THREADS OF THE BEAR AND DERAILING DESIRES

Luca’s POV

The cabin’s dim light flickered from a single bulb, casting long shadows across Dante’s face as he paced, his confession hanging between us like smoke from a fired gun. “I let it happen,” he repeated, voice rough with self-loathing. “Viktor approached me when I was twenty-two—right after Giovanni’s ‘heart attack.’ Said he had proof Marco ordered the poison. Offered me a deal: infiltrate for him, feed small intel, or he’d expose everything. I thought I was playing him—protecting the family. But the Marinos’ hit… Viktor mentioned it as a ‘lesson.’ I didn’t stop it. Thought it was just another loose end.”

His words gutted me—Dante, my captor-turned-lover, tied to the Bratva all along. Complicit in my parents’ death. Betrayal burned hotter than the toxin ever had, but the antidote Sofia had slipped me during her “forced” vial moment cleared my head. Her hidden origins flashed: during those “residency” years, she’d connected with ex-KGB remnants in Eastern Europe—shadow networks from the Cold War, chemists who’d defected but kept their labs running black-market antidotes and toxins. Sofia had traded intel for access, learning to encode countermeasures in everyday injections. The vial on the plane? A dual agent—poison for show, antidote triggered by stress hormones. She’d played Viktor longer than he’d played her.

But why? Dive deeper into her KGB connections: it started with Dad’s ledgers. Those weren’t just mafia maps—they linked to old Soviet money funneled through New York during the ‘80s. Dad had stumbled on KGB slush funds, skimming to fund Mom’s treatment while blackmailing low-level agents. After the accident, Sofia traced the threads to Berlin, where she met “Uncle Alexei”—a retired KGB handler who’d gone rogue. He trained her in espionage basics: poisons from polonium derivatives, cyber backdoors predating Enzo’s tricks. Sofia became his protégé, using KGB remnants to build her web—antidotes sourced from Siberian labs, connections that let her infiltrate Viktor’s circle as a “vulnerable doctor.” Her motive? Not just revenge. Power. The KGB ties gave her global reach—funds from frozen accounts, allies in Moscow who hated Viktor’s post-Soviet rise. She wasn’t building an empire for herself. She was resurrecting one—for the shadows that birthed her vengeance.

Dante stopped pacing, grabbing my shoulders. “Luca, say something. Hate me. Hit me. But don’t shut down.”

The tension between us crackled—erotic, raw, heightened by the betrayal, the near-death. His touch ignited me despite everything; my cock stirred, body conditioned to his dominance. “You let them die,” I whispered, but my voice broke, desire warring with anger.

He shoved me against the wall, body pinning mine. “I was young. Stupid. But I’d burn it all for you now.” His mouth crashed onto mine—fierce, demanding, teeth nipping my lip until blood mingled with the kiss. Hands roamed possessively, pinching nipples through my shirt, twisting hard enough to elicit a gasp.

The erotic tension escalated—his dominance intensified by guilt, by fear of losing me. He ripped my shirt open, exposing the marks from Viktor and Rocco. “These? Gone.” He bit down my chest—savage nips, sucking bruises over old ones, reclaiming skin inch by inch. I arched, moaning, cock hardening against his thigh.

“Down,” he growled, forcing me to my knees. He freed his cock—thick, veined, leaking—and fisted my hair, thrusting deep into my throat. I gagged, tears streaming, but sucked eagerly—tongue swirling, swallowing around him. He face-fucked with controlled violence—hips snapping, grunting commands: “Deeper. Take your punishment.”

His free hand slapped my cheek—light but stinging—then choked my neck from above, air restricted. The tension heightened: denial building as he edged himself, pulling out every time I brought him close. “Not yet. You feel my control? My ties don’t change this—you’re mine.”

He hauled me up, spinning me to face the wall. Pants yanked down, he spread my cheeks—tongue diving in rough, rimming with teeth grazing, fingers plunging—three, then four—stretching brutally. Pain-pleasure vortex; I begged, pushing back.

“Fuck me, sir… please…”

He thrust in—raw, deep—pounding with jealous fury, each snap hitting my prostate like fire. Hand on my throat squeezed rhythmic—vision spotting, world to his rhythm. The other jerked my cock—vise-twist, edging mercilessly: to brink, then denial via ball-squeeze. Tears flowed; I sobbed his name.

“Come for me,” he finally commanded, choking fully. “Show me you forgive.”

Orgasm shattered—untouched, cum splattering the wall in ropes. He followed, filling me, roaring possession.

We slumped, panting. But sirens wailed closer—Chen’s feds.

The door burst open—Chen herself, gun drawn, tac team behind. “Everyone freeze! FBI!”

Dante tensed, but Chen’s eyes locked on me—morally gray agenda flashing. “Marino. You’re coming with me. Alone.”

Her federal agenda dove deep: not just building a case against the Vitales. Chen had lost her partner to mob violence, yes—but deeper, she was running a black ops division. Off-books, funded by seized assets, her agenda was total dismantle: use witnesses like me to flip empires, then absorb their networks for federal use. Whistleblowers, hackers, even poisons—Chen collected them like weapons. Her “morally gray” was a facade; she was the spider, weaving a web to control the underworld from D.C.

She cuffed Dante to the bedframe. “He stays. You come.”

Plot twist: as her team cleared the room, Chen pulled me into the adjacent bathroom, door locked. “Strip search,” she said, voice low. But her eyes raked me—hungry, unexpected.

“What—”

“Quiet.” She pushed me against the sink, hands roaming—not clinical. Fingers traced my bruises, pinching a nipple hard. “You’ve been through hell. But I can make it better. Or worse.”

The derailing hit: her touch ignited forbidden heat—female dominance, a twist in my MM world. She kissed me—fierce, demanding—hand sliding down to grip my cock, stroking firm. “Kneel for me, Marino. Show me why they fight over you.”

Shock froze me; arousal surged, toxin remnants amplifying. I dropped, her pants unzipped—fingers in her, tongue working as she choked my neck with her thigh. Dominance heightened: she edged me with her boot on my cock—pressing, denying.

“Come,” she commanded, grinding on my face.

I shattered—untouched, cum on the tile. She finished on my tongue, smirking.

“Good boy. Now, testify—or I expose your submissions. All of them.”

As she zipped up, Dante banged on the door. “Luca!”

But Chen’s agenda? She wasn’t saving me. She was collecting me—her new asset in a federal empire.

And as we exited, Sofia’s comm crackled in my ear—hidden: “Brother. The KGB ties? They’re mine. But Chen’s the real poison. Escape. Find me.”

Whose web was tighter? And would Dante forgive this final derailment?