Don's Surrender
A spicy enemies-to-lovers femdom mafia story.
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*Part 1 (Lena's POV)* Labelled
The label maker clicks softly in my hand. Such a small sound to make the most powerful man in New York twitch.
"Property of Magdalena Russo," I read aloud, smoothing the label across his bare chest. His muscles jump beneath my touch. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think, Don Vassallo?"
Adriano strains against the zip ties binding him to his own office chair, the veins in his neck bulging out. But he doesn't use our safe word. He never does.
"When I get free—" he starts, voice rough.
I press a finger to his lips. "If. If you get free. And only when I allow it." I create another label. This one reads "Speaks When Spoken To." I place it along his collarbone, letting my long, blood-red nails scrape his skin.
"You interrupted me three times in today's meeting." My voice is silk over steel. "Talked over my security proposal like I was some first-year associate." I straddle his lap, the expensive fabric of his suit pants brushing against my bare thighs as my dress rides up. “The Devil's Right Hand, so quick to remind everyone who holds the power."
His dark eyes burn into mine. Even bound, he emanates danger. "I had to establish dominance—"
"Wrong answer." I twist one of his sensitive nipples, hard. His whole body jerks as he suppresses a groan. "You were forgetting your place."
Three years I spent climbing the ranks, making myself invaluable as a negotiator between families. Three years of planning, of learning every detail about the man who ordered my father's death. I never expected this part—the way my body hums when he surrenders to me, the dark thrill when this feared mafia boss yields to my touch.
I stand and walk behind him, enjoying how he tenses when he can't see me. The label maker clicks again. "Equal Partner," I read, placing it at the nape of his neck. "Since you need reminding."
Adriano grunts but doesn’t say anything.
"The mighty Don Vassallo." I rake my nails down his chest, catching on the labels. "What would your Capos think if they saw you now? Their fearsome leader, marked and bound by the very woman meant to destroy him?"
He shudders. I know he's achingly hard beneath his tailored slacks, but I'm nowhere near done with his punishment.
"I should take a video." I trace the shell of his ear with my tongue. "Play it back during our next meeting. Let you hear how prettily you beg when you're in your proper place."
"I didn't—fuck!" He cuts off as I bite his shoulder, sinking my teeth into that bleeding angel tattoo I love so much.
"Didn't mean to disrespect me? Didn't think I'd notice?" Each question is punctuated with a new label. "Partner." Click. "Equal." Click. "Respect." Click.
His breathing grows ragged the lower I go on his body. I know that sound. He's close to breaking, to begging. But I need more. Need to remind him that every inch of his power belongs to me now.
I grasp his jaw, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You run the largest crime family in the city. You end lives with a single word. But here? Now?" I squeeze harder. "You're just mine to play with, Don Vassallo.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Always," he growls.
The single word shoots straight through me, the heat instantly coiling in my belly. Because three years ago, I came to destroy Adriano Vassallo. Instead, I found the one man strong enough to give me everything—his empire, his control, his surrender. And fucking hell, it makes me wetter than I’ve ever been.
I reach for the label maker again. The Don tenses, waiting.
"Kneel," I command, cutting through the ties with a small knife I'd hidden in my thigh holster. Adriano’s eyes track the blade, darkening with want.
He could overpower me now. We both know it. Instead, he slides to his knees, the expensive fabric of his suit pants against the hardwood floor. Labels scatter around him like fallen petals.
“Look at you being such a good boy," I murmur, threading my fingers through his dark hair. I pull, exposing his tattooed throat. "Now, tell me how our next meeting will go.”
Adriano takes a deep breath. "You'll present the security proposal," he says carefully, voice tight with arousal. “I’ll support you. Whatever you need.”
The label maker clicks. "Perfect," I read, placing it at the hollow of his throat. My grip on his hair tightens. "Though I'm not sure you've fully learned your lesson about respect."
Adriano’s large hands flex at his sides, fighting the urge to touch me. "What's my punishment?"
I trail the knife down his chest, catching the edge of a label. It peels away, revealing the reddened skin beneath. "I'm going to remove each label," I tell him, "one by one." I lean close, my lips brushing his ear. "With my teeth."
His whole body shudders.
"And you're going to stay absolutely still and take it," I continue, "until I decide you've earned the right to touch me."
"Christ, Lena—"
I silence him with a sharp tug of his hair. "That's not what you call me when we're alone."
"Mistress, sorry,” he corrects himself, the word falling from his lips like a confession.
“Get up.”
Adriano does as he’s told, straightening up. He stands perfectly still as I trail my fingers over his torso, lower down, to unbuckle his pants.
As he holds his breath, I pull his hard cock free from his pants, the label maker clicking one more time. One more label to remind him exactly who he belongs to—in the bedroom and the boardroom.
“Mine” I read the final tag before sticking it on Don Vassallo’s hard cock. “Now, grovel, boy!”
​
*Part 2 (Adriano's POV)* First Blood
I've killed men for less than the way she's looking at me.
The negotiator sits across my desk, one long leg crossed over the other, toying with her wine glass like she owns the fucking room. Like she isn't in the presence of death himself.
They call me the Devil's Right Hand behind my back for a reason—though never to my face. Not if they want to keep breathing. The Devil himself would think twice before crossing me. Yet the negotiator seems impervious to the facts.
Her hair catches the dying sunlight streaming through my office windows—a cascade of deep red that reminds me of fresh-spilled blood. It should repulse me. Instead, my fingers itch to wrap those strands around my fist.
"Your terms are unreasonable, Don Vassallo,” the negotiator says, her resolve unfaltering. Magdalena Russo. A name that's been circulating through the families. The woman who brokers impossible peace deals. But today’s the first time I finally get to put a face to a name, a body to a ghost.
Magdalena uncrosses her legs, the black pencil skirt pulling tight across her muscular thighs. Everything about her is a deliberate power play—from the blood-red sole of her Louboutins to the single pearl at her throat. Curves that could make a priest sin, packaged in tailored elegance that screams old money. But there's something else, something lethal beneath the polish.
I lean back, adjusting my cufflinks. "You're new to this world, Ms. Russo. Perhaps you don't understand how things work in my territory."
She clearly needs to be reminded of her place. And wouldn’t I love to do so? Christ. I bet she would moan so prettily if I pulled her over my lap right now and gave her the hiding she had coming.
Focus, Adriano, I chide myself, forcing my mind out of the gutter. It’s usually easier to do. But there’s something different about this one…
Women have never been my weakness. I was raised to be a killer, taught that attachment means vulnerability. One-night stands in foreign cities, nameless faces I never see again—that's all I allow myself. It's served me well for thirty-eight years.
But that was before Magdalena waltzed in here like the deed was in her name.
The crystal catches the light as she rotates the stem between her fingers. Something predatory flashes in her eyes. "Oh, I understand perfectly."
The glass shatters as she slams it down on the table. She doesn’t even flinch, just flashes a grin that makes my insides churn with wanting.
Blood wells from her finger, a single crimson drop. Before I can stop myself, I've reached for her, caught her hand. The contact burns like a live wire.
"Allow me," I murmur, bringing her finger to my lips as she traps my gaze in hers, in those eyes that are the color of whiskey and sin—such a beautiful amber.
The taste of her blood hits my tongue. Copper and wine and something dangerous. My cock hardens instantly, a primal response I haven't felt since I was a teenager without iron control.
Her eyes lock with mine. In that moment, I see it—the same darkness that lives in me. A hunger that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with power.
She doesn't pull away.
My thumb strokes her pulse point. Her heart races beneath my touch, but there's no fear in her eyes. Only challenge. She's close enough now that I catch her scent—expensive perfume layered over something uniquely feminine that makes my mouth water.
"Careful, Don Vassallo." Her voice drops to a whisper, full lips curving into a knowing smile. "People will talk if you keep holding my hand like this."
I should let go. Should remind her who she's dealing with. I've built my empire on fear, on being the man other men pray never to meet in a dark alley. The man who can order death with a nod. Instead, I press harder on the small wound. Watch her pupils dilate.
"Let them talk."
She smiles then, sharp as a blade. "Your reputation suggests you don't like being challenged."
"And your reputation suggests you do nothing but challenge." I release her hand, instantly colder without her touch. The urge to grab her, to taste more than just her blood, nearly overwhelms me. "Tell me, Ms. Russo, do you enjoy playing with fire?"
"I enjoy winning." She stands, smoothing her skirt. A drop of blood stains the white fabric of her blouse. Her movements are too graceful, too controlled. Like a dancer. Or a killer. "And I never play games I haven't already rigged in my favor."
Something wild and reckless stirs in my chest. Every instinct I've honed over years of survival screams that this woman is dangerous. That I should have her eliminated before she becomes a threat. Instead, I find myself wanting to kneel at her feet, to worship every inch of her body.
The thought should terrify me.
Should enrage me.
But it only makes me harder, my erection straining uncomfortably against the fabric of my pants.
"Your terms," I find myself saying, despite my plan to do the opposite. "I accept them."
Magdalena pauses at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “I know.” The late sun sets her hair ablaze, a corona of fire around features that belong on a Renaissance painting of a warrior queen. “Call me Lena.”
Long after she's gone, I can still taste her blood on my tongue. Still feel the phantom press of her pulse against my fingers. Still smell her perfume in the air.
This is not how the meeting was supposed to go.
I've ripped men’s eyes out with my bare hands for daring to defy me, to challenge me.
But for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I'm the most dangerous person in the room.
And God help me, I want more.
So does my achingly hard cock.
Fuck!​
​*Part 3 (Lena's POV)* Safe Word
The grandfather clock in Adriano's library strikes midnight, each chime echoing through the intimate space. Old money drips from every surface—leather-bound first editions, oil paintings in gilt frames, curtains worth more than most cars.
The lit fireplace before us almost makes it feel cozy. Perhaps under different circumstances.
​
"Again," I demand, securing the black silk blindfold around his head. "Every exit. Every security measure. Leave nothing out."
​
He kneels before me on a century-old Persian rug, hands bound with one of his signature Hermès ties. There’s not a stitch of clothing on his tattooed body, nothing on his skin but the bright red streaks of my single-tail whip.
​
The contrast is striking—this man who commands an empire, his muscled frame marked with scars and tattoos that tell stories of violence, now yielding to my will. The bleeding angel inked across his shoulder blade seems to watch me as I circle him.
​
"Northeast corridor," Adriano’s voice rasps, strain evident in every word. "Behind the Van Gogh. Biometric scanner disguised as a light switch. Takes you to—" He cuts off as I drag the whip along his spine.
​
"You're still editing," I observe, "Still choosing which secrets to share." Like the truth about my father's death.
​
My father, who taught me to shoot when I was twelve. Who showed me how to navigate the grey areas between legal and criminal. Who made sure I spoke four languages by sixteen, knew how to handle myself in any room.
​
While my mother chased art deals across Europe, disappearing for months at a time, he was my constant—my teacher, my protector, my proof that not all criminals were monsters.
​
I remember the night he died. The explosion that lit up the Brooklyn sky. I was supposed to be there, helping him check inventory, but a last-minute meeting kept me away. Sometimes, I still smell smoke in my dreams, still hear the sirens.
They said it was an accident. A warehouse fire, nothing more. But I knew better. Knew the look in the other families' eyes at the funeral. Knew what it meant when certain doors started closing, certain phones stopped ringing.
​
Three years I spent building my cover. Learning to negotiate, to mediate, to make myself invaluable. All while hunting for the truth. For the man who ordered the hit. For Don Adriano Vassallo.
​
I never expected to find him beautiful. Never expected to understand him. Never expected anything but vengeance.
"I'm not—" Adriano protests, still holding out, still refusing to give me what I came for.
​
The whip falls sharply across his bare thigh. A warning.
​
"Safe word?" I remind him.
​
"Vendetta,” he hisses between clenched teeth.
​
Fitting that he chose an Italian word for revenge as his escape. But tonight, I need him to use it. Need to find his real limits, push past his carefully constructed walls.
​
I circle him slowly, remembering the first time I saw him across a negotiating table. The Devil's Right Hand is finally offering me the keys to his kingdom, one secret at a time. But are they the secrets I need?
​
"Your private office. All of it."
​
His jaw tightens. "Lena—"
​
Another strike. Harder. "That's not my name here."
​
"Mistress." He swallows hard. “Please, I—” His words dissolve into a sharp intake of breath as I strike again.
​
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the crackling fire and his measured breathing. In the flickering light, I watch the internal war play across his aristocratic features.
​
His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking beneath stubbled skin. Those full lips—usually so quick to curve into a dangerous smile—press into a hard line. Even on his knees, there's something regal about Don Vassallo, something untamed in the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the proud line of his nose.
​
I know about the room behind the library's false wall. Know what he keeps there. But I need him to tell me. Need to see if he'll surrender this last piece of himself.
​
A bead of sweat trails down his temple, catching in the silver threading through his dark hair at his temples. His chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths.
​
He's beautiful like this—all that power held in check, that brilliant mind calculating the cost of truth versus silence.
​
“Tell me.”
​
Adriano shakes his head, no.
​
The whip cracks again. And again. Red lines bloom across olive skin. Each strike pulls a tiny flinch from him now, the mask of control beginning to splinter.
​
"Vendetta," he gasps finally, the word torn from his throat. "Please...I can't..."
​
Victory and disappointment war in my chest. I drop the whip, move to untie him, but his next words freeze me.
​
"Not because I won't tell you," he continues, voice raw. "But because what's in those files...it will change everything.”
​
“Look at me," I demand, removing his blindfold. The naked Don’s eyes are dark, his pupils huge. "Do you trust me?"
​
"With my life." No hesitation. "With my empire. With everything except your heart when you learn the truth."
​
“We both know it’s unavoidable. The sooner you rip the band-aid off, the sooner—”
​
The grandfather clock chimes quarter past, cutting off the rest of my sentence. In this light, the scars across his chest look like silver threads, weaving stories of survival. Of power. Of the price we pay for the lives we've chosen. My father taught me that every scar tells a story—I wonder what story Adriano's will tell about tonight.
​
The defeated Don sighs, nods slowly. He knows I won’t give up until I get what I came for.
​
"Get dressed," I tell him, untying his hands. "Then bring me the file."
​
He moves with careful grace, each motion measured as he pulls on his clothes. The marks I've left on him disappear beneath expensive fabric, but we both know they're there. Both know this night isn't over.
​
He’s quiet as he crosses to the safe, the one I shouldn’t know about but do.
​
As I watch him, my heart pounds against my ribs.
​
Three years of searching, and the truth is finally within reach.
​
But at what cost?