations by locked doors and security that makes the earlier checkpoints look like formalities.

When the door closes behind them, Marco finally speaks.

"Welcome home, amore ," he says, and the endearment is dripping with possession and dark promise. "You're going to learn very quickly what it means to be mine."

Dante's knees go weak, and he realizes with terrifying clarity that his father was right about one thing: he is valuable.

But not as a Rossi.

Only as Marco's.