Page 79 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)
twenty-eight
. . .
Mr. Iceflare carried me from the burning compound like I weighed nothing, my attempts to squirm free about as effective as fighting a hurricane with a paper fan.
The morning air hit my face with a slap of reality—smoke, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of blood.
A sensory reminder that these weren’t just any alphas who’d claimed me; these were killers who’d just carved their way through De Luca’s compound without breaking a sweat.
“Put me down,” I demanded, pushing against his chest. The solid wall of muscle didn’t even flex under my palms. “I have two perfectly functioning legs. Being pregnant doesn’t suddenly make them decorative.”
He didn’t bother looking down, those ice-blue eyes locked on a sleek black limousine waiting at the end of the drive like a glossy hearse. “Your legs aren’t my concern, little thief. Your tendency to run, however, is.”
A driver held the door open, his eyes carefully averted as Mr. Iceflare ducked inside with me still clutched against him like a particularly valuable package.
Instead of setting me on the seat like a normal, non-kidnapping person might do, he arranged me on his lap with the careful precision of someone placing the final piece in a jigsaw puzzle.
“Seriously?” I tried to shift to the actual seat beside him, but his arm locked around my waist with unmistakable intent. “Is this caveman routine really necessary? I promise not to fling myself from a moving vehicle. I’m not that desperate to escape your charming company.”
“Yes.” The single word carried more weight than a dissertation on alpha possessiveness.
The limo’s interior screamed money and terrible taste in equal measure—black leather seats in an L-shape, polished wood that probably came from some endangered forest, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid. It was basically a mobile shrine to organized crime and toxic masculinity.
Mr. Enigma and Mr. Storm slid in after us, positioning themselves with the coordinated precision of predators who’d hunted together for years.
Mr. Storm sat directly across, his stormy eyes never leaving my face, watching every micro-expression like he was memorizing me.
Mr. Enigma took the corner of the L-shaped seating, close enough that I could see individual flecks of gold in his green eyes that shouldn’t have been so beautiful on a man with so much blood on his hands.
The door closed with a soft thunk that sounded disturbingly final, and the privacy glass rose silently, sealing us into our own private alpha terrarium. My heart hammered against my ribs, my body acutely aware of being surrounded by three apex predators who’d spent months hunting me.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
I made another futile attempt to shift off Mr. Iceflare’s lap.
“To your evil lair? Or straight to hell? Because after the bloodbath I just witnessed, I’m pretty sure you three are Satan’s favorite fucking enforcers. ”
“Watch your mouth,” Mr. Iceflare growled, his breath hot against my ear. “Unless you’d prefer I find better uses for it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I shot back, sarcasm my only remaining weapon. “Did I offend your delicate fucking sensibilities? You just slaughtered an entire compound of people, kidnapped me, and now you’re clutching your pearls over my language? That’s rich even for mafia standards.”
Mr. Enigma’s laugh was warm honey poured over gravel. “There’s our little mouse,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine pleasure. “Three months, and that sharp tongue hasn’t dulled one bit. I’ve missed it, little mouse, missed you.”
“Funny, I haven’t missed any of you,” I lied through my teeth, the words tasting bitter even as they left my mouth. My body knew better—had spent countless nights aching for their touch, waking up reaching for phantoms.
The limo pulled away smoothly, tires transitioning from gravel to pavement with barely a sound.
Through the tinted windows, I caught glimpses of normal life continuing uninterrupted—people walking dogs, checking phones, waiting for buses.
None of them aware that just feet away, an omega was being spirited away by three alpha mafia lords who’d just decimated a rival organization.
“My father,” I said, changing tactics. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“Your father is receiving medical care at one of our facilities,” Mr. Iceflare replied, his free hand moving to rest on my thigh with casual possession.
The heat of his palm burned through my pants like a brand.
“Better care than De Luca ever provided. Whether that continues depends entirely on you.”
My skin tingled beneath his touch, hypersensitive after months without alpha contact. Stupid pregnancy hormones making everything worse, turning even this threatening gesture into something my omega hindbrain interpreted as delicious attention.
“So he’s a hostage,” I said flatly.
“Insurance,” Mr. Storm corrected, the word rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. His eyes dropped briefly to my stomach before returning to my face, something almost tender flickering across his usually stoic features.
I noticed then how they were all doing that—glancing at my abdomen with expressions that ranged from possessive (Mr. Iceflare) to wondering (Mr. Enigma) to fiercely protective (Mr. Storm).
It was unsettling, this constant awareness of the life growing inside me, as if they could already see the child that was barely more than a collection of cells.
“How thoughtful,” I said, wrapping sarcasm around me like armor. “Kidnapping my father to prevent me from escaping my own kidnapping. What’s next on the psychopath checklist? Stealing my shoes? Burning my ID? Oh wait, you probably already went through my apartment, didn’t you?”
The look that passed between them confirmed my suspicion, and something between rage and mortification bubbled up inside me like acid.
“You were in my apartment? What kind of twisted?—”
Mr. Iceflare’s hand moved from my thigh to grip my chin, turning me to face him with inescapable strength. His hand was so large it nearly engulfed half my face, a physical reminder of just how outmatched I was. His eyes were winter distilled—cold, unforgiving, and beautiful in their cruelty.
“We were protecting what’s ours,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. “Making sure you were safe. Healthy. And yes, watching you pleasure yourself while calling our names.”
My blood froze in my veins even as heat flooded my face. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His thumb traced my lower lip with deliberate slowness, the calloused pad catching slightly on the sensitive skin.
“You’re exquisite when you come, little thief.
Especially when you’re face down in my pillow, three fingers deep in that tight little hole, begging for a knot that isn’t there. ”
Oh God. They had watched me. Had seen those desperate, shameful nights when my omega biology had overpowered my better judgment, when I’d given in and touched myself. The knowledge that they’d witnessed those moments of weakness made me want to dissolve into the leather seats.
“That’s not— You can’t just—” I stammered, my usual arsenal of snark completely abandoning me. “You’ve been spying on me? What kind of fucked-up alpha violation is that?”
His answering smile was pure predator—all teeth and no mercy. “The kind that’s going to end with you screaming our names for real instead of into pillows.”
Before I could form a suitably cutting response, Mr. Iceflare’s mouth crashed down on mine.
Not the hesitant, careful kisses from our captive days, but something possessive and demanding that screamed “mine.” His lips were firm and insistent, his tongue invading my mouth without waiting for an invitation.
I pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a brick wall with a feather duster. He simply tightened his grip on my chin, angling my head exactly how he wanted it, his other arm locked around my waist like a steel band.
The worst part wasn’t his overwhelming strength or his take-no-prisoners approach—it was my body’s immediate, traitorous response. After months of trying to forget how these alphas made me feel, my omega biology was sending out welcome banners and rolling out the red carpet.
My nipples hardened to painful points; heat pooled between my thighs, and a whimper escaped my throat that I’d definitely deny making later. Three months of carefully constructed independence, and my body was surrendering faster than my dignity at an open bar.
Mr. Iceflare broke the kiss, leaving me gasping for air.
His eyes had darkened to midnight blue, his pupils expanded with hunger.
“Your body remembers,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that always made my insides turn to jelly.
“It knows who you belong to, even if you’ve been pretending otherwise. ”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I gasped, though the breathless quality of my voice wasn’t exactly selling my independence. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said LYING in neon letters.
“Your body disagrees,” he replied, his hand sliding between my legs to cup me through my pants. The heat of his palm burned through the fabric, making me bite my lip to keep from moaning. “Already eager for us. Already aching for what only we can give you.”
The directness should have offended me. Instead, my body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm. Three months of denial, of pretending I didn’t wake up reaching for them, of telling myself I was better off alone, and all it took was one kiss to reduce me to a hormonal mess.