MY MAFIA BOYFRIEND

The Terms

Julian kissed her like he was still making a point—deep, thorough, and unhurried. One hand stayed wrapped loosely around her throat while the other slid fully under the shirt, palm spreading over the bare curve of her ass, fingers digging in hard enough to leave new marks. He walked her backward until her shoulders met the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glittered behind her, indifferent and far away.

When he finally broke the kiss, his voice was low and rough.

“That’s not an answer.”

Isabella’s lips were swollen, her breathing uneven. “I didn’t walk away last night. I didn’t walk away this morning. I’m still here.”

“Not good enough.” His thumb stroked once over the front of her throat. “I want the words. Clear. No half-truths.”

She held his gaze. The shirt had ridden up; cool air touched the slick insides of her thighs. She could feel the evidence of him still leaking out of her, and the knowledge that Dante had seen her like this—flushed, marked, barely dressed—only sharpened the heat under her skin.

“I’m yours,” she said quietly.

Julian’s eyes darkened. “Again.”

“I’m yours.”

A low sound of approval rumbled in his chest. He kissed her once more, harder this time, then pulled back just enough to speak against her mouth.

“Good. Because the second you said it in front of Dante, it became real in a way you don’t fully understand yet. He’ll treat you accordingly from now on. So will every man who works for me. You’re no longer a guest in this penthouse. You’re under my protection—and my claim.”

He released her throat and took her hand, leading her across the open living space toward a wide leather couch that faced the windows. He sat and pulled her down to straddle him, the shirt pooling around her hips. His hands settled on her bare thighs, thumbs stroking slowly.

“There are rules now,” he said. “Simple ones. You don’t leave the building without me or Dante knowing. You don’t take meetings, calls, or visitors I haven’t cleared. If someone from your old life reaches out, you tell me first. And when I want you—morning, night, in the middle of a conversation—you open for me. No hesitation.”

Isabella’s pulse kicked. “And if I break one?”

Julian’s smile was slow and dark. “Then I remind you why you won’t do it again. Thoroughly.”

His hands slid higher, pushing the shirt up until it bunched under her arms. He leaned in and closed his mouth over one n****e, sucking hard enough to make her gasp, then moved to the other. When he pulled back, both peaks were wet and tight.

“Marco won’t forget the way I spoke to him,” he continued, almost conversationally, while one hand drifted between her legs. Two fingers slid through the mess he’d left, then pushed inside her without warning. She was still swollen, still sensitive; the stretch pulled a soft sound from her throat. “He’ll dig. He’ll try to find out who you are. Where you came from. Whether you’re leverage.”

He curled his fingers, slow and deliberate.

“I won’t let him get that far. But you need to understand the world you just stepped into. People die in it. Regularly. And the ones who survive do it by belonging to someone stronger.”

Isabella’s hips shifted against his hand. “Is that what I am now? Someone who survives by belonging to you?”

“Yes.” No softness in the answer. He added a third finger, stretching her further, watching her face the entire time. “And in return, I keep you safe. Fed. f****d. Covered in me. You want something—clothes, money, information, a body buried—you ask. I’ll handle it.”

He withdrew his fingers, brought them to her mouth, and waited. She opened. He watched her clean them while his other hand freed his c**k from his jeans. Already hard again. He gripped the base and rubbed the thick head through her folds, coating himself in the mixture of her arousal and his earlier releases.

“Last chance to tell me you want out,” he said quietly. “After this, I stop offering.”

Isabella looked down at him—the dangerous man who had taken her apart and was calmly explaining the terms of ownership while the head of his c**k notched against her entrance.

She sank down onto him in one slow, continuous motion until he was buried to the hilt.

Julian’s head tipped back against the couch, a rough exhale leaving him. His hands locked on her hips hard enough to bruise.

“f**k,” he muttered. “That’s my girl.”

He let her set the pace at first—slow, deep rises and falls that made every inch of him drag against her sore walls. Then he took over, gripping her tighter and thrusting up to meet her, the wet sounds of their joining loud in the quiet penthouse. One of his hands left her hip to wrap around her throat again, not cutting air, just holding her in place so he could watch every expression that crossed her face.

She came first, thighs trembling, cunt clamping down around him. Julian followed with a low growl, slamming her down onto his c**k and flooding her a third time, holding her there through every pulse until he was empty.

They stayed locked together afterward, breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers. Outside the glass, the city kept moving, unaware.

Eventually Julian spoke, voice quieter.

“Dante will bring dinner in an hour. You’ll eat. Then I’m taking you back to bed and keeping you there until morning. Tomorrow we start making this permanent.”

Isabella’s fingers curled against his chest. “Permanent how?”

Julian’s eyes met hers, dark and absolute.

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t elaborate. He simply lifted her off his c**k, watched the fresh mix of their releases drip onto his thighs, and then stood with her still in his arms, carrying her back toward the master suite as if the conversation—and the claiming—had only just begun.