Bound To The Mafia King

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ELYSIA

The bass in Club Obsidian was a living thing, crawling under Elysia’s skin and squeezing what was left of her heart.

Three hours ago she had walked into her apartment and found her older sister, Valentina, riding her boyfriend like he was a prize she’d stolen fair and square. The sounds they made still echoed louder than the music. 

Now she was six shots of Patrón past caring, mascara streaked, black dress riding high on thighs that wouldn’t stop shaking. Another tequila burned down her throat. Good. Burn it all.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Her eyes burned with anger and rage. She shoved through bodies, vision swimming, until one silhouette sharpened into cruel focus- tall, broad, dressed in a black shirt rolled to the elbows, expensive watch catching the strobe like a warning.

He sat alone in the VIP section, legs spread like he owned gravity itself, dark eyes tracking her the way a wolf tracks a bleeding rabbit. Elysia didn’t see the danger. She didn't recognize the devil. 

She could only see Matteo’s lying face.

“You bastard,” she slurred, stumbling straight into the stranger’s lap. “You think you can just—just fuck my sister and come find me after?”

The man didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Only tilted his head, a faint smirk curling lips that looked carved for sin.

She grabbed his collar with both fists. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Heads turned. Phones lifted. Nobody in this club would dare intervene. Everyone knew who he was.

Adrian Valente didn’t need bodyguards. The devil collected his own debts. Elysia was too drunk, too broken, to notice the way the air thinned around them.

“I hate you,” she whispered, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. Then, louder, desperate, “Kiss me. Make it stop hurting.” Adrian’s eyes, blacker than the club lights, darker than confession, dropped to her mouth.

He didn’t ask permission.

One iron arm locked around her waist, dragging her flush against him. The other hand fisted in her hair, arching her neck exactly how he wanted. His mouth crashed over hers like punishment and prayer in one breath.

The kiss was violent. Hungry.

He tasted like smoke and expensive whiskey and something lethal she couldn’t name. His tongue forced past her lips, claiming every sob she tried to swallow. She moaned into him, nails clawing his shoulders, hating how good it felt to be destroyed by someone else for once.

He broke the kiss only to bite her bottom lip hard enough to sting, then soothed it with a slow lick that made her thighs clench. “Careful, little girl,” he murmured against her mouth, voice rough Italian gravel. “You don’t know whose fire you’re playing with.”

“I don’t care,” she panted, grinding down on the hard length straining beneath her. “Make me forget his name.” A dark laugh rumbled in his chest. In one motion he stood, lifting her with him like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist on pure drunken instinct.

Cameras flashed. Someone gasped his name. Adrian Valente didn’t look back. He carried her through a hidden door, down a private corridor that smelled of leather and gun oil, and kicked open the last room.

A penthouse suite above the club, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city bleeding neon.

He threw her on the bed. Dress ripped down the front. Her panicked “wait—” died against his tongue as he kissed her again, deeper, meaner.

There was no gentle. No sweet words.

Only teeth on her throat, his belt clinking open, her own broken pleas of “please, please, please” she wasn’t sure where for him to stop or never stop. When he pushed inside her for the first time, the stretch burned white-hot. She cried out, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood.

Adrian hissed, hips snapping forward until he was buried to the hilt in the tightest heat he’d ever had. Virgin. The realization made him feral. “Fuck,” he snarled against her ear, holding brutally still while she trembled around him. “You give this to me? A stranger?”

“You’re not a stranger,” she sobbed, drunk and aching and lost. “You’re punishment. Just—move.” He did. Hard. Deep. Relentless. The headboard slammed the wall in a rhythm older than sin. Every thrust dragged a broken moan from her throat, every bite mark he left on her breasts branded her as his before she even knew his name. She came with his hand over her mouth to muffle the scream, body shattering so hard she saw stars. He followed seconds later, groaning like a curse—“MINE”—spilling inside her with a violence that felt like ownership.

After, she lay shaking beneath him, tears drying on her temples, his weight pinning her to the mattress. Adrian brushed a thumb across her swollen lips, eyes unreadable. “Sleep, piccola,” he said softly. Deadly soft. “Tomorrow you’ll remember who you just begged to ruin you.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, almost tender. Then he reached for his phone on the nightstand and typed a single message: Find out everything about the girl. Name. Family. Blood type. She’s mine now.

The screen lit up with a reply almost instantly. And in the shadows of the room, the red dot of a sniper rifle flickered once across Elysia’s bare shoulder before disappearing. She never saw it.