SHADOWS OF THE BEAR AND UNLEASHED DESIRES

Luca’s POV

The airstrip’s floodlights pierced the night like accusatory fingers, illuminating Viktor’s massive frame as he stood triumphant, flanked by a phalanx of Bratva soldiers in tactical gear. Their AKs gleamed under the glare, pointed at our group—Sofia frozen in shock, Dante struggling against his chains, Enzo and Sal glaring with impotent rage. The toxin in my veins surged like acid, blurring my vision, weakening my knees. I collapsed to the tarmac, the cold asphalt biting into my palms as nausea roiled. Viktor’s laugh boomed—a deep, guttural sound that echoed his Siberian roots.

“Full backstory, you say?” Viktor rumbled, stepping closer, his blue eyes cold as arctic ice. He hauled me up by the collar, effortless strength pinning me against the jet’s fuselage. “You think this started with your puny family, accountant? Dive deep, boy. Deeper than you dare.”

His voice dropped, a storyteller’s cadence laced with menace. “I was born in the gulags, 1978. Mother a political prisoner, father a guard who raped her for sport. Survived on rat meat and snow until the fall of the wall. By 15, I ran street gangs in Moscow—extortion, drugs, girls. But the oligarchs? They owned the city. I killed my first at 18—strangled him with his own tie during a ‘negotiation.’ Took his empire. Built the Bratva from scraps: smuggling weapons from Chechnya, trafficking from Afghanistan, laundering through Wall Street shells. Your father? He was a fly—skimming my money, thinking he was clever. I rigged the accident myself—tampered brakes, no loose ends. But I let you live. Children are useful. Leverage.”

He tightened his grip, breath hot on my face. “Expanded to New York in the ‘90s—alliances with Italians, but always temporary. Giovanni Vitale tried peace; I poisoned his scotch through Pietro, the priest I owned since his Vatican scandals. Marco knew, covered it—ambitious pup. I let him think he won. Teresa? My mole after Marco’s death—fed her lies about the cancer being natural, turned her resentment into embezzlement. Enzo? Sicilian fool thought his cyber tricks were new; I funded his Palermo ops anonymously, let him weaken rivals. Sal Moretti? Chicago pawn—promised him territory for betraying the others. And Sofia?” He glanced at her, smirking. “Your sister played queen, but I scripted the board. Her poisons? Sourced from my labs. Her intel? Funneled back to me. Everyone dances to my tune.”

Sofia’s face paled. “You… you let me think I was winning.”

Viktor’s eyes gleamed. “Revenge is a mirror, doctor. You saw what I wanted. Now, you all serve. The toxin in Luca? My masterpiece—nanotech delivery, remote-activated. One signal, and hearts stop. You’ll rebuild my empire: Sofia for poisons, Enzo for cyber, Sal for muscle, Dante for streets. Luca? My personal accountant. And toy.”

He shoved me toward his men. “Secure them. To the compound.”

The drive blurred—black SUVs racing through forested backroads to a fortified estate upstate, hidden behind electrified fences and guard towers. We were separated: Sofia to a lab, Enzo to a server room, Sal and Dante to cells. Me? Dragged to Viktor’s private quarters—a sprawling suite of dark wood and fur rugs, reeking of power and vodka.

He locked the door, towering over me. “Kneel.”

The toxin pulsed, weakening my resistance. I dropped, knees hitting carpet.

“Full control,” he murmured, circling me. “I’ve watched you since the auction. Defiant. Breakable. Now, strip.”

His dominance hit like a blizzard—cold, overwhelming, intensified by his sheer size. I obeyed, hands shaking, shedding clothes until naked, exposed. He bound my wrists behind my back with thick rope—rough hemp biting skin. Then ankles, hogtying me face-down on the rug.

“Look at you,” he rumbled, boot pressing my cheek to the floor. “Rocco marked you well. But I’ll erase it all.”

His boot ground lightly—humiliating, controlling. He stripped slowly, revealing a body like carved granite—tattoos of bears and Orthodox crosses swirling over scars. His cock—enormous, veined—jutted hard.

He knelt behind me, massive hands spreading my cheeks. “Beg, accountant. Beg for the bear.”

“Please… sir… fuck me.” The words choked out, toxin amplifying submission.

He slapped my ass—thunderous, welts rising instantly. Ten strikes, each echoing. Then his tongue—rough, invasive—rimming with brutal swirls, teeth nipping until I bled. Fingers followed—four, dry, stretching to agony. I screamed, bucking; he choked my throat from the side, air gone.

“Breathe when I allow.” He squeezed rhythmic—vision blacking, world to his rhythm.

Withdrawing fingers, he thrust his cock in—one savage push, burying halfway. Pain exploded; I howled. He didn’t pause—slammed deeper, full length forcing entry. The stretch tore; he pounded relentlessly—each thrust a conquest, hammering my core.

His hand on my throat tightened to near-unconsciousness; the other gripped my cock—stroking viciously, edging without mercy: fast to brink, then balls-crushed denial. “Hold it. Suffer for me.”

Tears streamed; I begged hoarsely. “Please, sir… let me come…”

He flipped me—still hogtied—onto my back, legs forced wide. Thrusting deeper in this angle, he bit my nipples to blood, licking the wounds. Dominance peaked: he unchoked briefly, only to slap my face—repeatedly, stinging. “Scream my name. Viktor. Master.”

“Viktor—master—please!”

He choked fully—air zero, thrusting savage. “Now. Come, slave.”

Orgasm shattered me—body convulsing, cum erupting untouched in violent arcs. Black spots danced; he roared, pulling out to coat my chest and face—hot, claiming ropes.

He unbound me, but left me collared with a leather strap. “Sleep. Tomorrow, you work.”

But as he turned, the door burst open.

Rocco Bianchi—bloodied, furious—stormed in, Moretti men behind. “You think you played us all, Kuznetsov? Sal’s dead. But I’m taking what’s mine.”

He grabbed me from the bed, slinging me over his shoulder like prey. Viktor lunged; gunfire erupted.

Rocco carried me into the night—compound in flames, soldiers clashing. “You’re mine now, accountant. Sal’s last order: break Vitale by breaking you.”

Dante’s voice echoed from the chaos: “Luca!”

But Rocco vanished into the woods, my body still thrumming from Viktor’s claim. Was this escape? Or deeper into the web?

And as the toxin faded—Sofia’s antidote hidden in her touch?—I realized: the real mastermind wasn’t dead.

Sal’s “death”? A ploy. And Rocco’s return? The start of a new dominance.

But whose?