All Chapters of Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire : Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

Vincent Russo stormed into Chris’s room, the weight of Yuri’s escape and the Volkovs’ looming threat clawing at his chest. His shoulder wound throbbed, a dull reminder of the war he was fighting, but tonight, it wasn’t rage or lust driving him. It was fear, raw, unfamiliar, and gnawing. Chris, shirtless and chained to the headboard, looked up, expecting the usual ritual of dominance. But Vincent didn’t pounce. Instead, he sank onto the bed, his massive frame slumping as he pulled Chris close, arms wrapping tightly around him. The chains rattled, a stark contrast to the warmth of Vincent’s embrace.Chris froze, heart pounding. Vincent’s breath was uneven, his face buried in Chris’s neck. “I fucked up, Chris,” Vincent murmured, voice low and cracked, stripped of its usual steel. “The Volkovs...they’re coming. Yuri’s out, and Dmitri won’t stop. They know about you. They’ll use you to gut me.”Chris’s breath hitched, the vul

The Volkovs’ warehouse HQ was a fortress of steel and shadows, but inside, the air crackled with rage and purpose. Dawn had barely broken, the remnants of the aphrodisiac-fueled marathon clinging to their sweat-soaked bodies, but Dmitri Volkov was already pacing, his massive frame radiating menace. Natasha, Yuri, and Alexei sat at a scarred metal table, littered with maps, burner phones, and half-empty vodka bottles. The escape had been a humiliating blow, Vincent Russo’s trap had stripped them bare, physically and strategically, but the Volkovs were predators, and predators didn’t cower. They planned.Dmitri slammed a fist on the table, the wolf tattoo on his chest flexing. “Russo thinks he’s won, parading his little pet Chris in public like a fucking trophy. He’s mocking us.” His ice-blue eyes burned, the memory of Vincent’s cock in his ass fueling a personal vendetta. “We hit him where it hurts...his h

Vincent Russo's office was a warzone of shattered glass and overturned furniture, his knuckles raw and bloody from pounding the walls. The livestream loop of Chris's assault played on every screen, a digital knife twisting in his gut. Dmitri's taunts echoed in his mind.."Your boy's mine now"..and Chris's defiant words..."Don't come for me"..only fueled the fire. But Vincent wasn't listening. Madness had taken hold, a desperate, all-consuming rage that warped his calculated brutality into something primal, unhinged. The Volkovs had planned for anger, for a calculated strike, but they hadn't accounted for this: a man in love, pushed to the edge, willing to burn the world."Eliminate them all," Vincent snarled into his phone, his voice a guttural roar. "Every Volkov flank...warehouses, clubs, safehouses. Burn them to the fucking ground. No survivors." His men, loyal to the core, mobilized like a storm. Acros

The morning sun filtered through Russo Tower’s high windows, casting long shadows as Vincent and Chris descended to the dungeon. Vincent’s arm was a steel band around Chris’s waist, his grip possessive, almost desperate, as if the ghost of the Volkovs’ kidnapping still haunted him. Chris leaned into it, steady despite the fading bruises on his skin, his presence grounding Vincent’s lingering madness. The dungeon reeked of blood and despair, the air heavy with the Volkovs’ defeat. Dmitri, Natasha, Yuri, and Alexei hung in chains, blood-stained and battered, their empire reduced to ash by Vincent’s wrath and Lena’s digital sorcery.Chris surveyed the captives, their faces pale under grime and dried blood. “They’re a mess,” he said softly, glancing at Vincent. “Clean them up. They’re no good to you dead or broken.” His voice carried a quiet authority, and Vincent, the ruthless mafia boss, nodded like an obedient puppy, his love for Chris

Vincent Russo and Chris Jackson lay tangled in their shared bed, the air thick with the heat of their passion. No chains, no drugs, just skin on skin, slow kisses, and deliberate touches. Chris straddled Vincent, riding him with tender rolls of his hips, Vincent’s thick cock filling him deeply, their moans blending in a rhythm of love, not lust. “I want you like this,” Chris had whispered earlier, his hand cupping Vincent’s face. “No drugs, no haze. Just us.” The temptation of Raul Mendoza’s Eros-X 2.0 vials, sitting unopened in Vincent’s office, had been strong, visions of amplified ecstasy dancing in his mind. But Chris’s wariness, born from years of dodging traps and surviving betrayal, swayed him. Vincent, ever the lovesick puppy beneath his mafia veneer, agreed. “Anything for you,” he’d murmured, tossing the vials aside to focus on the man he’d burned a city for. Their