LOGINThe office had long slipped into silence, the kind that pressed against your skin and whispered reminders of how late it was. Kai rubbed his eyes, the screen's glow still burning into his vision. With the deadline chewing at his nerves, sleep wasn't an option, not tonight.
He stood, stretched his aching back, and decided to make the pilgrimage to the break room for a bitter cup of life support. As he trudged past the row of darkened offices, his gaze snagged on a soft glow down the hall.
Ren's office.
The table lamp was still on.
Kai slowed down. He's still here?
He told himself he was just curious, just checking. Nothing more. So he stepped lightly toward the glass wall, leaned in just enough to peek inside.
Ren was seated at his desk, back slightly arched, head tilted back.
Kai's breath hitched, frozen halfway between thought and instinct.
A soft sound slipped past the glass.
A moan.
Low. Drawn-out. Controlled, like someone trying not to be loud.
Kai blinked, unsure if his exhaustion was playing tricks. But no, there it was again. Softer. Needier.
His body went rigid. He backed away instinctively, heart pounding, unsure whether to bolt or keep watching.
Whatever this was… it wasn't part of the job description.
He should've left.
He meant to.
But instead, Kai leaned ever so slightly closer, the hallway quiet enough to hear the faint creak of leather from inside the room. Through that narrow slit in the blinds, the scene unfolded, and it was nothing like what he'd expected.
Ren wasn't alone.
Seated in his chair, posture slack in a way that defied his usual sharp composure, Ren had one hand tangled in the hair of someone kneeling between his legs. The other was clamped over his own mouth, trying, and failing, to muffle the moans slipping past his fingers. His eyes were half-lidded, flushed cheeks catching the glow of the desk lamp, lips parted around a stuttered breath as his hips gave a shallow roll.
It wasn't the Ren people saw in boardrooms. This was something unguarded. Raw.
And Kai... froze.
Time stalled. The pounding of his own heartbeat throbbed in his ears. The rush of heat in his chest, neck, lower, made it hard to breathe, hard to even think. His fingers twitched at his side, torn between guilt and the tight knot of arousal spiraling low in his gut.
He should look away.
But he didn't.
Kai didn't know when he started breathing through his mouth.
Didn't realize how tightly he was gripping the hem of his shirt, or how low it had slipped, his hand now pressed against the front of his slacks, pulse quickening with every soft, wet sound echoing faintly from the office.
Inside, Ren was unraveling.
His head tilted back against the chair, neck bared and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. The man between his legs grew hungrier, rhythm rough and eager, drawing sharp gasps from Ren as his fingers clenched tighter in that tousled hair. Every motion, every broken sound, wound a coil inside Kai that had no business tightening.
His throat was dry. Mouth parted. Skin burning.
And before he could talk himself out of it, damn it all, his hand moved. Desperation overrode shame. A palm slid beneath his waistband, aching flesh pressed against trembling fingers, the friction igniting sparks through his veins.
He shouldn't be doing this.
But he couldn't stop.
Not when Ren arched with a stifled cry, not when Kai's vision blurred at the sight of it, the last thrust of Ren's hips, the tense shudder running through him like a ripple of lightning, that final gasp he barely caught in his palm.
Kai's climax hit him like a rogue wave. Hot. Relentless. A surge he tried to stifle with his teeth buried in his sleeve, his other hand desperately catching the release with the handkerchief he'd fumbled from his pocket. Heart thudding. Lungs starved.
Silence returned like a slap, heavy, cold, too real.
He stood there, frozen, sweat-damp and breathless, hand still wrapped around himself, eyes wide and locked on the dimly lit aftermath inside that room.
What the hell had he just done?
Kai's breath caught in his throat as the man's face came into clearer view through the frosted glass.
No way.
It was him, the CEO.
The one who ruled the entire company with an iron fist, the man whose voice could make or break a career, now exposed in a way Kai never imagined.
The same man who just moments ago had signed off on Kai's latest project, demanding flawless work with no excuses.
Kai's heart thundered louder than before. He wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor, but his legs refused to move.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Ren, or rather, the CEO, looked up sharply, eyes locking onto Kai's frozen figure.
"You're still here?" The voice was low, laced with something that sent a shiver down Kai's spine. "Shouldn't you be finishing that revamp? Or did you come to... observe?"
Kai swallowed hard, cheeks burning hotter than the summer sun. "I-I was just... getting coffee."
A slow, knowing smile curved the CEO's lips, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Well, now that you're here..." His gaze drifted suggestively. "Don't just stand there. Come in."
Kai's mind short-circuited.
Come in?
Was he dreaming? Was this real?
He took a shaky step forward, heart pounding like a drum in a wild symphony.
The night had just begun.
The city’s underworld churned with blood and ambition, and Vincent Russo’s empire, though ironclad, wasn’t the only beast prowling the streets. Across the river, in the industrial sprawl of the city’s eastern docks, the Volkov family held court, a Russian mafia dynasty as ruthless as they were cunning. Led by Dmitri Volkov, a bear of a man with a shaved head, ice-blue eyes, and a penchant for carving his initials into traitors’ flesh, the Volkovs had been gnawing at Russo’s territories for years. Their feud was a slow-burning war, fueled by old betrayals and new greed, and the gunfire that grazed Vincent’s shoulder was no random hit, it bore the Volkovs’ signature.Dmitri Volkov was born in Moscow in 1978, during the Soviet Union’s twilight. His father, Ivan, was a KGB enforcer turned Bratva kingpin, smuggling everything from vodka to AK-47s through the chaos of perestroika. Dmitri grew up in a world of barbed wire and backr
The door to Chris's private room creaked open later than usual that night, the clock ticking past 2 a.m. Chris, chained to the headboard as always, lifted his head from the pillow, his heart skipping a beat despite himself. Vincent staggered in, his usual predatory grace faltering. Blood stained his white shirt, a dark bloom spreading from his shoulder. He clutched at it, his face pale under the dim lamp light, sweat beading on his forehead. "Fuck," he muttered, slamming the door shut behind him.Chris froze, watching from the bed. Part of him, the part that remembered the initial brutality, the forced indenture, wanted to smirk, to let the bastard suffer. But as Vincent hissed in pain, peeling off his jacket with gritted teeth, something twisted in Chris's chest. Worry? No, it couldn't be. "What happened?" he asked, his voice softer than intended, chains rattling as he sat up."None of your dam
Chris awoke to the cold bite of steel around his wrists, the chains rattling softly as he shifted on the king-sized bed. The private room was a far cry from the basement dungeon, plush carpets, silk sheets, and a massive en-suite bathroom with marble fixtures, but it was still a cage. The chains were bolted to the headboard, long enough to let him shuffle to the toilet or sink if nature called, but not far enough to reach the locked door. Vincent's doing, of course. The mafia boss had "upgraded" him after that first brutal claiming, muttering something about keeping his new asset comfortable. Comfortable? Chris snorted, tugging at the restraints. They dug into his skin, a constant reminder of his indenture. Five years of running, and now he was Vincent Russo's personal fucktoy.By day, Vincent ruled his empire with an iron fist. Meetings in boardrooms that doubled as war rooms, barking orders to underlings who trembled
Vincent Russo was forged in the fires of Sicily's ancient vendettas, transplanted to the concrete jungles of New York City when he was just a boy. Born in Palermo in 1985, under a blood moon that the old nonnas whispered was an omen of power and peril, Vincent was the firstborn son of Giovanni Russo, a mid-level caporegime in the Cosa Nostra. Giovanni had clawed his way up from the slums, marrying into minor nobility through Vincent's mother, Isabella, a stunning beauty with raven hair and eyes like polished obsidian, whose family traced back to feudal lords. But nobility meant nothing in the mafia; loyalty and brutality were the true currencies.Vincent's earliest memories were of gunpowder and garlic. At five, he watched from the shadows as his father executed a traitor in their villa's courtyard, a single shot to the head, blood pooling on the terracotta tiles. "This is family, Vincenzo," Giovanni growled, wiping the pist
Chris Jackson wasn't always a ghost in the shadows, slipping through the cracks of the city's underbelly like smoke. Born in the gritty outskirts of Chicago, he grew up in a crumbling rowhouse that smelled of stale beer and regret. His father, a washed-up boxer named Mallory Jackson, had once dreamed of glory in the ring but settled for breaking jaws in back-alley brawls for the local mob. Mallory's temper was legendary, fists flying over spilled drinks or imagined slights, and Chris bore the scars of it from a young age. Bruised ribs from "tough love," a crooked nose from the night Mallory caught him sneaking out at fourteen. "Life's a fight, kid," Mallory would slur, reeking of whiskey. "Hit first or get buried."Chris's mother, Elena, was the fragile counterpoint, a former dancer who'd traded pirouettes for waiting tables at a dingy strip club. She loved her son fiercely, shielding him from the worst of Mallory's rages, b
Vincent Russo's empire sprawled across the underbelly of the city like a venomous spiderweb, ensnaring the desperate and the foolish. For five long years, Chris Jackson had been a fly buzzing just out of reach, dodging the sticky threads of debt and retribution. His men scattered like roaches under light, combing the alleys and dive bars. It didn't take long. Chris was cornered and taken away.The office doors burst open, and Chris was hauled inside, his feet barely touching the marble floor. The room reeked of cigar smoke, expensive cologne, and sex. Vincent sat sprawled in his massive leather chair behind a desk cluttered with ledgers and a gleaming Beretta. But he wasn't alone. A voluptuous woman, some escort or hanger-on, Chris couldn't tell, straddled him, her red dress hiked up to her waist. She rode him with wild abandon, her moans echoing off the walls, tits bouncing as she ground down on his cock.His hands gripped h







