The Mafia's Price

THE FIRST ESCAPE

Time lost all meaning in the penthouse. It was measured not in hours, but in the slow, agonizing beat of my own heart. I lay in the bed he’d assigned me, a room as opulent and cold as the rest of the place. Silk sheets, a view that could steal your breath, and a door I knew was locked from the outside.

The scent of him was still on my skin. My body still hummed with the ghost of his touch, a traitorous echo of the pleasure he’d ripped from me. Shame burned hotter than any fever. I had come for him. On his fingers, against the glass, with the whole city as my witness. I had shattered.

And a part of me… a dark, secret part… wanted to shatter again.

“No,” I whispered into the silence, clenching my fists. He is your captor. Your enemy. I repeated it like a mantra, a prayer to a god I wasn’t sure was listening.

When a sliver of gray dawn light finally pierced the horizon, I rose. My body ached, but my will was a sharp, cold blade. I would not be broken. I would not be his pet.

The clothes he’d left for me were simple: a soft cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. They fit perfectly. The intimacy of that detail, that he knew my size, sent another chill through me. I ignored the hunger gnawing at my stomach and focused on the door.

It was solid, heavy. No visible lock on my side. I pressed my ear against the cool wood. Silence.

Then, a sound. Muffled, from the main living area.

A voice. His voice. He was on the phone, speaking in low, clipped tones. “…the shipment… Ivanov is getting desperate… tighten the perimeter…”

This was my chance.

My eyes scanned the room. There was nothing to use as a tool. But on the nightstand was a heavy, crystal vase. Empty. I picked it up. It was solid, cold in my hands. A weapon. Or a key.

I didn’t think so. I acted.

With all my strength, I swung the vase at the door handle. The impact was a deafening crack that reverberated through the silent room. The crystal shattered, shards skittering across the marble floor. The handle was dented, but the door held.

Silence from the other side. The phone call had stopped.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was out of time.

The door swung open.

Dante stood there, still holding his phone. He wasn’t angry. He looked… amused. His eyes flicked from my face to the shattered vase at my feet, then back to me.

“Having trouble sleeping, princess?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

“Let me go,” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small. He was wearing only black trousers, his chest bare. The scar, the defined muscles, the sheer physicality of him was a wall I could not pass.

“You broke my vase,” he said, toeing a shard with his bare foot. “That was Baccarat. 18th century.”

“I don’t give a damn about your vase.”

“No,” he agreed, stepping closer. “You care about your freedom. A futile endeavor.” He stopped inches from me. “Did you really think a piece of glass would save you?”

“Something will,” I hissed. “I will find a way.”

He reached out, and I flinched. But he didn’t strike me. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face, a gesture so unnervingly gentle it was more terrifying than violence.

“Your spirit… it’s intoxicating,” he murmured, his thumb tracing my jawline. “It makes me hard.”

My gaze flicked down involuntarily. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable, thick and straining against the fabric. A fresh wave of heat, unwanted and potent, flooded my core.

“You’re a monster,” I breathed.

“Your monster,” he corrected. His hand slid from my jaw to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his control. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of my heart. “And your body knows it.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just above mine. I could feel the heat of his breath. I should have knee-ed him. I should have spat in his face.

But I didn’t move.

“Kiss me,” he commanded, his voice a low, dark whisper.

“Never.”

“Kiss me, Alessia. Or I will tie you to this bed and f**k you until you forget your own name.”

The threat should have filled me with ice. Instead, it sent a bolt of pure, liquid fire straight to my p***y. My lips parted on a shaky exhale.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a conquest. A claim. His tongue plunged into my mouth, ruthless and demanding. He tasted dark coffee and power. One hand fisted in my hair, holding me still, while the other slid down my back, pressing me flush against the hard ridge of his erection.

And God help me, I kissed him back.

My hands, which had been clenched at my sides, came up. Not to push him away. They gripped his bare shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle.

A low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound vibrated through me, awakening something primal, something hungry.

He walked me backward until my legs hit the bed, and we tumbled onto the silk sheets. He was on top of me, a heavy, delicious weight. He broke the kiss, his eyes blazing down at me, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he challenged, his voice ragged.

I should have. I knew I should have.

But the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was arch my hips against his, a silent, desperate plea.

A savage smile touched his lips.

“That’s what I thought.”

He ripped the sweater over my head. The trousers followed. In seconds, I was naked beneath him. He didn’t undress. He just unfastened his own trousers, freeing his c**k. It was thick, veined, and ruddy with need. He was massive.

He positioned himself at my entrance. I was wet, so wet for him, my body betraying every ounce of my hatred.

“Look at me,” he growled.

My eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. I met his stormy gaze.

“This p***y is mine,” he stated, not a question, a fact. And then he thrust inside.

It was a brutal, filling stretch. I cried out, my nails scraping down his back. There was no gentle easing. He was sheathing himself in me completely, claiming every inch.

“f**k,” he groaned, his head dropping to my shoulder. “You’re so f*****g tight.”

He began to move. A slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was a reminder of his power, each withdrawal a torment. But with every plunge, the pain began to blur into something else. Something overwhelming.

My hips rose to meet his. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. Moans, unbidden and shameless, fell from my lips.

“Yes,” he hissed, driving into me harder, faster. “That’s it. Take your master’s cock.”

The filthy words, the raw possession, should have revolted me. Instead, they coiled the spring inside me tighter. My climax built, a terrifying wave about to crash.

“Dante…” I whimpered, his name a surrender on my lips.

He f****d me through my orgasm, his pace never faltering, drawing out my pleasure until I was sobbing, clutching at him. Only when my body went limp did his own control snap. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, and I felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside me.

He collapsed on top of me, his breath hot against my neck. We lay there, tangled, sweaty, the scent of s*x thick in the air.

Slowly, he pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at me. His expression was unreadable.

He leaned down and kissed me again, but this time it was different. Softer. Almost… tender.

Then he pulled out, stood, and fastened his trousers as if nothing had happened.

“The next time you try to escape,” he said, his voice once again cold and detached, “the punishment will not be so… pleasurable.”

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“Breakfast is in an hour. Don’t be late.”

The door clicked shut. Locked.

And I was alone again. Filled with his seed. Covered in his scent. My body thrummed with the aftershocks of a pleasure so profound it felt like damnation.

The worst part wasn’t that he had taken me.

The worst part was that, for a few blinding moments, I had wanted him to.