The Mafia's Broken Vows

Tagline:: he didn't ask for a wife . He took one —and chained him to his bed. The door slammed. Again. Misha winced, flinching where he crouched in the corner of the cold kitchen floor, arms wrapped around his bruised ribs. The cigarette burn on his wrist still pulsed—red and raw—from last night’s “lesson.” “Worthless brat,” his stepfather spat, stomping across the cracked tile. “Can’t even clean the damn floor right.” The man reeked of vodka and stale sweat. His belt clinked ominously as he yanked it from his jeans. The sound alone made Misha tremble. “No, please—” he whispered, curling tighter. But it was useless. The first lash landed across his shoulder. He didn’t scream. Not anymore. Screaming only made it worse. Outside, snow fell in lazy flakes, coating the dirty windows in silence. Inside, pain bloomed in fiery ribbons down Misha’s back. He was nineteen. Fragile. Pale. With a face too pretty for his own good. Porcelain skin. Wide, grey eyes like moonlight. And silver-blonde hair that his stepfather always said made him look like a “f**king fairy.” He’d never known love. Not since his mother died. Only fists. Silence. And obedience. So when the black cars pulled up outside the flat later that night... Misha didn’t even look up. Visitors never came here. Not unless they had a reason. And these men had a reason. Heavy boots pounded up the stairwell. His stepfather froze mid-rant, glancing toward the door with narrowed eyes. “Stay here.” Misha obeyed, swallowing his fear. Then the door burst open. Three men entered. Dressed in sleek black suits. Guns holstered at their sides. No hesitation. No words wasted. The one in front moved like a predator— Tall. Broad. With obsidian eyes as cold as a Russian winter. Dominik Marchesi. Misha had only heard his name in whispers. A mafia king. Head of the Marchesi syndicate. Half Russian. Half Italian. Lethal on both sides. And the man you never owed money to. “You have until tonight,” Dominik said, voice like gravel. “Where is my money?” “I—I just need a few more days,” the stepfather stammered, sweat dripping down his temple. “I can—” “You had three weeks.” Dominik gave a nod. Luca, his second-in-command, stepped forward— Grabbing the man by the neck and slamming him into the wall. A dull crack echoed as plaster broke behind his head. “No, wait—please!” Dominik’s eyes scanned the room. Then they landed on Misha. A full, chilling pause. Misha’s breath caught. He couldn’t move. Those eyes saw everything— The bruises. The blood. The way he flinched just from being seen. Dominik tilted his head. “This him?” “Who?” the stepfather rasped. Dominik’s voice turned deadly. “Your pretty little debt.” “What? No—he’s just a boy—he’s nothing—” “I’ll take him.” Dominik was already turning toward the door. “Payment accepted.” Misha’s heart stopped. “No—please!” he cried, scrambling back as Luca advanced on him. “No!” the stepfather shouted. “He’s mine—he belongs here!” Dominik didn’t even glance back. “Not anymore.” And Misha, screaming, was dragged into the snow-covered night. The car ride was silent. Misha huddled in the far corner of the back seat, trembling. His wrists were red from where Luca had grabbed him. His cheek still stung from a slap meant to stop his screaming. No one had said a word since they shoved him inside. Snow whirled outside like ash. Dominik sat up front beside the driver. His broad shoulders cloaked in a long black coat. Posture relaxed— Like he hadn’t just stolen a boy from his own home. Misha stared at the back of his head with wide, haunted eyes. He didn’t look like a man who could feel. He looked like a statue carved in death. The estate came into view like something out of a nightmare— Stone walls. Wrought-iron gates. A mansion wrapped in darkness. Armed guards waited outside. Cameras blinked. The gates opened with a creak, And the car rolled through into the belly of the beast. Misha tried not to cry. He really did. But when the doors opened and a cold wind slapped him across the face— The tears came anyway. “Out,” Luca said gruffly. Misha stepped into the snow barefoot, legs shaking. He looked up at the enormous front doors— Twice his height, carved with lions. “Take him to the east wing,” Dominik ordered. “I have business.” Luca gave a short nod and grabbed Misha’s elbow. He tried to pull away. “Where are you taking me?” “Your room,” Luca replied flatly. “I want to go home.” “There is no home.” Misha stumbled through a maze of marbled halls and velvet shadows. Expensive art. Cold chandeliers. Silence, everywhere. The house smelled like leather, firewood… and something metallic underneath. They stopped in front of a large door. Luca opened it and stepped aside. “This is yours.” Misha blinked. The room was beautiful. High ceilings. A fire already lit. A bed large enough to drown in. But he didn’t move. “You’re not a prisoner,” Luca said after a pause, voice softer. “Not... entirely.” “Why me?” Misha whispered. Luca didn’t answer. He closed the door. Misha stood in the quiet, arms wrapped around his chest. The fire cracked. His knees gave out, and he collapsed on the floor, curling into himself. A debt. He’d been taken as a debt. A thing. A wife. He didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Beneath the Marchesi estate, The air reeked of rusted iron and cold vengeance. Dominik’s boots echoed through the underground corridor— A sound more final than a gunshot. Luca walked beside him, silent as always. Though his eyes flicked toward his boss with a look that meant: Do you want him alive? Dominik said nothing. At the end of the corridor, two of his men stood guard. Steel-reinforced door. They straightened as Dominik approached. Opened it with practiced hands. Inside, the man knelt— Hands bound. Blood dripping from his split lip. “Dominik, please—” he rasped. Wrong word. Dominik stepped inside. His expression blank. Even the guards lowered their eyes. “Don’t beg,” Dominik said calmly, Removing his black leather gloves. Finger by finger. “It makes you uglier.” “Boss, I—I didn’t mean to—my son, he needed medicine—” “So you stole from me?” Dominik asked quietly. He set the gloves on a metal table. Beside a black cloth. And the tools it concealed: A silver knife. Rusted pliers. A blowtorch. A syringe. The man’s breathing quickened. “I was going to pay it back, I swear—” Dominik crouched in front of him. “No. You were going to disappear. Sell what little honor you had left. Leave my name on your tongue in the dark.” “I didn’t—!” Dominik drew the knife. Pressed the flat edge against the man’s cheek. Not slicing. Not yet. “Do you know what happens to thieves?” The man shook violently. “I didn’t think—” “That’s the problem.” Without warning, Dominik struck— Hard. Across the face. Blood sprayed. The man collapsed sideways, spitting teeth. “Hold him.” Luca pinned him upright. Unshaken. Efficient. “You don’t get to steal from kings.” Dominik picked up the pliers. The screaming lasted thirteen minutes. He didn’t rush. He was precise. Two fingers. One ear. Every stolen ruble confessed through blood and sobs. When the man slumped unconscious, Dominik stood. Blood stained his cuffs. He rolled them back with quiet irritation. “End it.” A single shot rang out. Silence returned. Dominik wiped his hands with a towel. Tossed it on the corpse. And walked out without a backward glance. Upstairs, the snow had stopped falling. And in the east wing of the mansion, Behind a closed door— The boy with silver-blonde hair cried . He curled into himself on the floor, firelight flickering across walls too grand for someone like him. His ribs throbbed. His throat ached from swallowed sobs. He was a debt. A thing. A possession. But as the silence thickened around him, something sharper stirred beneath the grief—something cold and desperate. He wouldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not for them. His gaze flicked to the tall windows framed in silk. There had to be a way out. And he was going to find it… before that man came back. Dominik’s boots barely made a sound as he climbed the stairs to the master suite. The storm had passed. But the silence inside the Marchesi estate was heavier than thunder. Snow pressed against the windows like pale, dead hands. Luca stayed below, handling the body. Dominik didn’t care. He needed something else now. Something fast. Something filthy. He tore open his shirt as he walked—blood dried stiff at his cuffs. His skin burned, his muscles tight from the violence. He craved the same intensity. But with s*x. Not softness. Not emotion. And definitely not the wide-eyed boy sobbing two doors down. In the master suite, he shrugged off his shirt and threw it onto a chair. His chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths. A knock at the door. He said nothing. The door creaked open. Nadia and Irina entered—long legs, perfect curves, silk robes barely covering their naked bodies. They knew what he wanted. No words. No emotions. Just bodies. Nadia locked the door. Irina approached first, eyes low, lips already parted. “We heard you came back angry,” she murmured. Dominik didn’t answer. He sat on the bed. Spread his thighs. Irina dropped to her knees instantly, her hands unbuckling his belt. Her mouth brushed against his thigh, slow and hot, trailing up to the bulge in his pants. Behind him, Nadia stepped onto the bed, her hands dragging down his back, her lips kissing over the tension in his shoulders. Dominik let his head fall back. Heat. Tongues. Hands. Irina freed his c**k and took him in her mouth—slow at first. Wet. Deep. Her throat tightened around him, and his jaw clenched as her lips slid down to the base. She gagged softly. Swallowed. Gagged again. His c**k throbbed. Nadia's hands moved to his chest, pinching his n*****s, dragging her nails down his abs. Dominik growled low in his throat. “Fuck.” He grabbed Irina’s hair and pulled her off. “Get on the bed. Now.” Irina obeyed instantly, lying back on the sheets, legs wide open, her p***y already glistening with arousal. He stripped the rest of his clothes off. No patience. No finesse. His thick, veined c**k twitched as he knelt over her. He grabbed her throat, pressing just hard enough to make her gasp. Then he drove into her with a savage thrust. “Ah—f**k—” Irina’s scream echoed through the room. Dominik didn’t stop. His hips slammed into hers, hard and fast, his c**k stretching her open with every punishing stroke. “You wanted it rough?” he growled. “You’ll take every f*****g inch.” “Yes—yes—God—keep going!” she screamed, nails raking down his back. Nadia moaned behind him, touching herself as she watched, her fingers slipping between her folds. Dominik turned his head. “Get over here.” She crawled toward him, mouth open, eyes dark. He pulled out of Irina with a slick sound and grabbed Nadia’s hips, flipping her over, ass in the air. He slapped her bare cheek. Hard. Then shoved his c**k deep into her dripping cunt. “F-f**k, Dominik—” she gasped, her back arching as he f****d her from behind, his hands gripping her hips so tight they’d bruise. He pounded into her, fast and merciless. The bed shook with the force of it. Irina touched herself beside them, watching with glassy eyes, her own moans building again. “Switch,” Dominik ordered, voice raw. Nadia collapsed, panting. Irina climbed into position without hesitation. He pushed her down face-first into the sheets, mounted her from behind, and rammed his c**k inside her soaked p***y. “Harder,” she begged, biting the pillow. “Don’t stop—please—” He didn’t stop. He f****d her like an animal, sweat dripping down his back, the room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin and the loud, desperate cries of women being ruined by his c**k. When she came, she screamed into the mattress, her p***y clenching around him in waves. Nadia mounted his face, her thighs gripping his head as he sucked her c**t with violent hunger, tongue lashing her until her entire body trembled. “Dominik—f**k—I’m coming!” she shrieked, riding his mouth with wild abandon. He groaned into her cunt, tongue pushing inside her, fingers rubbing her c**t until she fell apart above him, legs shaking uncontrollably. Dominik stood. Sweat glistened over his abs. His c**k still rock-hard, covered in slick. He grabbed Nadia and threw her down onto the bed, crawling over her like a predator. “Beg,” he said. She moaned. “Please. Please f**k me. I need it. I need you to come in me—” He grinned, dark and cruel. Then slammed into her again. Fast. Deep. Brutal. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. Her nails dug into his arms. He was close. Dominik buried his c**k inside her and came—hard. Hot c*m filled her, spilling out as he thrust through the aftershocks, growling into her neck like a man possessed. The room finally fell quiet. Just heavy breathing. Slick skin. The scent of s*x and sweat. Irina curled against his side, lazily stroking his chest. Nadia sighed and kissed his collarbone. But he didn’t touch them. Didn’t kiss them. Didn’t care. Pleasure was a transaction. Release was ritual. He stood, pulled on his black silk boxers, and lit a cigarette. “You can stay until morning,” he said without emotion. Then turned to the window. Eyes locked on the east wing. Where the boy slept. The one he hadn’t touched. Yet.