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?
​*Part 4 (Adriano's POV)* Red-Handed
​
Blood drips onto imported marble, each drop a metronome marking my failure. I've been at this for two hours, and still, the Vittorio soldier won't break.
My knuckles ache. The steel-reinforced basement feels smaller by the minute, air thick with copper and sweat.
"Tell me about the shipment," I demand, wiping my hands on a pristine white handkerchief. “You're only making this harder on yourself."
Marco Vittorio—barely old enough to be a made man—spits blood onto my shoes. Italian leather, custom-made. Disrespectful little shit.
"Go to hell, Vassallo."
I reach for the bolt cutters. Sometimes you have to escalate to—
"You're doing it wrong."
My spine stiffens at her voice.
Lena stands in the doorway, backlit by fluorescent lights, looking like an avenging angel in a tailored black pantsuit. No sign of revulsion on her face. Only...professional criticism?
"This is private business." I keep my voice level, though my heart pounds. This isn't a side of me I wanted her to see. Not yet. "You shouldn't be down here, Ms. Russo.”
She enters anyway, heels clicking on marble. Everything about her screams elegance—from her French twist to her blood-red lipstick. Everything except her eyes. Those are pure predator.
"Private business you're handling like an amateur." She circles Marco, assessing. "Look at him—you've given him something to resist. Physical pain is just fuel for his martyrdom."
Marco's eyes track her movement. I see the moment he dismisses her as a threat. His mistake.
"And you think you can do better?" The words come out harsher than intended. This is my domain. My darkness. What the fuck does the negotiator know?
Her smile is all teeth. "I know I can. Put down the bolt cutters, Adri. Let me show you how it's done."
Something in her voice—that precise mix of command and silk that makes me want to kneel—has me setting down the tool before I consciously decide to.
She pulls up a chair, crossing her legs elegantly. "Now, Marco. Let's have a civilized conversation about choices."
He barks out a laugh. "I don't talk to whores."
"No," she agrees pleasantly. “But you talk to your sister. Angela, isn't it? Sweet girl. Started UCLA last fall."
The blood drains from his face.
"Engineering major. Very impressive. Though the campus can be dangerous at night. All those poorly lit paths between the library and her dorm in Hedrick Hall."
"You wouldn't—"
"I wouldn't." She examines her manicure. "I don't traffic in threats, Marco. I deal in information. For instance, I know about the guilt you carry over your mother's death. How you blame yourself for not being there when the aneurysm hit."
Jesus Christ. I lean against the wall, mesmerized. In ten minutes, she's done more damage than my two hours of physical persuasion.
"I know about the money you're skimming from your uncle's books to pay for Angela's tuition. Five thousand a month. Noble, really. Family taking care of family." She leans forward. "I wonder what Uncle Nico would think about that creative accounting."
A bead of sweat rolls down Marco's temple. "How did you—"
"I also know you're not actually loyal to the Vittorio family. You're an FBI plant. Have been for sixteen months."
My hand twitches toward my gun. A fed? In my basement?
"No," she continues smoothly, “I haven't shared that information with Don Vassallo. Not until now. I’m happy to let him have a go at you again. That's entirely your choice."
Marco's eyes dart between us. I see the moment he breaks.
"The shipment arrives Tuesday. Pier 47. Everything you want to know is on my phone."
Lena stands, smoothing her skirt. "Was that so difficult?" She turns to me, and the look in her eyes makes my cock hard instantly. "Check his phone. You'll find what you need."
She's nearly to the door when Marco speaks again. "Who...who are you?"
She glances over her shoulder, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees. "Someone who understands that true power isn't about how much pain you can inflict." Her eyes meet mine. "It's about knowing exactly how to break someone without leaving a single mark."
The door clicks shut behind her. I retrieve Marco's phone with shaking hands, my mind racing with implications. The woman I've been surrendering to, kneeling for, begging for...she's even more dangerous than I imagined.
And I've never been more aroused in my life. Fucking hell.
Later, after Marco's been dealt with and the intel confirmed, I find her in my study. She's in my chair, legs crossed, looking like she owns the place. Maybe she does.
"You're full of surprises," I manage, wiping my hands on my pants.
"Disappointed?" A challenge in her voice.
I cross to her, sinking to my knees without being told. "Terrified," I admit. "And fucking captivated."
Her hand finds my hair, grips hard. "Good. Now, shall we discuss how much more I know that you think I don't?"
I surrender to her pull, understanding finally flowing between us.
We're both monsters.
Both killers.
Both capable of terrible things.
But she's better at it than I am.
And God help me, I love her for it.
I shake my head from side to side. “No, no more talking.”
A smirk plays over her features as the negotiator slowly uncrosses those long legs to reveal an absence of underwear. “Something we agree on.”
“Dear god, woman,” I groan in a breathless pant as my hands move to her thighs. “You’re insane.”
“Hush, Don Vassallo. You’re dangerously close to being denied another orgasm.”
“No!” My eyes shoot up, finding hers, desperate, pleading. Not again. It’s been two days of torment. Of bringing me to the edge, only to deny me.
“No? Well, then, my darling boy, you better earn yourself some good credit.”
With both hands in my hair, she pulls me into her cunt, and like a thirsty man finally reaching an oasis, I drink my fill, drink until she screams my name, finally pushing me off her with a single heel to my chest, her lust on my lips.
And my god, if bringing Magdalena Russo to climax isn’t one of my favorite things in the world.
I know I should get a grip.
Pull back control.
Show her who she’s dealing with before things escalate to a point of no return.
But deep down, I know we reached that point when she first walked into my office seven months ago.
​*Part 5 (Lena's POV)* Confessions
​
The leather portfolio feels heavy in my hands.
Fifteen minutes have stretched into an eternity of anticipation, each tick of the grandfather clock marking another moment closer to a truth I'm no longer sure I want.
Adriano kneels before me again, but differently now.
No blindfold, no bonds.
Just the weight of secrets between us and the evidence of my earlier dominance marked across his skin beneath his partially buttoned shirt.
"Tell me," I command, though my voice isn't as steady as I'd like. "Tell me everything."
His confession spills out like blood from a wound.
Each word strips away another layer of the vengeance that's kept me warm these three years.
I read through the documents as he speaks, my hands shaking.
The photos are crisp, professional.
My father, caught in secret meetings with the Calabrese family.
The timestamp matches Adriano's story—the night before the warehouse explosion.
I see the familiar slope of Papa's shoulders, the way he leaned forward when closing a deal.
The genetic source of my own red hair, caught in a shaft of sunlight.
"Your father wasn't the target," Adriano says, his voice raw. "He was supposed to be my ally. I'd arranged everything—the merger documents are there, in the blue folder. His smuggling routes, my distribution network. It would have made both families stronger."
I find the contracts.
Pages of careful legal work disguising criminal enterprise.
Two empires merging into one.
Both signature lines blank, waiting for a meeting that never happened.
"Then I received these." He nods to another set of photos. "Your father, meeting with Nico Calabrese. Documentation of a parallel agreement that would have destroyed everything. Not just my business—my entire family. He was playing both sides, planning to take everything."
"You're lying." But the evidence is here in black and white. Bank transfers. Shell companies. A complicated web designed to strip the Vassallo family of everything while appearing to merge with them.
"I wish I were.” His voice catches. "I tried to put an end to it when I found out. Sent a message through our usual channels. But he'd already moved on the Calabrese deal. If I didn't strike first..."
The next document makes my blood run cold. A message from one of Adriano's captains:
[Russo moving tonight. Calabrese backup in position]
"I ordered a warning hit," he continues, the words seeming to physically pain him. "Take out the warehouse. Destroy the product. Send a message." His hands clench into fists. "He wasn't supposed to be there that night. None of the intelligence showed...I didn't know..."
More papers spill from the file.
Frantic text messages.
Surveillance reports.
All showing my father was meant to be at another location, meeting with the Calabrese family.
"When I heard he was there, I tried to call it off. But the team was already in position. The charges were set." Adriano's voice breaks. "He must have seen them, tried to disable...The explosion was bigger than planned. The whole building...I didn't mean for any of it, Lena; you have to believe me. Not like that."
The final document is a private investigator's report.
Every detail about me.
About my relationship with my father.
About the meeting that kept me from being at the warehouse that night.
"I've carried this for three years," Adriano whispers. "Watched you infiltrate the families. Recognized you instantly—I'd memorized every detail about your father, about you. Tortured myself with it."
"Stop." My voice shakes.
The papers scatter across the Persian rug like autumn leaves.
All this time, I thought I had the upper hand.
But I had no idea how clueless I was.
"When you came to destroy me..." He looks up at me, those dangerous eyes full of pain. "I thought maybe it was justice. Maybe I deserved it."
"And now?" The words taste bitter.
"Now I love you." Simple, devastating truth. "And I can't keep carrying this secret between us."
The slap echoes in the quiet room.
His head snaps to the side as my hand makes contact with his cheek, but he doesn't move away.
"You don't get to love me," I snarl. "Not after this.
"
I try to keep my composure as I gather the evidence of my father's duplicity.
Of Adriano's guilt.
Of my own misplaced revenge.
But my shaking hands betray the turmoil inside.
"Lena—"
"Don't." I straighten, armoring myself in ice. In control. In the persona that let me dominate the Devil's Right Hand. "You're going to tell me everything else. Every player involved. Every detail you've held back."
"And then?"
The question hangs between us, silence stretching unbearably long before I answer.
"Then we'll see if there's anything left worth saving."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
In their brief flare, I catch our reflection in the window—him on his knees, me standing over the scattered evidence of how complicated truth can be.
An image of power and submission, love and revenge, guilt and redemption.
"Get up," I tell him finally. "This isn't a scene anymore. This is...I need..."
"Whatever you need." He rises but doesn't step closer. "Whatever helps you understand that I never meant—"
"Stop talking." I press my fingers to my temples. "I need to think. How could my father…” I break off, the betrayal too fresh to voice.
Adriano’s hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he holds himself in check.
Even now, even with everything laid bare, he respects the boundaries I've set.
"I'll be in my office," he says quietly, retreating. "When you're ready. If you're ever ready."
I watch him leave, this man I came to destroy, who destroyed my world first by accident.
The truth lies tucked in the file in black and white, more complicated than vengeance, more painful than hate.
Papa's voice echoes in my memory: "Sometimes the truth is more dangerous than any weapon, piccola."
He never said it could be dangerous to both sides.
​*Part 6 (Adriano's POV)* Public Display
​
Twenty of the most dangerous people in New York sit around my conference table, and all I can focus on is the way Lena taps her black pen against her lower lip.
Three taps: loosen tie.
Two taps: silence.
One tap: speak.
We established the signals last night, her voice silk against my ear as she wound rope around my wrists. The memory makes my cock twitch. I shift in my seat, grateful for the table's concealment.
"The Colombians are pushing into Red Hook." Dario Vittorio's voice grates like rusty nails. He may be the heir to the Vittorio dynasty but it doesn’t make him any more likable. Slimey cunt. "We need a united front."
Lena crosses her legs under the table, her heel deliberately brushing my calf. The scrape of expensive silk against my trousers nearly undoes me.
Three taps.
Heat floods my body. My fingers move to my tie before I can stop them, loosening the perfect Windsor knot a fraction. The silk slides against my throat—the same silk that bound me last night.
She doesn't look at me, but her lips curve slightly.
"Don Vassallo?" Dario’s voice pulls me back. "Your thoughts?"
One tap.
"The Colombian situation requires careful consideration," I say, proud of how steady my voice remains. "We should—"
Two taps.
I halt mid-sentence, sweat beading at my temples. Around the table, eyebrows raise. A man with my reputation doesn't stumble over words. Doesn't show weakness.
Lena leans forward, all cool professionalism. "What Don Vassallo means is that we need to examine our strategic options."
Under the table, her foot slides up my leg. Three taps.
My cock is painfully hard now, straining against expensive wool trousers. The power players of the city’s underworld stare at me, waiting for their feared leader to speak, not knowing that their newest power broker has me wrapped around her finger.
One tap.
"Ms. Russo is correct." The words come out rougher than intended. "We'll need to coordinate our response carefully."
The meeting continues. Lena conducts me like an orchestra, each tap of her pen drawing out exactly what she wants. When to speak. When to yield.
The rest see what they expect—the evil Don Vassallo commanding his empire. They don't see how my hands shake each time I touch my tie. Don't see how my cock jumps when she drops her pen and brushes my thigh retrieving it.
"One final matter," Dario says an hour later. "The matter of territory distribution—"
Three taps. Two taps.
My tie is almost completely off now. They’re going to start thinking I’m stressed. And I am, but not for the reasons anyone might suspect.
My cock jerks painfully as Lena presses the foot of her heel into my crotch. God, I freeze. If I moved right now, everyone would see how hard I am. How desperate. The mighty Don Vassallo, brought to heel by a woman's pen taps.
One tap.
"Territory remains as is," I growl. "This meeting is concluded."
Chairs scrape. Pleasantries are exchanged. I remain seated, using papers as cover. Lena rises gracefully, accepting handshakes, playing her role perfectly.
By now my tie hangs dangerously loose—a visible sign of my submission that everyone reads as the casual dishevelment of a long meeting.
Finally, we're alone, as Lena closes the door behind the last man.
"You're playing a dangerous game," I tell her, my voice hoarse with need.
She perches on the table edge, crossing those endless legs. "Am I?" Her fingers trace my loosened tie. "I think you enjoyed every second of it. On your knees, Don Vassallo. Show me who really runs this empire."
I sink to the floor without hesitation, and her smile is worth every second of delicious torture.
"Good boy." She wraps my tie around her hand, using it to pull me closer. "Now, about that territory distribution..."
"Anything," I groan. "Anything you want."
"I know." She tugs the tie tighter, making me arch my neck. "That's what makes this so fun. The way you pretend to be in control out there, when really..." She twists the silk until I gasp. "Really, you're just waiting for my next command."
"Please," I rasp, my hands gripping her calves.
"Please what?" She loosens the tie just enough to let me speak. "Tell me what the Devil's Right Hand begs for."
"Let me come. I've been hard for hours—"
She laughs softly, tightening the tie again. "You think you deserve release just because you followed simple instructions?" Her other hand cards through my hair, nails scraping my scalp. "No, caro. You'll stay desperate for me. Through dinner with the Leone family tonight. Through tomorrow's territory negotiations."
My cock throbs painfully. "Lena—"
The tie constricts. "What did you call me?"
"Mistress. Please, Mistress."
"Better." She eases the pressure. "But still not good enough. Tell me who owns you—all of you.”
"You." The word comes out broken. "Only you. Always you."
"Prove it." She releases the tie completely, standing. "Get through dinner without touching yourself. Make it through tomorrow still aching for me." Her heel presses against my cock, drawing a groan from deep in my chest. "Then maybe—maybe—I'll let you come."
I stay on my knees as she walks to the door, my entire body trembling with need.
"Oh, and Adri?" She glances over her shoulder. "Keep the tie loose. I want everyone to see how well I've unmade you."
And then she leaves me there, painfully hard and desperate, the silver chain at my throat a constant reminder of who I belong to now.
Fuck.
I lean against my desk, trying to steady my breathing. These men in the conference room—they remember when I took control at twenty, my father's body barely cold in the ground. Remember how I executed my own underboss at twenty-two for questioning my authority, made him kneel in front of the entire family before I put a bullet in his head. They watched me build this empire with blood and brutality, watched me earn my reputation one corpse at a time.
For eighteen years, I've carried the weight of their fear, their respect, their absolute certainty that crossing me means death. Earned every whispered rumor, every flinch when I enter a room, every rushed agreement when I make demands.
And now?
My hand goes to my throat, to where Lena's marks hide beneath silk. To where her silver chain declares her ownership. These same men who once watched me torture a rival for six hours without breaking a sweat just saw me yield to her subtle commands, saw me dance to her silent music.
But they don't understand. Can't understand.
All those years of violence, of control, of perfect, brutal discipline—they were just preparation. Training me to recognize true power when I found it. Teaching me the value of choosing to kneel for someone worthy of my submission.
My phone buzzes. A message from her: "Come upstairs when you're done pretending to work. Perhaps you could be of service.”
A shudder runs through me. My cock, which had finally started to soften, hardens instantly.
God, what is this woman doing to me?