HIS BEAUTIFUL THIEF: OWN BY THE MAFIA KING

Luca Moretti had always believed that if you moved fast enough, the world couldn’t catch you. Tonight, the world was proving him wrong.

He crouched on the fire escape outside a crumbling warehouse in the old industrial district, rain sliding down the back of his neck like cold fingers. Twenty-three years old, wiry as a stray cat, with dark curls plastered to his forehead and eyes the color of wet slate. The black hoodie he wore had seen better days—probably someone else’s better days, if he was honest. He adjusted the thin gloves on his hands, flexed his fingers, and whispered the same stupid mantra he always did before a job.

“Don’t get caught. Don’t get shot. And for fuck’s sake, Luca, don’t die. Nico needs you.”

Nico. The thought of his little brother was the only thing that ever made his hands stop shaking. Thirteen years ago, Luca had been ten, holding Nico’s tiny hand in the back of a police cruiser while red and blue lights painted their parents’ twisted car like some sick carnival ride. Gunfire had echoed that night too—not from the crash itself, but from the rival crews who’d chased their father into that intersection over a debt that refused to die with him. The sound still lived in Luca’s bones. A sharp crack in the distance, even now, could send him spiraling back to that moment: the metallic taste of fear, the way Nico had screamed without making a sound.

He shook the memory off like rainwater and slipped through the window he’d jimmied earlier.

Inside, the warehouse smelled of rust, motor oil, and the faint sweetness of uncut cocaine. Luca moved like smoke between crates, heart hammering but steady. He wasn’t greedy. He never took more than he needed. Tonight’s target was a mid-level crew that had been encroaching on territory that didn’t belong to them—territory that belonged to people Luca definitely didn’t want to piss off. But desperation made strange bedfellows. The envelope of cash he’d been promised for lifting a single ledger and a brick of product would cover two months of the loan sharks’ interest. Two months of breathing room. Two months where Nico could eat something that wasn’t instant noodles and worry a little less.

His fingers found the ledger first. Then the brick—small, wrapped tight. He was sliding it into his backpack when the lights snapped on.

“Well, shit,” Luca muttered.

Three men. One of them he recognized: Marco, a thick-necked bastard with a scar that split his eyebrow like a lightning bolt. The other two were new muscle, guns already drawn.

“You got balls, kid,” Marco growled. “Stealing from us in our own house?”

Luca flashed a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Technically it’s a warehouse. Houses have better lighting.”

The first punch caught him in the ribs. The second split his lip. By the time they dragged him outside and tossed him into the alley like yesterday’s garbage, Luca tasted blood and regret in equal measure. His backpack was gone. His pride was somewhere on the floor with it. And the worst part? He could already hear Nico’s voice in his head—soft, pleading, too old for fifteen.

“You promised, Luca. You said this was the last one.”

He dragged himself upright against a dumpster, coughing. Rain mixed with the blood on his face. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired. Luca flinched so hard his teeth clicked together. Thirteen years, and the sound still gutted him.

By the time he limped home to their tiny one-bedroom apartment in the South Side, it was past three in the morning. The door creaked open to the smell of burnt toast and the glow of a laptop screen. Nicolas Moretti sat at the wobbly kitchen table, hood up, earbuds in, pretending he hadn’t been waiting up. But Luca knew the signs: the way Nico’s shoulders tensed, the half-eaten bowl of cereal pushed aside.

Nico pulled one earbud out. His hair was the same dark curls as Luca’s, but his eyes were wider, softer—like their mother’s had been. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” Luca said, trying for humor. He winced as he shrugged off his ruined hoodie. Bruises were already blooming across his torso like ugly flowers. “Got any ice? Or should I just stick my head in the freezer?”

Nico didn’t laugh. He stood up, shorter than Luca by a good five inches but already filling out in the shoulders the way teenage boys did when life forced them to grow up too fast. He grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the fridge and tossed it over.

“You said last time was the last time,” Nico said quietly.

Luca pressed the peas to his ribs and hissed. “Yeah, well. The loan sharks don’t seem to have gotten the memo. They want their money, Nico. All of it. Mom and Dad didn’t exactly leave us a trust fund.”

“We could move,” Nico offered, the same desperate suggestion he made every few months. “Somewhere cheaper. I could drop out, get a job—”

“No.” Luca’s voice came out sharper than he meant. He softened it. “You’re staying in school. You’re the smart one. The one who’s gonna get out of this shithole. I’m just… the muscle. The idiot with sticky fingers.”

Nico’s eyes filled with something dangerously close to tears. “I don’t want you to die for me, Luca.”

The words landed like another punch. Luca looked away, jaw tight. He’d spent thirteen years being the parent, the protector, the one who stole so Nico could eat. The idea of failing at that was worse than any beating.

“I’m done,” he said finally, the words tasting like ash. “For real this time. No more jobs. I’ll… I’ll find something legit. Promise.”

Nico studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, like he was afraid to believe it. “Okay. But if you break this one, I’m running away to join the circus or something. And I’m taking your favorite hoodie.”

Luca snorted despite the pain. “You’d look ridiculous in it. Too short.”

“Height is temporary. Attitude is forever.”

They shared a small, tired laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

The next morning, Luca swallowed his pride and walked into the only place that had been willing to hire him on the spot with no questions and no background check: a gay bar called The Velvet Rope, tucked between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor in a part of town that pretended to be trendy. The owner, a flamboyant man named Rico with a mustache that defied gravity, had taken one look at Luca’s split lip and bruised knuckles and said, “Honey, you’ve got the face of a fallen angel and the body of someone who can handle a rough crowd. Can you smile and pour drinks without starting a fight?”

Luca had lied and said yes.

He hadn’t realized “pouring drinks” was only part of the job description.

His first shift started at eight. By ten, the place was packed with men in expensive suits and men in barely-there shirts, laughter and bass music thumping like a second heartbeat. Luca kept his head down, wiping glasses, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. He was straight—mostly. Or at least he’d always thought so. Girls had been easy enough when he bothered. Boys had never really crossed his mind beyond the occasional curious glance he shoved down deep.

Rico appeared at his elbow during a lull, smelling like expensive cologne and mischief. “VIP section wants a private server. You. Upstairs, room three. Big tipper. Don’t fuck it up, pretty boy.”

Luca blinked. “Private server? Like… bringing drinks?”

Rico’s laugh was bright and merciless. “Sure, sweetie. Drinks. Among other things. Just go with it. Money’s good.”

Before Luca could ask what the hell that meant, Rico was already pushing him toward the stairs with a tray of top-shelf whiskey.

Room three was dim, all deep reds and black leather. A single man sat on the couch like he owned the air itself. Early forties, maybe. Broad shoulders under a tailored black shirt, silver threading through dark hair at the temples, a face carved from marble and bad decisions. His eyes—sharp, dark, unreadable—lifted when Luca entered.

Vittorio Russo.

Even Luca, who tried to stay out of the real power games, had heard the name whispered like a curse or a prayer, depending on who was talking. Mafia. Dangerous. The kind of man who could make problems disappear… or make people disappear.

Luca’s mouth went dry.

“You’re new,” Vittorio said. His voice was low, smooth, with the faintest trace of an accent that spoke of old money and older sins.

“Yeah,” Luca managed. He set the tray down, hands steadier than he felt. “First night. What can I get you?”

Vittorio’s gaze traveled over him slowly—appraising, almost amused. “You.”

Luca froze. “I… what?”

The man stood, moving with the lazy grace of a predator who knew the cage was open. He closed the distance between them until Luca could smell his cologne—something dark and woody—and feel the heat rolling off him.

“I said, you.” A finger brushed Luca’s bruised jaw, surprisingly gentle. “You look like you could use the money. And I find myself in the mood to break in something… untouched.”

Luca’s brain short-circuited. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. Not really. But the envelope of cash from the failed job was gone, the bruises on his body were a reminder of how close he’d come to leaving Nico alone, and the rent was due in six days.

He thought of Nico’s face that morning—hopeful, fragile.

He thought of the debts that never slept.

So when Vittorio tilted his chin up and kissed him—slow, deliberate, tasting like whiskey and control—Luca didn’t pull away. His body reacted before his mind could catch up: a rush of heat, confusion, fear, and something dangerously like curiosity. Vittorio was patient at first, then not. Hands that could end lives moved with surprising care over Luca’s skin, mapping bruises like they were secrets to be learned.

It hurt. It burned. It felt like falling.

When it was over, Luca lay on the leather couch, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. He was no longer a virgin. The realization sat heavy in his gut, tangled with shame and a strange, unwanted flicker of pleasure. Vittorio had been… careful, in his way. But careful didn’t erase the fact that Luca had just sold something he hadn’t known he was offering.

Vittorio counted out bills from a thick wallet—more money than Luca had seen in months. He tucked the stack into Luca’s jeans pocket like it was nothing.

“You did well, ragazzo,” he murmured, brushing a curl from Luca’s damp forehead. There was something almost tender in it. Almost. “Clean yourself up.”

Then he turned and slept off like the world got nothing on him.

Luca stayed there for a long minute, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on him. The money felt dirty in his pocket. His body ached in new places. And beneath the confusion, a spark of anger ignited—hot, familiar, protective.

He wasn’t a whore. He felt used. He wasn’t a toy for powerful men to use and discard. His finger coiled into a fist, anger spiral his entire being.

His fingers moved on instinct. While Vittorio had been distracted in the moment, Luca had noticed the slim leather wallet left carelessly on the side table. Now, heart pounding, he slipped it into his own pocket along with the cash. Not everything—just enough. A watch too, heavy and expensive-looking. Something to pawn. Something to balance the scales.

Compensation.

He told himself it wasn’t revenge. It was survival. And he earned it after being used.

But as he slipped out the back door of The Velvet Rope into the cool night air, the wallet burning against his thigh, Luca felt the first uneasy twist of fate tightening around him like a noose.

He had no idea that Vittorio Russo was not the kind of man you stole from.

And he had no idea how much he was about to lose… or gain.

Back home, Nico was asleep on the couch, one arm hanging off, snoring softly. Luca stood in the doorway for a long time, watching his brother’s chest rise and fall. The stolen watch felt heavier than it should.

He whispered into the dark, voice cracking just a little.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”

Outside, somewhere in the city, a car backfired again.

Luca flinched.

But this time, the sound didn’t just bring back ghosts.

It sounded like the beginning of something much worse.