Traitor's Allegiance

Chapter 1

The gunshot cracked through the office like a bone snapping.

Rome stood in the doorway, arm still extended, the barrel of his Glock smoking in the low light.

The tall Italian crumpled forward, a neat hole blooming in the center of his forehead.

His body hit the hardwood with a wet, final thud.

Blood arced in a fine spray, hot, metallic, and immediate, splattering across Keisha’s bare tits, her stomach, the curve of her hip.

She sat frozen on Demario’s lap, naked, thighs still straddling him, the thick handle of the hunting knife gleaming wet on the futon a few feet away.

Demario’s first thought cut through the ringing in his ears, sharp and disbelieving.

The fuck is my baby brother doing here with a body on him?

Rome didn’t lower the gun. His eyes, same dark brown as Demario’s, same cold focus, swept the room once, cataloguing.

Naked queen covered in another man’s blood.

Kingpin with his dick still half-hard and shiny from her.

The knife stuck in the leather. The open door behind him where heavy footsteps had just stopped.

“Clear,” Rome said, voice low, almost bored. He stepped fully inside and kicked the door shut with his heel. “Two more downstairs. Already handled.”

Keisha’s body shook against Demario’s. Not the good kind of shake.

The kind that came after someone tried to finger-fuck you at gunpoint and then got their brains rearranged two feet away.

Blood dripped from her left nipple onto Demario’s bandage.

He could smell it, iron and gunpowder and the lingering musk of the sex they’d been having thirty seconds earlier.

Demario’s arm tightened around her waist. Protective. Possessive. The analytical part of his brain, the part that had kept him alive through five years inside and the streets before that, was already moving.

The Italians knew exactly where he was.

Not a random hit. Not a lucky guess. Someone had timed it. Waited until he was balls-deep in his woman, distracted, vulnerable in the one place he thought was sealed. Johnny Russo’s people didn’t move like this unless they had eyes inside or a tracker on something he hadn’t checked.

Rome holstered the Glock and finally looked at his older brother. “You good?”

Demario’s voice came out rough. “How long you been back in the city?”

“Three days.” Rome’s gaze flicked to Keisha, then away, respectful but not soft. “Heard the warehouse got hit. Heard you were walking free like the walls never held you. Figured you’d need family closer than the ones on payroll.”

Keisha made a small, choked sound. Demario felt the tremor run through her thighs. He reached up, cupped her jaw, forced her eyes to his. Blood streaked her cheek. Her pupils were blown wide.

“Look at me,” he ordered, quiet but absolute. “You’re breathing. You’re mine. You’re okay.”

She nodded once, shaky. “He, he put his hands on me,”

“I know.” Demario’s thumb smeared a streak of blood across her lower lip. “He’s done. Rome made sure.”

Rome cleared his throat. “Y’all might want to…

handle that.” He gestured vaguely at their naked bodies, the blood, the knife.

“I got the front secured. Two of my guys are sweeping the perimeter. But this house is hot now. Italians don’t send one man with a speech unless the rest of the crew is already circling. ”

Demario lifted Keisha off his lap carefully.

His shoulder burned where the older bullet wound pulled, but the pain was distant, secondary.

He stood, dick still heavy against his thigh, and reached for the black button-down draped over the desk chair.

He shrugged it on without buttoning it, then grabbed a throw blanket from the day chair and wrapped it around Keisha’s shoulders.

The soft fabric darkened instantly where the blood soaked through.

“Bathroom,” he told her. “Now. Clean up. Don’t leave the second floor.”

She clutched the blanket tighter, eyes still glassy. “Demario,”

“Go.” He kissed her hard, tasting copper and fear and the salt of her earlier pleasure. “I’m right behind you.”

She went. The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Demario turned fully to his brother.

Rome was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking every bit the younger version of the man Demario used to be, leaner, sharper around the eyes, the kind of quiet that meant he’d already calculated three different exit strategies.

“You brought a body into my house,” Demario said.

“I brought a solution into your house.” Rome’s mouth twitched. “That motherfucker was two seconds from putting a bullet in your spine while he played with your girl’s pussy. You’re welcome.”

Demario stepped over the corpse, careful not to track blood further into the room. He crouched, checked the Italian’s pockets with efficient hands. Phone. Wallet. A small silver medallion with a saint on one side and a set of coordinates scratched into the other. He pocketed the medallion.

“Russo’s people knew I was here,” Demario said, standing. “They knew the exact room. The exact moment. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Rome’s expression didn’t change. “You got a leak.”

“Or a tracker.” Demario’s mind was already racing, warehouse cameras wiped, Jersey crew that moved too clean, the timing of the club shooting weeks ago.

Pieces slotting together with the cold precision of a man who had learned to survive by never missing patterns.

“Somebody’s been feeding them. Or selling me. ”

Rome pushed off the wall. “Then we find out who. Tonight. Before they send the next wave.”

Demario glanced toward the bathroom door.

Water was running. He could picture Keisha under the spray, blood swirling down the drain, her body still marked from him and from the dead man.

The image hit him low in the gut, rage and possession and the dark, hungry need to erase every foreign touch with his own.

“First I make sure she’s solid,” Demario said. “Then we move.”

Rome nodded once. “I’ll be downstairs. Don’t take too long, big brother. The streets already know you’re free. Now they know you’re bleed-able.”

He left. The door closed softly behind him.

Demario locked it, then crossed to the bathroom.

Steam billowed when he pushed the door open.

Keisha stood under the rainfall shower, blanket discarded on the tile, water sluicing pink over her full tits, her stomach, the soft curve of her pussy.

Blood still clung in the crease of her collarbone. Her hands shook as she scrubbed.

He stripped the shirt off and stepped in behind her without a word. The water was scalding. He didn’t care. He pulled her back against his chest, one arm banding under her breasts, the other sliding down to cup her pussy, possessive, claiming, checking.

She was still wet. Not just from the shower.

“Demario,” Her voice cracked.

“Shh.” He kissed the side of her neck, tasting clean skin and residual copper. “He touched what belongs to me. He’s dead. You’re here. That’s all that matters right now.”

Her body trembled harder. He turned her, pressed her back to the tiled wall, and dropped to his knees.

The water poured over his head, down his back.

He spread her thighs, buried his face between them, and licked her open with slow, deliberate strokes, tongue flat, then pointed, then sucking her clit between his lips like he could pull the fear out of her through her cunt.

Keisha’s hands flew to his wet hair. “Fuck-D,”

He didn’t stop. He fucked her with his tongue, two thick fingers sliding up into her heat, curling, pumping.

The water made everything slicker, louder.

Her hips rolled against his mouth. The taste of her, sweet, salty, still faintly metallic from the blood that had streaked her thighs, flooded him.

He growled against her clit and felt her thighs clamp around his head.

“Cum on my tongue,” he ordered, voice rough against her soaked folds. “Right fucking now. Show me you’re still mine.”

She shattered with a broken cry, walls fluttering around his fingers, juices flooding his mouth. He licked her through it, slow and filthy, until her knees buckled and she slid down the wall into his arms.

Demario stood, lifting her with him. He pinned her against the tile, lined up, and thrust home in one deep stroke. The stretch made her gasp. The heat of her, tight, pulsing, still fluttering from the orgasm, ripped a groan from his chest.

“This pussy,” he growled against her ear, fucking her in hard, measured strokes that slapped wetly under the spray. “Mine. Always. No motherfucker puts hands on it and lives. You feel me?”

“Yes,” She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, the bandage already soaked through. “Yours-oh fuck-Demario,”

He pounded deeper, angling to grind against that spot that made her eyes roll.

The water poured over them. Blood diluted and disappeared down the drain.

His shoulder burned. He didn’t slow. Every thrust was a promise and a threat, to her, to the streets, to every Italian still breathing who thought they could walk into his house and touch what was his.

When she came again, squirting around his dick in hot, messy pulses, he followed with a guttural sound, flooding her deep, holding her locked against the tile while the last ropes pulsed out of him.

They stayed like that, breathing hard, water cooling around them.

Demario pressed his forehead to hers. “Rome’s downstairs. The Italians knew exactly where we were. That means someone sold the location. Or tracked us. Either way, this house isn’t safe anymore.”

Keisha’s eyes were clearer now. Still shaken. Still his. “What do we do?”

He pulled out slowly, watched his cum leak down her thigh with dark satisfaction, then shut the water off.

“We move. Tonight. And then we find out who the fuck thought they could come for the king in his own bed.”

He stepped out, grabbed two towels, and wrapped one around her first. His voice dropped, low and absolute.

“Get dressed. Pack light. We’re not running, we’re hunting.”

Outside the bathroom, the house was quiet except for the distant sound of Rome’s voice giving orders downstairs. Demario’s phone buzzed on the desk. An unknown number. A single text.

Russo says hello. Tell your Bitch the next one’s for her.

Demario stared at the screen. A cold smile cut across his face.

Game on.