Page 8
Story: Mafia Maiden
He stands slowly, his lips wet with my arousal, his eyes blazing with possession.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Shaking. Wrecked. So fucking beautiful like this.”
He kisses me again, slower now, but no less desperate. And when he lifts me again and carries me to the bench, I don’t ask questions. I just let him lay me back, spread me open, and slide his cock inside me with a low groan that sounds like relief. It hurts less this time, but it still stretches me so wide I feel I’m being torn in two.
“Luca…” I whisper, gripping his arms.
He cups my jaw, kissing me hard. “You’re mine now. You understand me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He thrusts deeper. “Again.”
“I’m yours, Luca.”
He fucks me like he’s reclaiming something he lost—deep, slow strokes that drive me wild, fingers gripping my hips like they were made for his hands. I never quite imagined what exwould be like, I was raised to be afraid of it, I never expected to enjoy the ‘chore’ my mother had resented so much.
I come again before he does, clenching so tight around his cock I can feel it throb.
And when he finally lets go, groaning my name as he spills inside me, I don’t feel shame.
I feel power. I feel wanted. I feel whole.
And maybe that should scare me. Because somewhere in all that heat and hunger, I realize the truth.
I don’t want to escape him. I want to be his. I like being his wife, his toy, his possession.
4
LUCA
The house is quiet when I return.
Not peaceful. Not warm. Just... empty.
The kind of quiet that seeps into your bones. That clings to the walls like blood under your fingernails. I close the front door and lock it—not because I expect trouble, but because that’s what I do. I secure things. I deal with threats. I keep what’s mine safe.
Even if I have to be a monster to do it.
I stripped off my bloodied jacket hours ago. Washed my hands at the last safehouse before getting back in the car. Scrubbed until my skin burned. But I can still feel it—the weight of it. The rage. The guilt.
The silence.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself I did the right thing—no matter how many bodies I bury for her—it never feels clean.
I climb the stairs, ignoring the whisper of memories in every shadow.
I didn’t mean to fall in love with her.
I meant to claim her. Protect her. Use the marriage to solidify a truce, and keep her far from the blood that built my empire.
But the moment I saw her walk barefoot through the garden with moonlight in her eyes, I knew?—
I wouldn’t survive this woman.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Shaking. Wrecked. So fucking beautiful like this.”
He kisses me again, slower now, but no less desperate. And when he lifts me again and carries me to the bench, I don’t ask questions. I just let him lay me back, spread me open, and slide his cock inside me with a low groan that sounds like relief. It hurts less this time, but it still stretches me so wide I feel I’m being torn in two.
“Luca…” I whisper, gripping his arms.
He cups my jaw, kissing me hard. “You’re mine now. You understand me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He thrusts deeper. “Again.”
“I’m yours, Luca.”
He fucks me like he’s reclaiming something he lost—deep, slow strokes that drive me wild, fingers gripping my hips like they were made for his hands. I never quite imagined what exwould be like, I was raised to be afraid of it, I never expected to enjoy the ‘chore’ my mother had resented so much.
I come again before he does, clenching so tight around his cock I can feel it throb.
And when he finally lets go, groaning my name as he spills inside me, I don’t feel shame.
I feel power. I feel wanted. I feel whole.
And maybe that should scare me. Because somewhere in all that heat and hunger, I realize the truth.
I don’t want to escape him. I want to be his. I like being his wife, his toy, his possession.
4
LUCA
The house is quiet when I return.
Not peaceful. Not warm. Just... empty.
The kind of quiet that seeps into your bones. That clings to the walls like blood under your fingernails. I close the front door and lock it—not because I expect trouble, but because that’s what I do. I secure things. I deal with threats. I keep what’s mine safe.
Even if I have to be a monster to do it.
I stripped off my bloodied jacket hours ago. Washed my hands at the last safehouse before getting back in the car. Scrubbed until my skin burned. But I can still feel it—the weight of it. The rage. The guilt.
The silence.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself I did the right thing—no matter how many bodies I bury for her—it never feels clean.
I climb the stairs, ignoring the whisper of memories in every shadow.
I didn’t mean to fall in love with her.
I meant to claim her. Protect her. Use the marriage to solidify a truce, and keep her far from the blood that built my empire.
But the moment I saw her walk barefoot through the garden with moonlight in her eyes, I knew?—
I wouldn’t survive this woman.