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The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 4
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2025-11-14 08:00:55Chris 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
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Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 6
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
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 5
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
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 4
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
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 3
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
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 2
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
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy
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
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