FORBIDDEN SERIES 2—A PET BOY FOR THE MAFIA DON

Pet boy for the Mafia Don

Kai’s pov

I sat across the street in the shadow of a boarded-up café, cigarette pinched between my fingers. The cherry flared each time I inhaled, a small orange pulse against the night.

At 2:17 a.m. the convoy appeared—three black SUVs rolling smooth and silent, followed by the long obsidian Rolls-Royce that seemed to drink the streetlights. Tinted glass reflected nothing back. The wrought-iron gates parted with a low, hydraulic sigh. Floodlights swept the driveway in slow arcs. I watched until the last taillight vanished inside the Rossi estate.

Last night at the Penthouse Club, the 1.2 billion dollar necklace had hung against Vittorio Rossi’s throat like it weighed nothing. Diamonds the size of my thumbnail caught every flash of strobe, throwing shards of light across his jaw, his silver-threaded hair, the open collar of his shirt where tattoos disappeared into shadow.

I stood three feet away, champagne flute forgotten in my hand, pulse thudding in my ears while my cock stirred at the reckless thought forming behind my eyes.

One final lift. Clean, perfect. Then I disappear—new coast, new name, no more rooftops or silent alarms. I flicked the cigarette away. Tonight.

Midnight placed me on the east-wing roof, black gear melting into the dark. Motion sensors blinked red along the eaves. Thermal cameras swept in lazy circles. Pressure plates waited under every second-story sill. Guards passed every seven minutes; I had counted.

Grapple line took me over the perimeter wall without a whisper. My diamond-tipped cutter opened a third-floor casement window; the glass peeled away like wet paper. Inside, the air carried polished mahogany, faint cigars, and expensive cologne.

The vault hid behind a false bookcase in the private study. Fingerprint pad, retinal scanner, voice lock. I pressed the lifted print from last night’s glass. The retinal overlay—high-res contact lens—fooled the beam. The voice modulator mimicked Don's low baritone. The mechanism released with a soft click.

Black velvet cradle. The necklace waited. Gloved fingers closed around it. My heart knocked against my ribs so hard I tasted metal. Pouch zipped shut at my waist. I ghosted out the same way I came.

Two hours later, the back room of Gino’s Jewelry Emporium smelled of dust and solder. Gino bent over his loupe, frowned, then barked a short, ugly laugh.

“Kid. Fake. Good platinum, lab stones, but not the Rossi original. You got played.”

Ice poured down my spine. My stomach lurched. I turned toward the door immediately, mind already spinning escape routes.

It dawned on me. This was all a set-up.

The door exploded inward. Two suits—broad, earpieces—closed the distance before I could blink. A fist connected with my jaw. Blackness rushed in.

Copper flooded my mouth when I woke. Zip-ties bit into my wrists and ankles, pinning me to a metal chair.

My pulse raced. Beads of sweat formed suddenly on my forehead. I looked around—concrete walls, low ceiling, damp stone mixed with gun oil in the air. Two tables faced me.

One carried death: matte pistols, serrated knives, coiled bullwhip, a curved dagger that caught the single bulb overhead.

The other carried sin: steel and silicone plugs in graduating sizes, nipple clamps with heavy chains, thick ridged dildo, leather cuffs, ball gag, lube bottles, riding crop, electro pads.

My cock twitched against the denim. Heat crawled up my neck and settled in my ears.

Heavy boots. Six men bowed in perfect unison. One guard fisted my hair, forced my head down. A thick velvet voice sliced the air.

“Leave him.”

The hand fell away. I lifted my gaze.

Don Vittorio Rossi filled the doorway. Tall, broad, silver in his dark hair, tattoos climbing his forearms. The real necklace glittered at his throat. Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. He smelled warm, aged bourbon, dark vanilla, something sweet that curled into my lungs and stayed.

He crossed the room. My pulse roared in my ears, loud enough to drown the drip of water somewhere behind the walls.

He crouched, caught my bruised chin between thumb and forefinger, tilted my face up. Storm-gray eyes locked on mine. My heart beat thumped so loudly against my chest. So loud I knew he could hear it.

His thumb dragged slowly across my split lower lip. A quiet growl vibrated in his chest; I felt it in my bones.

He released me, sat in the high-backed chair opposite, legs spread, elbows on his knees.

“Pretty boy,” he said, voice gravel wrapped in silk. “Why does a pretty boy play cat burglar?”

My tongue suddenly felt heavy, like it was knot tied. I swallowed a lump of saliva and my throat worked, trying to free the words.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know it was yours. I’ll never come near y—your place again. I’m quitting. Please. Let me go.”

I stuttered so badly I knew my apologies came out useless.

He tilted his head. “Fearless. Skilled. Beautiful when you’re scared.” A small smile curved his mouth. “Exactly the type I’ve been looking for.”

He tilted his head lazily toward the tables.

“Choose.”

My mouth dried to paper. My tongue stuck to the roof.

“What?”

“One ends your life. Slowly. Every weapon is used until nothing remains.”

His gaze slid to the toys. “The other…you become my pet boy. One year. I fuck your mouth, your ass, every hole. Every toy on that table until you pass out from pleasure. Collar. Foot of my bed. Open whenever I want. Debt forgotten.”

My cock jolted, straining the zipper so hard the denim creaked. Heat burned my cheeks and spread down my chest.

“I’m— straight,” I rasped.

He laughed, low, dark. “Choose. Or I choose.”

A guard stepped forward, placed the glittering dagger on the weapons table. Blade caught the light.

My throat closed. Fists clenched behind me; zip-ties dug deeper, blood trickled warm down my fingers. My knees jerked against the restraints, useless.

I looked at the toys. Then at him.

My voice cracked. “The second one.”

His smile spread slowly, victorious.

“Good choice.”

He rose, unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate care, eyes still locked on mine. I fought so hard not to meet his burning gaze, but ended up stealing glances at his hard chest, marked with ink like a map of violence. He crossed to me, fisted my hair, yanked my head back.

“Welcome to your new life, pet.”

Guards moved—unlocking cuffs, hauling me toward the toys table. My heart thundered so loud I barely registered the door opening behind us.