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The Hunter’s Smile
Last Updated:
2025-08-23 23:39:38
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Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Broken Distance
(Dante’s POV)The safehouse was silent, save for the wind rattling faintly against the broken windowpane. Silence should have been comforting; I built my life on silence, on the absence of noise. But tonight, it felt like the kind of quiet that pressed on the lungs, making each breath feel like a confession.Luca was in the kitchen, moving restlessly. I had been watching him for some time, pretending I was reading the intelligence reports spread across the table. I wasn’t. My eyes kept straying to him—the deliberate way he reached for things, the way his shoulders rolled with a tension he thought he could hide. He was trying to stay busy, to keep distance between us after what had almost happened last night.But distance between us was always a lie.The smell of charred bread hit me first. Then came the hiss of pain.“Shit,” Luca cursed under his breath.I was on my feet before I even realized I’d moved. By the time I reached the kitchen doorway, he was clutching his palm, blood beadi
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss The Kiss and the Knife
(Dante’s POV)The silence in the safehouse was no longer silence. It had weight, texture, a suffocating density that pressed against my chest every time Luca moved in the next room. It wasn’t absence of sound—it was everything we weren’t saying. The way his footsteps slowed when he passed my door. The way his eyes lingered too long before darting away. The way I caught him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t watching.For years, silence had been my weapon. My empire had been built on it. My enemies had drowned in it. But with Luca, silence wasn’t a weapon—it was a battlefield. Every second I didn’t touch him was a war I was losing.I told myself I could wait. That patience was strategy. That letting him squirm under the weight of his own choices would serve me better than demanding answers now. But patience was an illusion. My restraint was nothing but a mask stretched thin, and tonight I could feel the cracks forming.It began with something stupid.He was in the kitchen, sleeves
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss The Mask of Luca
Dante’s POV There are nights when silence presses heavier than gunfire. The safehouse had been swallowed by it. Luca—Ethan—sat across the room, his hand still bandaged clumsily from the kitchen accident, his eyes avoiding mine. He was restless, pacing the corners of his own thoughts. And me? I couldn’t look at him without tasting the weight of all the years behind us. Because I knew. I had always known. Not in words, not in files, not in the kind of certainty that a man like me usually demands before he acts. But in my bones. From the first night he walked into my world, claiming the name Luca Romano, I felt the lie stitched into his skin. Yet I let him in anyway. And in letting him in, I damned myself. It was a winter night, I remember that much. The city was brittle with frost, neon lights flickering against black ice. Romano had been recommended to me by one of the Calabrian families — a “rising hand,” they said. Reliable. Clean with his work. Ruthless, if paid enough. But
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Ashes on the Tongue
(Luca’s POV)Morning crawled into the safehouse like smoke seeping under a locked door. Thin light pushed through the blinds, spilling in stripes across the floorboards. I hadn’t slept much. My head kept replaying the night before—the adrenaline, the heat of running, the way Dante’s shoulder brushed mine when we collapsed against the wall in silence. Too close. Too dangerous.I told myself I’d shake it off. Put the distance back where it belonged. Mira’s face kept flashing through me like a ghostly reprimand. You’re losing yourself, Luca.So I went to the kitchen, trying to ground myself in something normal. Something human. Just eggs in a pan. Bread in the toaster. The hiss of oil, the clink of a fork. The small rituals of survival.But my hands were unsteady. I could feel the tremor in them. Not fear—something worse. Something that wouldn’t name itself.I reached for the skillet too quickly, and the hot oil spit upward. A sharp sting shot across my palm. I hissed through my teeth, i
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss Between the Pulse and the Blade
(Luca’s POV)I hadn’t realized how close we’d come until the silence after the fight pressed itself against my ears like a scream I couldn’t escape. My knuckles were split, blood drying into a black crust across the creases of my hands, and my chest heaved with the hollow ache of too much adrenaline too fast. The stench of gunpowder and copper clung to the air, an invisible shroud that told me we’d survived but only just.And then there was him.Dante.Wounded, stubborn, silent. Sitting across from me like a shadow carved from glass and fire. I’d seen him bleed, seen him falter for half a breath, and something in me had cracked wide open. When I reached for him—when I pressed my hand against his side to staunch the bleeding, when his breath stuttered against my cheek—I hadn’t been thinking like an enemy. Or even like a man protecting an ally.No. I’d been thinking like someone standing too close to a flame he knew would burn him alive, and still leaning closer.The memory kept looping
Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss The Weight of His Hands
(Dante’s POV)I’ve been cut before. Shot. Broken. Tortured. I know what pain is, what it tastes like, what it teaches. Pain is order. It reminds you of what matters and strips away the rest.But tonight—this pain is different.Not because of Matteo’s blade, not because of the blood soaking my ribs, not even because the fever pulls my thoughts into shadows.No.It’s because of him.Because every time I flinch, Luca is there. Every time I shift, his eyes follow. He paces like a caged animal, but when I stagger, when I let weakness flicker across my face, he comes closer.And every time he does, I feel it—that current that neither of us will name.I test it once, deliberately. A soft groan, my hand pressed against the bandage too long.He’s at my side before I finish drawing breath.“Sit still,” he snaps, his voice all rough edges, but his hands betray him—steady, precise, too careful to be nothing. He kneels, fingers pressing against my side, checking the cloth. Warmth seeps through the
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