The Mafia's Broken Vows

Dominik. Touch

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He tried to run… but Dominik’s hands left deeper marks than chains ever could.

He hadn’t seen Dominik all day.

Not since the night when he heard the sounds—those vulgar, guttural moans from behind closed doors. Two women. One man. And all of them breaking.

He couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest.

The mansion was too quiet, too suffocating. Guards watched him from the corners, but they didn’t speak. He was dressed in soft silk pants and a tight shirt, no shoes. No freedom.

Just a pretty bird in a golden cage.

He tried distracting himself. He wiped the same spotless corner of the room a dozen times. His fingers trembled when he accidentally knocked over a glass vase.

No one came.

That was when the idea sparked.

Run. Tonight.

He waited until the sun set. Until the halls grew dim. The back door had one weak spot in the security—a blind camera, just for twenty seconds every loop.

He moved like a ghost, slipping down the side corridor, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

The garden wall was tall, cruel. But he’d seen the vines. Thought he could use them.

Stupid.

He was halfway up when the vine snapped.

He fell hard, landing on his wrist with a scream that pierced the night. Pain exploded through his arm. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

And then he heard the footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Controlled.

He whimpered and looked up.

Dominik.

His jaw was tight. His eyes glowed with fury—no, not fury. Something worse. Controlled rage. Cold, sharp, and burning.

He didn’t speak.

He crouched, gripped his injured arm, and inspected it without a word. When he pressed down, pain shot through him and he gasped.

“You’re lucky it’s just a sprain,” Dominik muttered, voice like ice. “If it were broken, you’d be crawling instead of walking.”

Still, he lifted him with one arm like he weighed nothing. Back into the house. Through the hallway. Into Dominik’s private room.

He laid him on the bed gently, surprisingly. Cleaned the wound with alcohol. Wrapped it with precision.

But his face never softened.

And then—he stood. Slowly removed his suit jacket. Rolled up his sleeves.

The boy froze.

“Do you know what happens to pets that try to bite or run?” Dominik asked, voice dangerously low.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He grabbed the boy by the waist and yanked him forward. Over his lap. Face-down. Ass raised. One strong arm pinned his back.

“No! Please!” he cried, trying to wriggle. “I-I’m sorry—!”

“Too late.”

The first slap landed hard. A loud crack echoed through the room.

He gasped. Tears welled instantly.

The second was harder.

Dominik’s palm rained down again and again, spanking the soft flesh until it turned red, then crimson. The boy whimpered, shuddered, squirmed—but he didn’t stop.

“Fragile little thing,” Dominik growled. “You think anyone out there would treat you better than I do? You think you’d survive two hours without me?”

Slap.

“You’re mine.”

Slap.

“You don’t get to run.”

Slap.

He cried out—a sound caught between pain and something darker, something that twisted in his gut.

Dominik stilled his hand. Let the moment hang heavy.

Then he leaned down, lips grazing the boy’s ear.

“I’ll forgive you tonight,” he whispered. “But next time, I’ll chain you to my bed. Naked. And everyone in this house will know who you belong to.”

The boy trembled beneath him.

Punished. Marked. Owned.

And still, somewhere deep inside… his pulse fluttered.

Absolutely. Here's the continuation of Chapter 3 of The Mafia’s Wife, written in Dreame's 18+ dark BL style, with the following elements:

A bath scene (sensual, dominant, but without full s*x—teasing and body play only).

The MC is still a virgin, innocent, and scared.

Dominik is cold, controlling, and possessive, but shows twisted affection.

The chapter ends with a dark, delicious cliffhanger.

Chapter 3 – The Devil’s Palm (continued)

His thighs still stung from the spanking.

He was trembling when Dominik finally let him slide off his lap. His legs felt like jelly, his breath hitching, body burning with pain and shame.

But Dominik wasn’t done.

“Strip,” he ordered coldly.

The boy’s wide eyes filled with panic. “P-Please, I’m sorry. I won’t—”

“I said strip.”

The words cracked like a whip.

Fingers shaking, he pulled off his shirt. Then the silk pants. Slowly, painfully. He felt Dominik’s eyes on every inch of skin. By the time he was fully bare, his cheeks were burning hotter than his bruised backside.

Dominik stood and unbuttoned his sleeves.

“I won’t f*ck you,” he said coldly, as if reading his terror. “Not yet.”

The relief was sharp—but short-lived.

“Not until you beg me for it.”

He grabbed his wrist—carefully, not to worsen the injury—and led him into the bathroom.

The room was warm, smelling faintly of sandalwood. Steam curled from the large marble tub already half-filled with water. It shimmered beneath soft golden lights.

Dominik stepped in behind him, still fully clothed, and sat on the edge of the tub. He pulled the boy down between his legs and lifted him into the warm water.

His voice was quiet, but dark. “I’ll teach you how to be clean. How to be mine.”

He dipped the sponge in water and began to run it over the boy’s bare chest. Down his arms. Across his bruised thighs. The touch was slow. Possessive.

The boy whimpered when the sponge brushed over his n*****s—already sensitive from the chill, now tight from something else.

“Ever been touched here?” Dominik asked, voice low.

He shook his head.

Dominik’s fingers replaced the sponge. Pinched. Rolled.

The boy gasped, back arching slightly in the water.

“You don’t even know what you’re feeling, do you?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His face was flushed, lips parted. Every touch made him burn.

Then Dominik’s hand slid lower.

Between his thighs.

He flinched. “N-No—”

“Hush.”

Dominik’s fingers teased him. Gentle but wicked. Stroking his untouched c**k until it started to harden under the water. The boy cried out softly, humiliated.

“Your body wants this,” Dominik murmured, lips brushing his ear. “Even if your mind is scared. You’ll learn. You’ll beg. One day, you’ll scream for me.”

The boy shivered as pleasure built. Confusing. Hot. Wrong.

But Dominik stopped just before the edge.

He stood.

The boy whimpered from the loss.

Dominik's gaze was hungry. Dark. He leaned down and whispered:

“Next time… I’ll put you on your knees.”

Then he left him in the water. Shaking. Wet. Desperate.

And just as the boy curled up in the tub, trying to catch his breath—

The door opened again.

It was a stranger in a black suit.

The water had gone lukewarm.

Misha curled into himself, skin flushed from the bath—and from Dominik’s hands. His thighs trembled under the surface, still tender from the punishment, still tight from the pleasure denied.

His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Dominik.?

The man who stepped in wore black from head to toe. Hair slicked back. A mask on his face . His smile was lazy. Dangerous.

And in his hand—a gun.

“Time to play little pet ,” he purred.

Misha’s heart slammed against his ribs. “W-Who are you?”

The man stepped closer, shutting the door behind him.

“You scream, you die,” he whispered.

Misha froze.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the man said, crouching beside the tub. “But I will ruin you if you make a sound.”

He dragged the gun along Misha’s cheek.

“Such a pretty little thing... no wonder Dominik keeps you hidden.”

Misha’s lips parted to protest, but the man shoved the barrel gently into his mouth.

“Taste it,” he whispered. “Get used to it. Mafia life is dirty, baby. Just like you’re about to be.”

He pulled the weapon away and set it on the marble.

Then his hands grabbed Misha’s arm—forceful, but quiet. He dragged him halfway out of the bath, so Misha’s knees hung over the edge, water dripping from his trembling thighs.

“Let’s see if that mouth of yours is as sweet as your moans.”

Before Misha could stop him, the man had lowered his head.

Hot breath. Wet tongue.

Then suction.

Misha gasped—a cry caught in his throat. He clutched the side of the tub, helpless as the stranger's mouth wrapped around his c**k, sucking him with obscene noises, wet and filthy and practiced.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was punishment.

Misha bit his lip to keep from screaming. His body betrayed him. Heat built in his gut. His eyes welled with tears.

“Such a good little wife,” the man murmured against him. “I bet he hasn’t even f*cked you yet.”

Misha shook his head violently. The man chuckled darkly.

“I knew it.”

He sucked harder. Faster.

Misha tried to push him away, but the stranger grabbed his wrists. Held him down.

When Misha came, it was against his will—humiliated, broken, shivering.

The man licked his lips, stood, and tapped Misha’s chin with the gun.

“You say a word to Dominik... and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Then he was gone.

Misha sat there in silence, the water now cold, his legs still spread over the edge.

Used. Ashamed. And completely alone.

A knock at the door.

This time—it was Dominik.

“Misha. Are you done?”

He couldn't answer. His throat clenched.

“Misha?”

The knob turned slowly

The door creaked open.

Misha didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His body was still twitching from what had just happened. His skin sticky with shame, thighs wet from the stranger’s mouth—and something else.

And then Dominik walked in.

Sharp. Tall. Icy silence with every step.

He stopped in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room once—and narrowed.

Not at Misha’s red-rimmed eyes.

Not even at the way the boy was curled over the edge of the tub like a trembling doll.

No.

At the mess on the marble floor.

Dominik’s jaw clenched.

He stared at the drops of c*m like they were bloodstains. His whole body went rigid, something dark curling behind his cold composure.

“Did you…” he spoke slowly, voice tight, dangerous. “Did you c*m, Misha?”

Misha’s throat bobbed. His lips parted, but no words came out.

“I asked you a question.” His voice was a low growl now.

Misha flinched. “I… I-I don’t know how… it just—happened…”

Dominik stepped closer, eyes unreadable. “You made yourself c*m?”

Misha shook his head, stuttering, “No—I mean, yes. I don’t know—I didn’t… touch myself…”

Silence.

Dominik stared down at him for a long time.

His eyes were black.

Not with lust.

With rage.

The kind of rage only a man like him could hold without exploding. Cold and coiled and deadly.

But then he chuckled.

Low.

Dark.

Wrong.

“No one,” he said, crouching in front of Misha, “would dare touch what belongs to me. They all know I’d drink their blood if they so much as looked at you too long.”

He reached out. Cupped Misha’s trembling jaw.

“But you’re lying to me.”

Misha’s lips quivered. “I-I swear—”

“Hush.”

Dominik leaned in.

His nose brushed Misha’s cheek. Inhaled him.

Then he whispered against his ear, “If someone touched you… if someone else made you feel this…” He ran a finger along the slickness near Misha’s thigh, “…then I’ll find them.”

“I’ll peel the skin from their body. Slowly. While they beg me to kill them.”

Misha shivered. Whether from fear or something else—he didn’t know anymore.

Dominik stood and grabbed a towel. He wrapped it around the boy roughly. Not to comfort. To contain.

He lifted Misha into his arms like he weighed nothing. Carried him into the bedroom without another word.

Misha kept his eyes on Dominik’s throat. The way his pulse throbbed beneath his skin. The way his grip tightened every few steps.

He laid Misha on the bed, still silent.

Then he turned away… only to return with something metal in his hand.

Click.

Chains.

Real, thick, steel chains.

Misha’s eyes widened.

“W-What are you doing—?”

Dominik knelt at the edge of the bed. Grabbed Misha’s ankle. Locked the cuff around it with a final clack.

Then met his eyes.

“You tried to run once,” he said. “You got off without permission. You lied to me.”

He leaned in close, lips barely brushing Misha’s mouth.

“You don’t get freedom anymore.”

Misha blinked tears.

Dominik stood and walked to the door.

“Oh,” he said, pausing, “you might want to sleep. You’ll need strength tomorrow.”

“For what?” Misha whispered.

Dominik didn’t answer.

He just smiled.

And shut the door.

Leaving Misha chained to his bed.

Alone.