CYBER VEINS AND POISONED BLOOD

Luca’s POV

The penthouse was a warzone of flickering emergency lights and shattered glass. Enzo’s drones hovered like mechanical vultures, red eyes scanning for heat signatures. Their blades whirred softly, deadly promises. Father Pietro’s confession still rang in my ears—I orchestrated the poison for Marco. For Viktor. The priest’s hands shook around his cross, tears cutting tracks through dust on his face. Redemption? Or just another layer of self-preservation?

Dante stood beside me, gun steady, but his eyes burned with something darker than rage—betrayal so deep it looked like grief. Teresa. The woman who’d raised him like a second mother after Marco’s death. Now meeting Viktor in secret, forging an alliance that could end us all.

Sofia crouched near the overturned couch, knife in hand, eyes darting between me and the stairwell. “Luca, Enzo’s yacht is docked at Pier 17. The vault’s there—encrypted drives with everything: proof of Dad’s hit, Marco’s poisoning, Teresa’s transfers, even Pietro’s old diocese files. If we get it, we can bury them all.”

Enzo’s voice crackled through a hacked speaker system, smooth and mocking: “Tick-tock, Vitale. My cyber grid has your building locked down. Power rerouted, elevators disabled, cameras mine. One word, and I drop the blackout on half of Manhattan. Or you hand over the accountant and Sofia walks free.”

Dante’s jaw clenched. “He’s bluffing about the grid.”

“He’s not,” Sofia said quietly. “Enzo’s cyber operations are surgical. He runs ‘Dark Helix’—a private network of zero-day exploits bought from Russian defectors and North Korean coders. AI scripts that live inside financial institutions, quietly siphoning fractions of cents into untraceable wallets. Quantum-resistant encryption on his servers. Drones controlled via satellite links. He’s hacked Interpol, the SEC, even Vatican archives. Last month he crashed a rival cartel’s crypto exchange just to prove he could. If he says he owns the grid, he does.”

Dmitri, bleeding from a graze on his arm, snorted. “Fucking Sicilian show-off. But he’s vulnerable on water. Yacht’s isolated. No ground support.”

Chen, shoulder bandaged by Maria, nodded grimly. “We move now. My team’s got a chopper inbound. We hit the yacht before Teresa and Viktor consolidate.”

But before we could coordinate, the lights surged—then died completely. Enzo’s hack. Darkness swallowed us.

In the suffocating black, Dante’s hand found my wrist, iron grip. He dragged me down the hall toward the panic room, breath hot against my ear. “No time for games, Luca. But I need you focused. Need you mine before we walk into hell.”

The panic room door hissed open; he shoved me inside, slamming it shut. Red emergency lighting bathed us in blood glow. He pinned me to the reinforced wall, body hard against mine. “You feel that?” he growled, grinding his erection into my hip. “That’s what keeps me sane in this shitstorm.”

I moaned despite everything—fear, betrayal, the city burning outside. “Dante—”

“Shut up.” His dominance was absolute, a force of nature. He tore my shirt off with one violent yank, then my pants, leaving me naked and trembling. He didn’t undress fully—only freed his cock, thick and leaking. “Hands above your head.”

I obeyed. He produced cuffs from a hidden compartment—steel, padded inside—and locked my wrists to a wall mount designed for God-knows-what emergencies. Spread-eagled, helpless.

He circled me like a predator. “You think Sofia’s secrets, Enzo’s tech, Teresa’s poison can take you from me?” His hand wrapped around my throat—not choking yet, just holding. “Never.”

He slapped my cock—sharp, stinging—then again, harder. I gasped, hips jerking. “Count.”

“One… two…”

Ten slaps. My shaft throbbed red, dripping. He dropped to his knees, taking me into his mouth in one brutal swallow—sucking hard, teeth grazing. I cried out, hips bucking uselessly against the cuffs.

He pulled off with a wet pop. “Not yet.” Standing, he spun me to face the wall, ass out. A riding crop appeared—where the hell did he keep these?—and he whipped my cheeks in rapid, burning stripes. Each crack echoed in the small room. Pain bloomed into heat, into need.

“Beg,” he commanded.

“Please, sir… fuck me. Own me. Make me forget everything but you.”

He lubed himself quickly, then pressed in—slow at first, letting me feel every inch, every vein. Then he snapped his hips, burying deep in one punishing thrust. I screamed his name. He fucked like he was trying to carve himself into my soul—hard, relentless, hand fisting my hair to arch my back.

“Say it,” he snarled, free hand slapping my ass in time with each brutal stroke. “Who owns this hole?”

“You, sir. Only you.”

He reached around, pinching my nipples viciously while pounding my prostate. “Come on my cock. Show me you’re still mine.”

I shattered—vision whiting out, cum splattering the wall in thick ropes. He didn’t stop, chasing his own release, then pulled out and finished across my back, hot and claiming.

Breath ragged, he uncuffed me, holding me against his chest. “We end this tonight. No more secrets.”

The panic room door burst open—Nico, bloodied but alive. “Chopper’s here. Enzo’s yacht is moving. Teresa and Viktor are aboard. They’re planning to torch the evidence and disappear.”

We geared up, racing for the roof. The city below was half-dark, Enzo’s blackout spreading like ink. Sofia joined us, eyes hard. “I’m coming. This started with me.”

As the chopper lifted off, Chen’s voice crackled over comms: “We’ve got confirmation—Teresa’s transferring the last of the embezzled funds to Viktor’s offshore accounts. They’re cutting ties with Enzo too. Three-way betrayal.”

The yacht loomed in the harbor lights, a sleek white predator. But as we descended, a new signal flashed on Dmitri’s tablet—encrypted message from inside the vessel.

Sender: Unknown.

Message: “The priest lied. The poison wasn’t for Marco. It was for your father, Dante. Twenty years ago. And the order came from your own blood.”

The chopper banked toward the yacht, but the revelation hit like a missile. Whose blood? Marco’s? Or someone older, someone still alive?

And why was the yacht’s deck suddenly swarming with armed men wearing De Luca crests and Vitale tattoos?

A deeper alliance—or the final trap?

(Word count: 1148)