Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss

The world of crime is based on trust.

And tonight, I was going to sell the biggest lie of my life.

The club reverberated with deep bass, shaking the floor beneath my boots. Strobe lights flashed across bodies pressed together on the dance floor, drenched in sin and sweat. From the VIP lounge above, I had a perfect view of the chaos below—ideal for a king like Dante Valenci, who watches over his kingdom of crime.

My target.

As I stepped through security and into the lion's den, I adjusted the cuffs of my suit and maintained a cool expression. Luca Romano, the identity I would spent months creating, was ready to enter the mafia world.

Six months prior.

"Cross, I want him in chains."

The director's tone was cold as he slid a thick file across the table. I flipped it open, revealing photo after photo of Dante Valenci—mid-thirties, tall, fighter-like physique. Sharp Italian features, with black ink curling up his forearms. A man dressed in power. A man whose name instilled fear in every criminal organization from New York to Sicily.

"No one has ever gotten close to him," the director explained. "He operates like a ghost—untouchable and untraceable. But we have finally found a way in."

I leaned back with arms crossed. What is the catch?

"You."

I frowned.

"He is recruiting," my handler, Agent Cole, stated. "We have spread rumors that Luca Romano—a Miami criminal with a talent for smuggling—has resurfaced. "That is you."

I scanned the file again, memorizing the specifics of my new identity. Luca Romano had no family or traceable history. Simply a reputation for being ruthless and efficient.

An ideal fit for Dante's empire.

"We will get you inside," the director explained. "You gain his trust, work your way up, and uncover the evidence we need to shut down his operation."

"What if he finds out?"

Cole's expression did not change. "Then you are dead."

The present day.

I slid into the VIP section, meeting the cold, calculating gaze of the man I would spent my entire career pursuing.

Dante Valenci leaned back in his seat, holding a glass of whiskey between his fingers. Up close, he was even more deadly. He carried himself with effortless power, dressed in all black, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the ink trailing down his chest.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze swept over me—not with interest, but with assessment. He was deciding whether I was worth his time.

He said, "Luca Romano," with a deep and smooth voice.

I nodded, injecting confidence into my tone. "Dante Vallenci."

Silence spread between us, thick with unspoken challenges.

Then Dante took a slow sip of his drink and set it down with a quiet clink.

"Let us see if you are as good as they claim."

According to the first rule of the mafia, loyalty is crucial.

Which is the second rule? Blood is how you prove it.

I trailed behind Dante as he dominated the club's dimly lit hallways with effortless authority. Every man in his empire knew what betrayal meant, so he did not need guards to keep him safe. The scent of whiskey, pricey cigars, and something unsaid—the weight of lives lost and destroyed—filled the air.

We reached a heavy door made of steel. One of his men swung it open from inside when Dante pressed his palm against it. Beyond was a simple space with concrete walls, low lighting, and a single chair that was bolted to the floor.

It held a man, his head drooping forward, his wrists raw from the heavy rope. His temple was covered in blood, which seeped down to his shirt's sweat-stained collar.

I stiffened. Fuck.

It was a trial.

It was not as soon as I had anticipated. Dante Valenci was not the kind of man to accept someone into his inner circle without evidence, and the mafia did not readily accept outsiders.

Dante stepped back, his face unreadable. "You claim to be devoted. This is your opportunity to demonstrate it.

Despite the chill that went down my spine, I maintained a neutral expression. The FBI had abandoned the mission. I am not Ethan Cross anymore. This was the time for Luca Romano.

I went over to the man who was bound. His breathing was labored from whatever beating he had received before I arrived, and he was young, maybe in his early twenties. His lip was split, blood gushed from it, and his left eye was swollen shut.

How did he do it? I asked in an impartial tone.

Dante took a while to reply. Instead, he picked up a sleek silver knife from a small steel table against the wall, its polished blade gleaming in the low light. He held it out to me, handle first, after casually gracefully twirling it between his fingers.

I took it without question.

My eyes met Dante's dark ones. observing. Assessing.

He eventually confessed, "He stole from me," in a composed tone. The value of the shipment was six figures. Betrayal carries only two penalties in my world: suffering and death. You get to decide which one he deserves because you are new."

The knife was firm in my hand. heavy. a choice that could affect how I fare in this operation.

I turned to face the man seated in the chair. Silently pleading, his swollen eye met mine. He would have known the repercussions if he had actually stolen. However, it was also possible that this was a ruse to test my ability to cope with this world.

Consider Luca's perspective. Consider yourself a survivor.

A real criminal would not think twice. A true criminal would not give a damn.

The blade of the knife was balanced and sharp, making it easy to slide between ribs. If I drove it into his throat and allowed the blood to run into the metal grate under his feet, I could kill him now.

But I would like them exactly if that were the case.

And I was not ready to step over that line.

Rather, I moved precisely, swiftly, purposefully. I took hold of the man's wrist and cut his palm deep, letting the blood collect before moving away.

The man's body jerked in the chair and he cried out in a strangled voice. He inhaled sharply as he gripped his bleeding hand.

Dante's forehead raised.

"Interesting."

I looked him in the eye while keeping my face composed. "If he does it again, he will lose it." "He needs that hand for work."

There was silence between us.

Dante then grinned.

"Effective," he muttered as he approached. My face tilted slightly as his fingers curled under my chin, seemingly to examine me. "But forgiving."

His hand was warm. Firm. Intimate but unnerving.

My heartbeat was steady, and I stayed motionless. I was being tested to see if I would recoil. if I were to shatter.

I wouldn't.

Dante gave me one more look, then let go of his hand and turned away. He instructed his men to "clean him up and get him back to work." Then he looked at me once more.

"Luca, I will take you out for a ride tonight."

My heartbeat accelerated.

I needed a closer relationship with Dante Valenci.

And it was the riskiest thing I could do.

The Drive Later That Evening

As sleek and lethal as its owner, Dante's car was a black Maserati GranTurismo. The scent of leather and musk permeated the cabin as we sped through the city, neon lights flashing against the windshield.

With one hand on his thigh and a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, Dante sat beside me in the passenger seat. He was there, palpable, oppressive, like a storm on its way.

He said, "You did not hesitate," in a silky voice.

I held onto the wheel steadily. "It was not necessary."

"A lot of men do."

"Most men are not like me."

A tiny smile appeared on his lips. "No, you are not."

Between us, a hush descended, laden with unsaid tension.

Dante leaned back and let out a slow stream of smoke after that. Luca, tell me. "What do you want?"

As I turned onto an empty road that led to the docks, my thoughts were racing. This was a game that required careful play on my part.

I said, "I want power," calmly. "I would also like to work for someone who knows how to use it."

Dante gave a low laugh. "A survivor then."

From the corner of my eye, I glanced at him. "Are not we all?"

His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, but the smirk remained.

Dante Valenci posed a risk. magnetic. unpredictable.

I was now stuck in his orbit.