Summoned

Luca stared at the text on the burner phone Vittorio had pressed into his hand the night they’d dragged him from the warehouse. The screen glowed in the dim light of the guest room—more like a luxurious cell—in Vittorio’s sprawling house on the city’s northern edge.

Velvet Rope. Room three. Midnight. Don’t make me wait.

No greeting. No explanation. Just the command, sent at eleven-thirty like Luca’s entire existence was a switch Vittorio could flip whenever the mood struck. Three days since the warehouse. Three days of being patched up, fed, watched by silent guards, and allowed one short, supervised call to Nico where Luca had lied through his teeth about a “new job” that kept him away. Nico had sounded relieved. Luca had felt like vomiting.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and pulled on the black button-down and jeans the guards had left for him. The split lip had scabbed over, the bruises on his ribs were fading to yellow, but the real damage was deeper—something raw and unnamed that twisted every time he remembered the private room at the bar. Vittorio’s hands. The way his body had betrayed him with heat and surrender even as his mind screamed no.

The SUV ride was silent. The driver didn’t speak. Luca didn’t either. When they pulled up behind The Velvet Rope, the bass from inside thumped like a second heartbeat. Rico, the owner, gave Luca a knowing nod as he slipped through the back door, but there was no flirtation this time. Everyone knew. Luca belonged to Vittorio Russo now.

Room three smelled the same—leather, whiskey, and the faint trace of Vittorio’s cologne. The mafia boss was already there, lounging on the couch in a crisp black shirt open at the collar, silver threading through his dark hair catching the low red light. His eyes lifted when Luca entered, dark and hungry in a way that made Luca’s stomach clench.

“You’re late by four minutes,” Vittorio said, voice low and smooth, the faint accent wrapping around the words like smoke.

Luca forced a crooked grin, the one that usually bought him time on the street. “Traffic. Or maybe I was hoping you’d forget the invitation.” He closed the door behind him, heart hammering. 

“Miss me already, boss?”

Vittorio didn’t smile. He stood with that lazy predator grace, closing the distance in two strides. One large hand gripped Luca’s jaw, tilting his face up. The touch was firm, possessive, thumb pressing just hard enough to remind Luca who held the leash.

“I don’t forget what’s mine,” Vittorio murmured. His gaze raked over Luca—slow, deliberate, drinking in the way the younger man’s breath hitched. “Strip. Now.”

Luca’s hands trembled as he obeyed. The button-down slid off, then the jeans. He stood there naked under the dim lights, skin still carrying faint bruises from the ambush, cock half-hard despite the shame burning in his chest. He hated how his body reacted. Hated the memory of that first night when Vittorio had taken his virginity with surprising care and overwhelming control. Hated that some broken part of him had felt seen.

Vittorio’s eyes darkened with raw hunger. He shed his own shirt, revealing the hard planes of muscle and old scars, then backed Luca against the leather couch. “On your knees.”

Luca dropped without a word. The carpet was rough against his skin. Vittorio unzipped slowly, freeing himself—thick, already hard, the head glistening. He threaded fingers through Luca’s dark curls, not gentle.

“Open.”

Luca did. The first thrust was deep, stretching his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. He gagged, eyes watering, but Vittorio held him there, hips rolling with controlled power. “That’s it,” Vittorio growled, voice rough with lust. “Take it. All of it. You stole from me, ragazzo. This is how you pay now.”

Luca’s hands fisted at his sides. No touching himself. No control. Just Vittorio’s cock sliding in and out, faster now, hungry. Saliva dripped down Luca’s chin. He focused on breathing through his nose, on the burn in his throat, on anything but the ache building in his own cock. Vittorio’s grip tightened, fucking his mouth with deep, deliberate strokes, eyes locked on Luca’s face like he was memorizing every tear, every muffled sound.

“Beautiful,” Vittorio rasped, pulling out suddenly. He hauled Luca up, spinning him to bend over the arm of the couch. “Don’t move.”

Lube appeared from somewhere—Vittorio came prepared—and then fingers, two at once, stretching him open with ruthless efficiency. Luca gasped, forehead pressed to the leather. “Fuck—slow down—”

Vittorio’s laugh was low, dark. “You don’t get slow. You get what I give you.” A third finger joined, scissoring, curling against that spot that made Luca’s knees buckle and a broken moan tear from his throat. Vittorio’s free hand stroked Luca’s cock once, twice—teasing—then withdrew. “No coming until I say.”

The fingers left. Vittorio lined up and pushed in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Luca cried out, the stretch burning, full in a way that made his vision spark. Vittorio didn’t wait. He gripped Luca’s hips hard enough to bruise and started fucking him—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the couch. The slap of skin echoed in the small room. Luca’s fingers clawed at the leather, mouth open on silent gasps.

“Mine,” Vittorio snarled, leaning over him, teeth grazing the back of Luca’s neck. “Every inch. Every sound. Say it.”

Luca’s voice cracked. “Yours—fuck—yours.”

Vittorio’s pace turned feral. He reached around, finally stroking Luca in time with his thrusts—tight, relentless. Luca’s orgasm hit like a freight train, spilling over Vittorio’s fist with a choked sob. 

Vittorio followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a low groan that vibrated against Luca’s back.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard. Vittorio pulled out slowly, watching his spend trickle down Luca’s thigh with dark satisfaction. He wiped his hand on Luca’s hip like marking territory.

Luca slid to the floor, legs shaking, chest heaving. Shame and exhaustion crashed over him. “No payment this time either?” he rasped, trying for humor even as his voice broke. “Guess the watch and wallet covered a lifetime supply.”

Vittorio tucked himself away, expression cool again. “The things you stole are more than enough. Until I decide otherwise.” He buttoned his shirt, already distant. “Clean up. The driver will take you back to the house. Be ready for tomorrow night.”

Luca didn’t answer. He just nodded, curling in on himself as the door clicked shut behind Vittorio.

Back at the house, he showered until the water ran cold, trying to wash away the feel of hands that weren’t his own. Nico’s face flashed in his mind—safe, for now. That was the only reason he kept breathing. The only reason he played the role.

But two weeks of this? Luca wasn’t sure how much of himself would be left.