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A Throne Beside the King
Last Updated:
2025-03-31 02:55:21
Latest chapter
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Close Enough to Burn
Luca’s POVPain has a way of stripping lies bare.It doesn’t ask who you’re supposed to be or what role you’re playing. It just demands attention, sharp and immediate, until everything else falls away.I realized that as I leaned against the wall outside the bedroom, my vision swimming slightly, my side throbbing in a slow, insistent rhythm. I’d pushed myself too far. Again. Old habit. One more thing I’d never quite learned how to stop doing.I barely made it to the chair before the room tilted.“Sit.”Dante’s voice snapped through the haze, close—too close.I hadn’t heard him approach. That alone should’ve scared me. Instead, my body reacted with a rush of something warm and dangerous, like relief.“I’m fine,” I said automatically.He ignored me.A hand landed on my shoulder, firm, steadying. The contact sent a jolt straight through my spine. Not pain. Not pleasure exactly. Just awareness. The kind that lights every nerve on fire.“Sit,” he repeated, quieter this time. Not a command
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Fault Lines
Luca’s POVThe penthouse never slept.It watched.I felt it the moment I closed the bathroom door behind me—the hum in the walls, the quiet awareness of cameras I couldn’t see, the knowledge that even when I was alone, I wasn’t. Dante had designed it that way. Not for comfort. For control.I leaned over the sink, gripping the marble until my knuckles burned white. My reflection stared back at me like a stranger wearing my face. Blood speckled my collar. Someone else’s. Not Mira’s. Thank God. But it didn’t matter. Blood was blood. It always came back to stain everything.You gave him a trail to follow.Dante’s words echoed, sharp and precise, cutting deeper now that I was alone.I turned on the tap and scrubbed my hands too hard, skin scraping raw under the heat. The water ran red, then pink, then clear—but my chest didn’t loosen. My breath stayed shallow, tight, like my ribs were braced for impact that never came.I had almost asked him to kill me.The realization hit harder than the
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Ashes of Trust
(Dante’s POV)I knew Luca had lied the moment he walked into the penthouse.He tried to stand tall, jaw set, his eyes too sharp, too alive for a man who had just run through the city with Santoro’s hounds at his heels. But his hands betrayed him. They shook—not violently, not like a man gripped by panic, but with the subtle tremor of someone who had carried too much, too fast, too far.The blood on his shirt was not his. I could smell it before I saw it. The copper tang carried across the room like incense in a cathedral, announcing sin before confession.“You’re late,” I said. My tone was even, the kind of cold that makes men forget if you’re human at all.Luca—Ethan, though he had buried that name so deep even I almost forgot it—dropped the duffel on the floor. His voice was sandpaper. “We got her out.”He didn’t need to name Mira. I saw her in the shadow behind his words. Safe, somewhere beyond my reach, beyond Santoro’s claws—for now. A victory, but a hollow one.“What else?” I as
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss The Courier’s Wake
(Luca’s POV)My throat went dry. I had a thousand contingency plans, but none for the cold knowledge that Santoro’s men had been closer than we’d thought. I picked up my burner and sent the abort tone: a single chime that was enough. Marcus’s phone should get it and act. Silence was a razor. I waited.The Civic’s driver wore a face I’d seen before in close-ups: a Santoro motor, with the impatient look of men who’d been paid to make a life end. He tilted his head like a vulture smelling carrion.Marcus’s reply came bright as a flare: Civic tailing. Detour now. The van idled and turned; the courier, caught mid-exchange, cursed under his breath and kept moving. I watched the sedan close the gap, and the hairs at my neck bristled.The world contracted. The courier’s passenger door clicked open a second too long when he hesitated, and a man jumped out from nowhere—too trained, too clean. The courier turned; a scuffle. The Civic’s driver moved forward like a man about to harvest. I could se
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss The Drop
(Luca’s POV)Night smells different when you’re about to do something that matters. It’s sharper, full of oil and hot concrete, the scent of engines idling and neon overheating. The laundromat at the corner smelled like bleach and old coins and the faint perfume of someone’s life that keeps spinning. I waited in the shadow of the awning, the bandage at my side riding tight beneath my jacket, a reminder that every breath could be the last I had taken yesterday.Marcus arrived like a man who had practiced slinking for decades: no flourish, no adrenaline, just the quiet competence of someone who’d been asked to do a favor and knew better than to ask why. He was older than me, hands weathered, eyes the color of spare change. He folded into the slot behind the van’s wheel without fuss. Two men in the passenger seats watched the street like hawks.“You sure about the time?” Marcus asked. His voice was low, a rasp as seasoned as the upholstery. He had a face that kept secrets because the sec
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss An Offer of Inclusion
(Dante’s POV)I considered the cost: the men will mobilize, there will be eyes on the road, Santoro will learn that someone has a whisper of our movement and he will react. But Marcus was clean, old-world enough to move ghosts and quiet enough to make parts of the city disappear for a night. He had a reputation for being practical, like a man who traded lives, not drama. If Luca wanted Mira moved, we’d move her. That meant dredging Santoro’s network and flushing rats. It meant a game of knives in the dark and the possibility that a man I had been building something with would walk away before I could say I wanted him.I made a choice I had long forbidden myself. “Yes,” I said. “Tonight.”Relief cracked his face in a dangerous, childlike way. He wanted to smile and almost did. “Thank you.”“Don’t thank me yet,” I warned. “You will owe me an explanation you cannot sing into a lullaby. You will owe me steps and names and a cut of your pride. You will owe me something that keeps me from b
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