Page 73 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

“Very stealthy,” I told my reflection sarcastically. “You look like a college student heading to a night study session, not an infiltration specialist. Maybe add some black face paint to really sell the special ops vibe.”

The bus ride to the north side of the city was tense, each stop bringing me closer to De Luca’s compound, closer to my father, closer to the alphas who might be planning their assault even now.

I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the other passengers, one hand resting protectively over my stomach.

“Just get in, find Dad, get out,” I said to myself as the bus neared my stop. “Simple. Like grocery shopping, but with more gunfire and potential for dismemberment.”

Nothing about this was simple, but I couldn’t afford to think about that now. Couldn’t afford to doubt myself. My father needed me. My child needed me to be brave.

I got off at the last stop. The neighborhood was industrial, full of warehouses and factories, most of them abandoned or operating at reduced capacity. Perfect for a criminal organization’s headquarters. Perfect for hiding prisoners.

Perfect for an ambush.

I stuck to side streets and alleys, moving carefully, staying in shadows whenever possible.

As I got closer to the compound, I noticed increased security—more guards than I expected, positioned at strategic points around the perimeter.

The Trinity’s impending attack was clearly no secret to De Luca.

Which meant I needed to move fast, before the assault began and turned the entire area into a war zone.

There was a service entrance on the east side of the compound that I’d learned about from Megan’s information—a loading dock used for deliveries, typically guarded by only one or two men.

If I could get past them, I could access the interior corridors that would lead to the cells where De Luca kept his “guests.”

Where he was likely keeping my father.

I circled around, approaching the loading dock from behind a row of dumpsters that provided cover. Two guards stood by the entrance, looking bored but alert, their hands resting on holstered weapons.

“Shit,” I whispered, ducking lower behind the dumpsters. The loading dock was more heavily guarded than I’d anticipated—two armed men with radios, both looking alert despite the late hour.

I scanned the perimeter, looking for weaknesses. Maybe I could create a distraction? Throw something to draw them away from their post? Or wait for a shift change that might never come? Every option seemed more desperate than the last.

As I weighed my limited choices, a deafening boom shattered the night.

The ground beneath me shuddered violently, nearly knocking me off my feet as an explosion ripped through the far side of the compound.

Orange flames billowed into the sky, followed by secondary blasts that sent shock waves rippling through the concrete.

The Trinity’s assault had begun.

The guards at the loading dock reacted instantly, drawing their weapons and shouting into their radios. Their attention completely diverted to the chaos erupting across the compound, they moved toward the edge of the platform for a better view, their backs now to my hiding spot.

It was now or never.

I burst from behind the dumpsters, sprinting silently across the open space.

The guards never heard me coming—too busy gawking at the fireworks display across the compound.

I slipped through the loading dock doors just as another explosion rocked the compound, the sound masking the metallic clang of the door closing behind me.

Welcome to De Luca’s House of Horrors, now with complimentary explosions. The corridors stretched before me, bathed in flashing red emergency lights that made everything look like a budget horror movie. Perfect ambiance for my suicide mission.

I ran through the maze of hallways, dodging panicked guards who barely registered my existence.

Funny how people stopped noticing the omega in the room when they thought they were about to die.

The air reeked of gunpowder, blood, and fear—a cologne no department store would ever stock but that every mafia compound apparently bathed in.

“Find the security room,” I muttered, pressing myself against a wall as another squad of guards thundered past. “Because, obviously, evil lairs always have a convenient room with maps and prisoner locations clearly labeled. Probably right next to the self-destruct button.”

Turning a corner, I nearly collided with a guard running in the opposite direction. I ducked into an open doorway just in time, my heart doing its best impression of a jackhammer on cocaine. The guard sprinted past, too busy saving his own skin to notice me.

And just like that, I’d stumbled into the security nerve center. Because, apparently, the universe occasionally threw you a bone right before it planned to drop a piano on your head.

The flicker of monitors cast a pale glow across my trembling hands.

Each breath, a quiver. Each heartbeat, a deafening drum in my ears.

I hadn’t planned for this—stumbling upon the guard room in my frantic search for my father.

I was supposed to find him, not bear witness to a war unfolding on screens.

“Well, shit,” I said, my fingers gripping the edge of the console. “This is definitely not the bathroom.”

Fists and bullets clashed violently on the monitors.

The men on the screen moved with deadly intent, their shadows dancing across the walls as if mocking my stillness.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away, couldn’t suppress the terror that clawed at my chest. The De Luca Cartel’s men were outnumbered, their movements desperate and disjointed against an enemy with precision that cut through the night.

And then, amid the chaos, a shock of black hair that glinted under the artificial light.

My heart stopped, then lurched painfully against my ribs. Three months of running, of hiding, of pretending I didn’t wake up reaching for him in the darkness, and there he was.

Mr. Iceflare.

He moved with incredible power, his broad shoulders plowing through adversaries with ease.

His ice-blue eyes, even through the grainy footage, held a glacial calm that belied the violence of his actions.

Blood spattered across his face as he drove his fist into a man’s throat, and I felt an answering pulse between my thighs that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with three months of denial.

“Mr. Iceflare,” I whispered, my throat suddenly desert-dry, my voice a reverent curse. My fingers unconsciously rose to my lips, remembering the bruising pressure of his mouth, the commanding slide of his tongue against mine. “Of course it would be you.”

My omega instincts, the ones I’d been ruthlessly suppressing since my escape, surged to life with a vengeance. Mine, they whispered. Alpha. Safe. Home.

I shoved the thoughts down viciously, but my body had already begun its betrayal.

My omega biology responded instantly, my scent glands throbbing painfully at my neck as if straining toward him through the screen.

I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my core, the way my nipples had hardened against the fabric of my shirt.

Beside him, another figure wove through the fight with remarkable grace, and my breath caught on a sob I refused to release.

Mr. Enigma.

His dark-brown hair fell in waves that seemed untouched by the struggle around him, those green eyes I’d dreamed about for months focused with lethal clarity on his opponents.

He dispatched them with strikes so precise they seemed choreographed, beautiful in their brutality.

I remembered those hands on my skin, gentle despite their deadly skill, remembered his laughter against my neck as he teased reactions from my body I hadn’t known were possible.

My hand pressed against my stomach, a protective gesture that had become instinctive these past weeks. Was it his child I carried? The thought made my omega instincts flare with excitement, my biology apparently thrilled by the possibility despite my mind’s horror.

A third man hung back slightly, his stance calculated and watchful, and my heart gave another painful lurch.

Mr. Storm.

Dark-blond hair tousled from combat, his stormy gray eyes scanned for threats with an intensity that made me shiver.

Every movement he made was measured and deliberate, from the way he aimed his weapon to the protective glances he shot toward his comrades.

I remembered the surprising gentleness of his hands, the reverence in his touch despite his taciturn nature.

How he’d cleaned me after the others had claimed me, his calloused fingers unexpectedly tender.

“The unholy trinity,” I said, my fingers unconsciously finding the scent glands at my neck, pressing against them as if I could somehow stop the flood of pheromones my body was releasing in response to the sight of them. “Just my fucking luck.”

These were not faces one forgets easily—not when they’ve haunted your dreams and fueled your nightmares in equal measure. Not when you’ve spent weeks in their arms, surrendering to their touch, crying their names as they claimed you over and over. Not when you’re carrying one of their children.

My breath hitched, the thunder of my heart deafening in the stillness.

I continued to watch, transfixed, as they moved through their enemies with remarkable precision.

They were incredibly coordinated, their movements fluid and unyielding.

They fought as one entity, three bodies with a single purpose, communicating without words in a way that spoke of years of trust and shared blood.