Marked for Protection

The city’s veins pulsed with rumors, and rumors in the underworld were currency, sharp, dangerous, impossible to unspend. By noon the next day, Elena Ramirez’s name had slipped from one shadowed table to another. A girl who had watched Dominic Russo put a bullet in a man’s skull and walked away breathing. A girl now shadowed by his guards. A girl, some whispered, whom the Don had looked at too long.

In a dim back room above a Little Italy social club, Lorenzo Moretti listened to the report with the lazy confidence of a man who believed he still had moves left to play.

“She’s twenty-two. Works doubles at a diner. Lives alone. No family muscle. Russo’s got eyes on her, but he hasn’t brought her in yet.”

Lorenzo smiled, slow and oily. “Then she’s a string we can pull.”

He gave the order: watch, wait, take her when the moment was ripe. Preferably breathing. Preferably screaming Dominic’s name.

Dominic heard about it seventythree minutes later.

He was shirtless in the private gym beneath his estate, fists hammering the heavy bag with a rhythm that bordered on punishment. Sweat traced the ridges of old scars across his back and chest, dripping from his jaw onto inked skin. Every strike carried her face: the way her lip had trembled under his thumb, the faint taste of her breath on the leather glove, the way her nipples had pressed against wet cotton as if begging for his mouth.

The door slammed open. Vito stepped in, face grim.

“Galli’s moving on the girl. Lorenzo wants her alive... for now. Leverage.”

The bag took one final, vicious hook and swung wildly. Dominic caught it mid-swing, palms slapping leather, stopping it dead. His chest heaved. Veins corded along his forearms. For three long seconds, the only sound was the wet drip of sweat hitting concrete and the low growl building in his throat.

Then he turned. The look in his eyes made Vito take an involuntary step back.

“Address?” Dominic asked, voice quiet. Lethal.

Twenty minutes later, he walked into the Galli social club alone.

No jacket. Sleeves rolled high, exposing scarred forearms still flecked with sweat from the bag. The room hushed the instant he crossed the threshold—cards frozen mid-deal, cigarettes burning forgotten between fingers. Lorenzo rose slowly, false bravado masking the tremor in his hands.

“Dominic. This is neutral—”

Dominic didn’t break stride. He reached the nearest enforcer, seized the man’s wrist as the gun cleared leather, and snapped it backward with a wet crack. The scream was cut short by the knife Dominic drew and drove upward under the man’s chin—once, hard, until the tip scraped skull. Blood gushed hot over his fist, soaking his cuff, running in thick rivulets down his wrist.

He let the body drop.

The second man lunged. Dominic sidestepped, caught him by the throat, and slashed across the carotid in a single, practiced arc. Blood jetted in a perfect crimson fan, splattering the felt table, the crystal decanters, the faces of men who suddenly remembered they were mortal.

The air filled with the copper reek of slaughter and the sour stink of fear.

He reached Lorenzo last. The older man had backed against the bar, palms up, sweat shining on his receding hairline.

“We can talk this out...”

Dominic grabbed him by the throat and slammed him face down onto the poker table. Chips exploded outward like startled birds. He leaned in, chest to Lorenzo’s back, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of Lorenzo’s shirt. The knife kissed the soft skin just below the ear.

“Listen carefully,” Dominic whispered, lips brushing the shell of Lorenzo’s ear, voice velvet over steel. “You send anyone near her...anyone and I will carve your family apart piece by piece. I’ll start with your youngest granddaughter. I’ll make you watch every second. And when there’s no one left, I’ll keep you alive long enough to beg.”

He pressed the blade deeper. A thin line of blood welled, rolled down Lorenzo’s neck, soaked into his starched collar warm, intimate, unstoppable.

“Do you feel that?” Dominic murmured. “That’s the closest you’ll ever come to her blood on your skin.”

Lorenzo whimpered.

Dominic straightened, wiped the blade slowly and deliberately on Lorenzo’s jacket, then turned and walked out. Blood cooled on his knuckles, drying sticky between his fingers. His pulse thundered, not from exertion, but from the dark, visceral thrill of marking territory in the only language these men understood.

In the car, he rolled down the window, letting cold night air scour the scent of blood from his skin. His phone lit with a message from the surveillance team.

Target home. Door locked. Lights on in the bedroom.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. The image hit him unbidden: Elena in that bedroom, peeling off her waitress uniform, skin flushed from the hot kitchen, standing under the shower with water tracing every curve he hadn’t yet tasted. He wondered if she was touching herself tonight, fingers slipping between her thighs, chasing an ache she didn’t understand. Wondered if she hated herself for picturing his gloved hand instead of her own.

His cock thickened against his thigh, a heavy, insistent throb. He shifted in the seat, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He typed one line.

No one in or out. Report any change immediately.

Then he deleted it, typed again.

Keep her safe. Keep her alone.

Across the city, Elena stepped out of the shower, wrapped in steam. Droplets clung to her collarbones, slid down between her breasts, and traced the inward curve of her waist. She didn’t know three men had died tonight with her name on their lips. Didn’t know the streets now whispered a new law: touch Elena Ramirez and die screaming.

But she felt it anyway.

She stood in front of her fogged mirror, towel loose around her hips, and wiped a streak clear. Her reflection looked back twenty-two, lips fuller than yesterday, eyes darker. There was a faint bruise on her lower lip where she’d caught herself biting it all day, remembering the slow drag of leather across it.

Her nipples tightened in the cool air, peaking hard and sensitive. She told herself it was just the temperature.

She lied.

She crawled into bed wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt, the cotton brushing the tops of her thighs like a ghost of contact. The sheets were cool against her heated skin. She lay on her back, thighs pressed together, trying to ignore the slick pulse between them.

Outside, across the street, two of Dominic’s men watched her window. One lit a cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating the hard line of his jaw.

Inside, Elena’s hand drifted down her stomach without permission, fingertips grazing the soft skin just above where she ached most. She stopped herself, curling her fist in the sheet instead.

She didn’t know his name yet.

But she felt him everywhere.

And thirty miles away, Dominic stood under a punishingly cold shower, blood finally rinsed from his hands, cock still rigid and aching against his stomach. He braced both forearms against the tile, head bowed, water streaming over the tense muscles of his back.

He pictured her in that bed, alone, restless, thighs rubbing together for relief she wouldn’t take.

He didn’t touch himself.

Not yet.

Punishment and promise, both.

The city held its breath.

The tension had only begun to coil.