All Chapters of Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

I curse silently at Matteo Santoro who sent this fucking nightmare. Anyone who hurt Luca will die by my hands.His little bravado teeth still gleam when he smiles slightly. “I… I was telling Matteo…” his words trail off in another cough.“What?” I whisper, afraid.“Tell me later. Fight later,” he croaks.“I’m right here, Luca,” I assure him, pressing my lips to the scruff of his neck. My hands shake so badly. Not from fear of my own death—fear of losing him.He manages a small laugh, the bravery behind it broken by pain. “You promised, D. Paris.”He squeezes my arm. “You needed someone to trust,” he murmurs.“I trust you,” I rasp.His eyes glaze as fatigue claims him. His fingers pull desperately at my collar, and he murmurs, “Any…and every…place with you…”A scream of frustration breaks from me. “I’m right here, Luca. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”He inhales sharply and his eyes well. “I won’t die, D… not yet,” he whispers, and a bit of defiance flares in those eyes.I hug him tighte

Dante’s POVThe taste of him still lingered.Blood, whiskey, and desperation. That kiss had not been gentle. It was a collision, a wound torn open on both our mouths. For a moment, I hadn’t known whether I wanted to crush him against me until he shattered, or break away and put a bullet in his chest. Both urges had felt the same—violent, consuming, inevitable.Now the clinic was too quiet. Luca was slumped against the cot, pale, bandaged, his lashes heavy with exhaustion. But his eyes had opened once after the kiss, hazy with guilt, and I had seen the truth there. He hadn’t meant to give in. He hadn’t meant to want me still.And yet he did.That was what cut deepest. Not that he betrayed me with Mira. Not that he had ever worn the FBI’s badge under my roof. But that he still wanted me, even when he knew better. Even when he knew it could destroy us both.I sat in the corner chair, every muscle coiled tight. My hands flexed against my knees, and I thought of how easy it would be to sta

(Luca’s POV)Light finds me the way guilt finds a man — relentless, honest, and incapable of being ignored. It crawls under the blinds in thin, arrogant lines, painting the floor of the penthouse in strips of gold. The view is obscene: the city laid out like a toy, lights winking on and off, people running the small, important dramas of their lives. Down there are a million ordinary choices I could have made. Up here is the consequence of the one I didn’t.I wake to a stranger’s bed. No — not a stranger’s. His bed. His sheets smell faintly of him: something clean, a trace of expensive soap and wine. For a second I let myself breathe in that closeness like a man who knows he shouldn’t, then the memory of the clinic claws its way forward and I remember blood under my fingers, the sting of the bullet, the way Dante’s hands had moved over me like I was a thing he could never relinquish.My side aches with a steady, dull pain. The bandage feels tight; beneath it, the world is made of pinpr

(Luca’s POV)I understand now that there’s no bargain to be struck that will keep both of us whole. There is only the small, terrible arithmetic of survival.“Then what?” I ask finally. My voice breaks like glass. “Do you plan to keep me as a—what? A pet? A possession?”He studies me in a way that is both tender and cruel. “I plan to keep you where I can see your choices. And if you step off the line I’ve drawn—if you tell them anything that burns what we have left—then I will dismantle you, Luca. Piece by piece.”For a heartbeat I feel like laughing till my ribs hurt. Then the faint, ironic smile curls on my face. “You always talk like an executioner and a lover.”“And you always think you can be both the liar and the martyr,” he replies.“I am tired of being either,” I say. I want to tell him everything I am: Ethan Cross in a suit with a file burned into the back of his head, the man who was meant to take him down. I want to confess that the work means nothing anymore compared to th

He forced a smile that was more pain than humor. “You always did like to own things.”“And you always liked to push.” I let the sentence hang like a wager. He knew the score. We always had. It was the only constant between us.He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The tentativeness of sleep claimed him again. I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest and found the patience of a man well-practiced in watchfulness. I had to become invisible to him. A protector and a jailer at once.I set the rules in small increments. First: no one entered the north wing without my permission. Second: Luca stayed where I could see him. Third: cameras on the outer alleyways would be rerouted to alert me if a vehicle slowed for more than thirty seconds. Fourth: my men would shadow the bureau’s whispers. We would keep the neighbors ignorant, the press docile, and the killers blind.The first visible move was practical: I ordered his transfer to the penthouse proper before any rumor surfaced. I n