POISONED LEGACY

Dante’s POV

The helicopter blades thundered above the black water, Pier 17 a glittering scar of lights in the distance. Enzo’s yacht—sleek, white, arrogant—cut through the harbor like a blade. Inside that floating fortress waited Teresa, Viktor, and whatever poisoned truth Father Pietro had half-revealed. The message on Dmitri’s tablet burned behind my eyes: The poison wasn’t for Marco. It was for your father. Twenty years ago. And the order came from your own blood.

My own blood.

Luca sat strapped in beside me, face pale, knuckles white on the rifle across his lap. Sofia opposite, silent and deadly. Chen’s tac team filled the rest of the bird—black gear, night-vision goggles, suppressed rifles. Dmitri monitored encrypted chatter, face grim.

“Signal’s strong,” he muttered. “They’re all aboard. Teresa just transferred the final tranche—three hundred million in crypto. Viktor’s accounts are flush. They’re prepping to vanish.”

I didn’t answer. My mind was twenty years back: my father, Giovanni Vitale, found dead in his study, heart failure, no autopsy demanded. The family mourned, moved on. Marco stepped up, then cancer took him too. Now the priest’s words twisted like a knife: poison. Not for my brother. For my father. Ordered by family.

The chopper banked low. Chen’s voice cut through comms: “We fast-rope in thirty. Two teams—bridge and stern. Secure the vault, neutralize high-value targets. No mercy if they resist.”

Luca’s hand found mine in the dark, squeezing. “Whatever it is, Dante… we face it together.”

I turned, captured his chin, forced his gaze. “After this, no more secrets. No more running. You’re mine—completely. Understand?”

His pupils dilated, breath catching. “Yes, sir.”

The word—sir—ignited something feral. I needed him now, needed to anchor myself before we dove into the abyss. I unbuckled us both, dragged him to the rear bench where shadows pooled deepest. The team pretended not to notice; they knew better.

“On your knees,” I ordered, voice low, lethal.

Luca dropped instantly, eyes locked on mine even in the dim red cabin light. I freed my cock—already hard, aching—and fisted his hair. “Open.”

He obeyed, lips parting. I thrust deep, no gentleness, fucking his throat with controlled violence. Gagging sounds filled the space between rotor noise. Tears welled; he swallowed around me, eager, desperate. I slapped his cheek—light but sharp—then again. “Deeper, boy. Show me you belong to me.”

He moaned around my length, vibrations shooting up my spine. I pulled out, strings of spit connecting us, then hauled him up, spun him, bent him over the bench. Pants yanked to ankles. I spread him wide, spat on his hole, then drove in—hard, merciless, burying to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Luca cried out, muffled against his own arm. I fucked him like a punishment, like possession, hips slamming so hard the bench creaked. One hand choked his throat from behind; the other wrapped around his leaking cock, stroking in punishing rhythm.

“Say it,” I snarled against his ear. “Who owns you?”

“You, sir… only you…”

I tightened my grip on his neck, cutting air just enough to make him dizzy, make him clench around me. “Louder.”

“You own me, sir! Fuck—please—”

I edged him ruthlessly—stroking fast then stopping, denying release while I pounded his prostate. When his legs shook, when he sobbed with need, I finally growled: “Come. Now. Milk me dry.”

He shattered—body convulsing, cum spurting across the bench in thick arcs. The sight, the feel of him spasming around me, dragged me over. I buried deep and emptied inside him, roaring low, marking him from the inside out.

We stayed locked together for precious seconds, breathing hard. I kissed the back of his neck, tender now. “No one takes you from me. Not Enzo. Not Teresa. Not ghosts.”

The pilot’s voice crackled: “Thirty seconds to fast-rope.”

We dressed, armed, faces set.

We hit the yacht like lightning—ropes dropping, boots thudding on deck. Gunfire erupted immediately. Enzo’s Sicilians clashed with Viktor’s Russians; Teresa’s loyalists—former Vitale men—fought both. Three-way slaughter.

We fought deck to deck. I dropped two Russians, Luca covering my six with precise shots. Sofia vanished below—heading for the vault. Dmitri and Chen cleared the bridge.

Then I found her.

Teresa, standing in the main salon, Viktor beside her, both armed. She looked at me with something close to sorrow.

“Dante,” she said softly. “You were never supposed to know.”

“Know what?” I leveled my gun. “That you poisoned my father? That you killed Giovanni?”

Her eyes widened. “No. I didn’t—”

Viktor laughed. “Tell him, Teresa. Tell him who gave the order.”

She swallowed. “It wasn’t me. It was Marco.”

The world tilted. My brother. My mentor. The man I’d idolized.

“Marco discovered Giovanni was planning to sell out to the Russians—trade territory for peace. Marco couldn’t allow it. He poisoned him. Quietly. Then he took the throne. When I found out… I used it. Blackmailed Viktor into helping me build my own power base. I wanted to protect what Marco built. Even if it meant destroying you.”

Marco. The poisoner. The family’s conscience… a murderer.

Before I could speak, the salon doors burst open.

A new force stormed in—men in charcoal suits, red silk ties, carrying suppressed MP5s. Leading them: Salvatore “Sal” Moretti, heir to the Moretti family, Chicago’s most vicious syndicate. They’d been quiet for years, watching New York devour itself.

Sal smiled, cold and charming. “Evening, Vitale. De Luca. Kuznetsov. Looks like the party’s getting crowded.”

He gestured. His men opened fire—precise, surgical. Russians dropped. Sicilians scattered. Teresa dove behind a couch.

Sal’s eyes locked on me. “Your family’s been bleeding. Time someone cleaned house. We’re taking New York. Starting with this yacht.”

Behind him, Sofia emerged from below, vault drive clutched in her hand, blood on her cheek. Enzo appeared beside her—gun to her head.

“Everyone freeze,” Enzo purred. “Or the doctor dies.”

But Sofia smiled—small, deadly. “You should’ve checked the drive, love. I swapped it. The real one’s with me.”

She pressed something on her wrist—a detonator.

The yacht lurched. Alarms screamed. Belowdecks—explosions.

Sofia had rigged the engine room.

As fire bloomed and the deck tilted, Sal Moretti laughed. “Beautiful. But chaos is my playground.”

He raised his gun aiming straight at Luca.

And in that frozen second, I realized: the Morettis hadn’t just arrived.

They’d been waiting.

For all of us.