All Chapters of Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

(Dante’s Narration)I woke to the scent of antiseptic and leather. Not my sheets. Not my walls. The ceiling above me was painted in pale strokes of ivory, uneven, like a man too restless to ever finish the job. Luca’s ceiling.For a moment, disorientation threatened to consume me. Pain anchored me first — deep in my ribs, a dull, stabbing fire that flared when I tried to breathe too fully. The second anchor was rage. Rage at weakness. Rage at being touched. Rage at being here.The third anchor, though, was the quiet weight of presence. He was here. Watching.“Don’t move,” Luca’s voice said. Low. Rough. Tense in a way he couldn’t disguise.I turned my head slowly. There he was — in the corner of his room, a shadow with eyes like steel. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, but I could see the crack in his armor. His sleeves were rolled, his forearms marked faintly with blood that wasn’t his own. My blood.“You should be dead,” I told him, my voice cutting through the stillness.His

(Dante’s Narration)Pain has its uses.It sharpens. It strips. It burns away pretense until all that’s left is the truth beneath the skin.The fever had broken, but its echo lingered in me, a ghost of fire. My body was weak, ribs wrapped in tight bandages, every breath a reminder that Matteo had come closer than anyone in years. Too close.And yet—I wasn’t dead.I was here. In Luca’s apartment.My enemy’s apartment.The irony would have made me laugh if my chest hadn’t been tearing itself apart.Luca thought he was careful, but I watched him even when my eyes were closed. His patterns betrayed him.Every morning, he brewed coffee so strong the smell seeped under the bedroom door, bitter and grounding. He always poured two cups—one black, untouched by sugar, one ruined by cream. My cup.He didn’t ask if I wanted it. He just left it on the nightstand, steaming, as if admitting aloud that he cared would make it real.Then he’d leave, and I’d hear him move around the apartment—closets ope

(Luca’s POV)Blood has a smell that never leaves you. Copper sharp, metallic, thick enough to choke if you breathe too deep. Tonight, it coated my hands, my arms, the ragged edge of the shirt I’d torn to keep Dante from bleeding out.I should have been focused on the bodies cooling on the floor, on the wreck of the door swinging broken from its hinges, on the fact that Matteo Santoro—ghost, traitor, snake—had found us.But I wasn’t.I was stuck on the moment I almost lost him.And worse—the moment I almost kissed him.The thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall, split knuckles, break something until I can forget. But it clings to me, sticky as the blood still wet on my palms. His face inches from mine, his breath brushing hot against my mouth, the way his weight sagged into me like he trusted me to hold him up.I did hold him up. And for half a second, I wanted more than that.It doesn’t make sense. I’ve hated this man. Feared him, admired him, envied him—sometimes all in

(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

(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