BLOOD TIES AND BROKEN VOWS

Luca’s POV

The yacht tilted violently, flames licking up from the engine room as Sofia’s rigged explosives tore through the hull. Water surged over the deck, cold and relentless, turning the luxury vessel into a sinking coffin. Sal Moretti stood amid the chaos, his charcoal suit soaked, red silk tie a bloody slash against the firelight. His men—enforcers from Chicago’s shadows—fanned out, MP5s barking in controlled bursts. They mowed down Viktor’s remaining Russians and Enzo’s Sicilians with mechanical precision, bodies crumpling into the rising waves.

Dante hauled me toward the stern, his grip bruising. “Jump! Now!”

We leaped into the harbor, the icy water slamming into us like a fist. Bullets zipped overhead as we swam for the pier, Chen’s chopper hovering low, ropes dangling like lifelines. Sofia surfaced nearby, the vault drive clutched in her fist—proof of betrayals, poisons, and deaths. Dmitri dragged Teresa from the wreckage, her alliance with Viktor shattered in the inferno. Enzo vanished into the smoke, his yacht groaning as it listed.

We clambered onto the pier, gasping, guns trained on the approaching shadows. Sal Moretti emerged from the water like a demon, unflinching, his enforcers forming a perimeter. At his side: Rocco Bianchi, the Moretti family’s infamous hammer. Tall, scarred, with a shaved head and eyes like chipped obsidian, Rocco was a legend in underworld whispers—ex-military, sadistic, the man who broke bones for fun and left no witnesses. Tattoos of saints and sinners coiled up his arms, visible through his torn shirt. He’d risen from Chicago’s streets, Sal’s adopted brother in blood, enforcer of the Moretti code.

Sal wiped water from his face, smirking. “Vitale. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. But New York’s ripe for the taking. Your family’s been circling the drain since Giovanni’s ‘heart attack.’ Time for fresh blood.”

Dante’s gun leveled at Sal’s chest. “The Morettis? You’ve been ghosts for a decade. Why now?”

Sal laughed, low and mocking. “History, cousin. The Morettis started in Sicily, same as yours—rival clans feuding over bootleg routes in the ‘20s. My grandfather, Angelo Moretti, built Chicago into an empire: unions, casinos, politics. We went legit on the surface—real estate, tech fronts—but underground? We control the Midwest heroin flow, human cargo from Canada, even cyber rackets echoing Enzo’s. But New York’s always been the prize. Giovanni tried to muscle in once; we pushed back. Hard. Marco’s poison? That was payback—our mole in your ranks. Pietro was ours before Viktor’s. We’ve been pulling strings for years, waiting for you to fracture.”

Rocco stepped forward, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Boss wants the accountant. Says he’s the key to your books. Hand him over, Vitale, or we carve you up slow.”

His eyes raked over me—possessive, hungry. A chill unrelated to the water snaked down my spine.

Chen’s team rappelled down, surrounding us. “FBI! Weapons down!”

But Sal just smiled. “Not tonight, Detective. We’ve got friends in high places too.”

A standoff froze the pier—Morettis, Vitales, feds, all guns drawn. Teresa, cuffed now, spat at Sal. “You bastards. Marco never knew the full rot.”

Sal nodded to Rocco. “Take the girl and the drive. We’ll deal with the rest.”

Rocco lunged for Sofia; Dante fired. Chaos reignited—bullets flying, bodies dropping. I scrambled for cover behind crates, heart pounding. Dante fought like a beast, dropping two Morettis, but Rocco was a tank—barreling through, grabbing Sofia by the hair.

She screamed; I charged without thinking, tackling Rocco. We rolled, fists flying. His strength was crushing—he pinned me easily, knee on my chest, gun to my temple. “Pretty boy. Boss’ll like breaking you.”

Dante roared, diving in. He and Rocco grappled viciously—knives out now, blood slicking the pier. Sal watched, amused, as Chen arrested Viktor from the water.

In the melee, Dante dragged me into a shadowed alcove between shipping containers, away from the fray. “Stay down,” he hissed, but his eyes were wild—fury, fear, possession boiling over.

“Not now,” I gasped, but he was already on me, shoving me against the cold metal wall.

“Yes, now.” His dominance crashed like a wave—darker, more unhinged than ever. He ripped my wet shirt open, exposing me to the night air. “You charged that fucker. Risked yourself. You need reminding who you belong to.”

His hand clamped around my throat, squeezing hard—air thinning, vision spotting. I hardened instantly, the danger amplifying everything. “Dante—sir—”

He spun me, face to the wall, yanking my pants down roughly. Exposed, vulnerable amid gunfire. He bound my wrists behind my back with his belt—tight, cutting into skin. “Spread your legs. Wider.”

I did, trembling. He kicked them apart further, then dropped behind me—teeth sinking into my ass cheek, hard enough to draw blood. I yelped; he slapped the other cheek—repeatedly, the cracks echoing over the chaos. “Count, slave. And thank me.”

“One thank you, sir. Two thank you, sir…”

Twenty strikes. My skin burned, welts rising. He stood, freeing his cock massive, veined and rubbed it against my entrance. No lube, just spit. “Beg for it. Beg like the whore you are.”

“Please, sir… fuck me raw. Break me. Own every inch.”

He thrust in brutal, tearing a scream from my throat. No mercy, no pause he pounded like he wanted to split me open, hand back on my throat, choking in rhythm with each savage snap. His other hand gripped my cock, stroking viciously twisting, pinching the head until I sobbed.

“You feel that?” he growled, biting my ear. “That’s me inside you. No one else. Not Rocco. Not Enzo. I’ll kill anyone who touches what’s mine.”

The dominance overwhelmed pain, pleasure, submission blurring. He edged me cruelly bringing me to the brink, then squeezing my balls hard to pull me back. “Not yet. You come when I say. Understand, pet?”

“Yes, sir… please…”

Gunfire neared; shouts echoed. The risk heightened it all I was his, utterly, in the heart of hell.

Finally, he slammed deeper, choking tighter. “Now. Come for your master.”

I exploded vision blacking out, cum shooting in endless pulses. He roared, filling me with hot jets, claiming me completely.

We slumped, panting. He unbound me, kissed the welts tenderly. “We survive this. Together.”

But as we emerged, the pier was a slaughterhouse. Sal lay wounded, Chen cuffing him. Viktor escaped in the confusion. Sofia was gone vault drive with her.

Rocco approached, hands up surrender? No. His eyes locked on mine, dark promise there. “This ain’t over, accountant.”

Dante tensed, but before he could react, Rocco grabbed me pulling me into a shadowed corner. His mouth crashed onto mine, rough and demanding, hand groping my ass possessively. Shock froze me; then heat surged traitorous, forbidden.

What the hell was I doing? But as his tongue invaded, arousal stirred again, dark and wrong.

Dante’s shout echoed: “Luca!”

Rocco whispered against my lips: “Boss wants you. And so do I.”

The twist hit betrayal from within? Or something deeper, pulling me into the Morettis’ web?

And as Dante charged, gun raised, I realized: the real war was just beginning. With me as the prize.