Page 69 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

twenty-five

. . .

I woke up with my face buried in the pillow, my body aching in a way that had nothing to do with my grueling work schedule. Another dream about them. Another night spent twisting in my sheets, chasing phantom touches that never quite satisfied.

“Get it together, Ty,” I said, pushing myself upright. “They’re just dreams. Not the universe’s way of telling you to revisit those three infuriatingly hot alphas who turned your world upside down.”

Bad idea. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea crashing through me. I barely made it to the bathroom before emptying what little remained in my stomach from last night’s dinner.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I gasped, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain. “Nothing says ‘good morning’ like intimate quality time with your toilet. We should really stop meeting like this.”

This was the third morning in a row I’d been sick. Probably a stomach bug, or maybe my body finally staging a revolution against the restaurant’s questionable staff meals. I brushed my teeth twice, trying to banish the sour taste of sickness.

I stepped into the shower, momentarily surprised by the water pressure that was strong enough to actually rinse shampoo out of my hair without requiring contortionist moves.

Another mysterious improvement to my apartment that had appeared in recent weeks.

Like the new showerhead. And the fixed cabinet hinges.

And the premium groceries that kept materializing in my refrigerator.

The shower helped with the nausea but did nothing for the strange sensitivity in my chest. Even the gentle spray felt uncomfortable against my nipples, which had been tender for days now. Painfully sensitive without any explanation.

“Probably just stress,” I told my reflection as I dried off. “Or maybe your body’s planning a surprise heat cycle. Because what this situation really needs is more biological complications.”

The kitchen greeted me with its now-familiar surprise—fresh fruit in a bowl that I definitely didn’t own, premium coffee in a machine that had appeared two weeks ago, and a loaf of artisanal bread that made my mouth water despite my nausea.

“Mrs. Patel’s outdoing herself again,” I said, cutting a thin slice of bread. “Nothing says ‘I’m worried about you’ like organic sourdough and berries that cost more than my hourly wage.”

The coffee smelled amazing but turned my stomach the moment I took a sip. I dumped it down the drain with a sigh. “Another simple pleasure denied. At this rate, I’ll be living on plain toast and tap water. The diet of champions and broke omegas everywhere.”

As I choked down the bread, I caught myself staring at the pillows I’d left on the couch last night—the ones from my bed that smelled so strongly of cedar and winter pine, cinnamon and warm vanilla, and fresh rain and cedar.

The ones I’d been burying my face in while I slept.

The ones that made me dream of ice-blue, vivid green, and stormy gray eyes—of commanding hands, playful touches, and protective embraces that knew exactly how to make me surrender.

“Pathetic,” I told myself but didn’t move to put them away. Instead, I lifted one to my face, inhaling deeply before I had to leave for work. The scent sent a shiver of recognition through me, my omega instincts responding.

Mr. Iceflare. Mr. Enigma. Mr. Storm. My body remembered them. Remembered all of them. The way they’d surrounded me, claimed me, marked me until I couldn’t think straight.

“Just biology,” I reminded myself, tossing the pillow aside with more force than necessary. “Basic omega instincts responding to alpha pheromones. Nothing personal. Like being hungry when you smell pizza. Doesn’t mean you’re in love with the delivery guy.”

But it felt personal. It felt like my body was betraying me in the most intimate way possible, craving the touch of men who had been trapped in the same nightmare as me, who had been used just as I had been used, who had eventually become something I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, define.

This wasn’t the first time, either. Since escaping De Luca’s compound, I’d been plagued by these moments, times when my body remembered their touch with such clarity that I’d find myself breathless, my omega biology responding at the mere memory of being claimed.

“Get a grip, Ty,” I muttered, yanking on my jacket with more force than necessary. “They’re dangerous mafia alphas, not your soulmates. Next you’ll be picking out wedding invitations and planning how many pups you want. Trauma bonding isn’t the foundation for a healthy relationship.”

Even as I thought it, a treacherous voice in the back of my mind whispered that it hadn’t felt like that at the end. Before I ran. Before I escaped. It had felt like something else.

It had felt like belonging.

I slammed the door on that thought and headed for work, determined to focus on survival and nothing else. No time for inconvenient feelings or unexplained nausea.

No time for the truth I couldn’t afford to face, that I hadn’t just left my body in that compound. I’d left pieces of my heart too.

The restaurant kitchen was eerily quiet when I slipped in through the back door. The dining area wouldn’t open for another hour, but early prep was already underway—the skeleton crew of morning staff moving with the slow precision of people whose bodies hadn’t fully accepted being awake.

“Morning, sunshine,” Luis said, already elbow-deep in vegetable prep. His usual sarcasm was softened by the shared misery of the predawn shift. “You look even worse than yesterday.”

“Thanks for the status update on my appearance,” I replied, filling the industrial sink with scalding water and detergent. “I was going for ‘death warmed over’ but clearly achieved ‘actual corpse’ instead. I’ll try harder tomorrow.”

Luis actually laughed—a genuine laugh, not the derisive snort I’d come to expect.

Another bizarre shift in the staff’s behavior.

The restaurant crew had undergone a collective personality transplant where I was concerned.

Not friendship, exactly, but something closer to cautious respect.

Like they’d all received a memo stamped Be Nice to the Omega or Else.

I settled into the mind-numbing rhythm of scrubbing the previous night’s baking sheets and prep bowls.

Morning shift meant different responsibilities—cleaning yesterday’s closing mess, preparing stations for the breakfast rush, and helping with basic prep when the dish pit was momentarily empty.

It was harder work but with fewer people around to harass me.

By seven thirty, the kitchen had transformed into its daytime chaos. The breakfast rush was in full swing, corporate drones lining up for their caffeine fixes, already wearing the dead-eyed stares they’d maintain until happy hour.

“Reynolds just got in,” Luis said, jerking his head toward the front. “Said to send you to his office when you got a minute.”

Great. Reynolds probably wanted to change my shift again. The dishwasher position was already a masterclass in financial masochism.

I knocked on the office door.

“Enter,” Reynolds called, his voice tight.

I stepped inside to find Reynolds looking unusually nervous, his fingers drumming against his desk in an agitated rhythm. He gestured to the chair across from him without making eye contact.

“Hart. Good. Have a seat.”

I remained standing. “If this is about changing my shift again?—”

“No, no,” he interrupted, finally looking up with an expression that suggested someone was holding a gun to his back. “Actually, I wanted to discuss a promotion.”

I blinked. “A what now? Did you just say ‘promotion,’ or am I having an auditory hallucination? Because those usually come with visual components, and I’m not seeing any flying unicorns yet.”

“A promotion,” he repeated, shuffling papers nervously. “To assistant pastry chef. Starting next week. Comes with a significant pay increase, of course.”

I stared, waiting for the punch line. When none came, I slowly lowered myself into the chair, lightheaded with confusion.

“I’m a dishwasher,” I said slowly. “You know, the guy who scrapes half-eaten food into garbage cans? The omega you specifically told to ‘stay in the back where customers can’t smell you’? That guy?”

“Yes, well.” Reynolds cleared his throat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I’ve been informed of your previous experience in baking. Your, ah, qualifications were brought to my attention by our new investors.”

“New investors?” This conversation had taken a sharp left turn into bizarro world. “What new investors? And how do they know about my baking experience? I don’t remember listing ‘makes killer sourdough’ on my dishwasher application.”

“Recent acquisition,” he said vaguely, waving his hand dismissively. “Anyway, the position is yours if you want it. Morning shifts only, as per the current arrangement. Full benefits, including health insurance. Paid sick leave.”

My mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. Dishwashers didn’t get promoted to assistant pastry chef. Male omegas didn’t get offered positions with benefits and sick leave. Not in this city, not in this economy, not in this lifetime. This had “too good to be true” written all over it.

“Who are these investors?” I asked, suspicion crawling up my spine. “And how do they know about my baking experience? Did they run a background check on the dishwashing staff? Because that’s not concerning at all.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of ownership. But I can assure you, this is a legitimate offer.”

“Based on what? You’ve never even seen me bake. For all you know, I could be lying about my experience. Maybe I just really love watching baking shows and pretending I have skills.”

“As I said, your qualifications were… vouched for.” He pushed a contract across the desk. “The position starts Monday. Take the weekend to think it over if you need to.”