Dylan DiMaggio

Age- 22

Height- 6 feet

Parents- mom dead, dad- Angelo DiMaggio



Hunter Hendrix

Age- 29

Height- 6'4

Mafia leader of Hendrix group

Parents- dead

Francesco Fiorello

Age- 30

Height- 6'5

Parents - dead

Head of Fiorello group (Mafia)



Eda Blanco

Age- 24

Mafia princess

Francesco's fiance

WARNING

This is a fantasy, gay, dark romance story and kindly try not to relate things in this story with real life.

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Dylan's pov

The first thing I felt was cold silk against my skin. I woke up naked, as always, sex toys scattered across the bed like silent witnesses. Hunter never let me sleep fully dressed — though we had never gone all the way. That was my choice.

Everyone has their own perspective about sex. I have mine. I won’t give myself to anyone before marriage.

And that’s exactly why Hunter is so desperate for my father’s death. Sometimes I even wonder if he’s planning it. We’ve never had sex, but I can tell — Hunter is a beast. When it happens, I’ll probably be unable to walk for a week.

The waterbed shifted beneath me as I stood, wrapping myself in a silk bathrobe. The air in my room smelled faintly of roses — fresh arrangements delivered daily — and the faint hum of the central fountain in the hall reached my ears.

A knock came at the heavy mahogany door. Breakfast time — the butler.

I opened it to see him standing stiffly, silver tray in hand. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as always. But as I reached for the plate, my foot slipped on the glossy marble. I shut my eyes, bracing for the impact — only to feel strong hands catch me.

I opened them slowly to see the butler’s pale, startled face.

“Who the fuck dared to touch what’s mine?!”

The voice behind me made my blood run cold.

Hunter’s footsteps were like gunshots against the marble as he approached. The butler froze. My heart dropped. What is he doing here?

Hunter’s tall frame filled the doorway, his tailored black suit as sharp as his glare. He grabbed the butler by the throat, lifting him effortlessly.

“With whose permission did you touch him?”

“I–I’m s-sorry,” the butler stammered, choking.

“It’s not what you think!” I blurted. “I slipped, and he just—”

Hunter’s ice-cold stare silenced me instantly.

“You’d better not say another word. David! Take him to the basement.”

David, his right-hand man, stepped out of the shadows and dragged the struggling butler away.

Hunter seized my wrist, shoving me back into the room before slamming the door with a sound that echoed off the high ceilings.

I stepped back as he stripped off his coat, rolling up his sleeves slowly, like a predator drawing out the kill.

“Tell me, Dylan… am I not enough for you? Is that why you’re trying to get fucked by the butler?”

“It’s not like that! I really—”

“You were clearly seducing him. Look at you — half your chest and legs on display.”

My calves hit the edge of the bed and I fell back into the soft mattress. Hunter loomed over me, pinning my wrists above my head. In one sharp motion, he pulled open my bathrobe and crushed his lips to mine, stealing my breath.

“You’re only allowed to look at me. Every part of you belongs to me,” he growled into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “From today onwards, you’ll only eat with me.”

His teeth and lips marked my skin — harsh bites, lingering sucks — each one a reminder of his ownership.

An hour later, David’s call for work pulled him away.

I showered, then sat by the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the estate stretched endlessly — manicured gardens, marble fountains, and armed guards patrolling the gates. Beyond that, I could see nothing of the world I longed for.

My life was luxurious — a grand piano, polished violins, a library of first editions, private theaters and gaming rooms. My room was a palace.

But I wanted more. I wanted friends. I wanted to feel sunlight on my face, wind across my chest, grass beneath my feet. I wanted freedom.

At some point, I drifted off to sleep.

A shotgun blast jolted me awake. Through the window, I saw bodyguards sprinting toward the sound. None remained below my balcony.

This is my chance.

I grabbed the rope and bag I’d been hiding for months — cash, just enough to disappear. I tossed the rope over the edge and slid into the cool night air, landing softly on the grass before running until the mansion vanished from sight.

I boarded a bus with my cap low, mask on, and bare feet. No one looked twice. I bought my ticket, retreating to a seat by the window.

The city beyond Hunter’s walls was alive — neon signs glowing, strangers laughing, the smell of roasted chestnuts and gasoline mixing in the air. The wind through the window felt like freedom itself.

I didn’t notice the final stop until the conductor tapped me.

“End of the line.”

The street I stepped onto was the opposite of the last — dark, silent, and cold. A flickering streetlamp buzzed above me.

Then I saw the sign. Fiorello territory.

A sleek black Porsche idled at the corner. Beside it, a tall man in a long coat smoked lazily, each drag of his cigarette sending smoke curling into the night air. His bodyguards stood like statues.

Francesco Fiorello.

“He won’t recognize me,” I told myself.

Then he flicked the cigarette away and started toward me.

I ran.

“Wait!” His voice cut through the night.

I ran faster.

“Wait!” Again, closer now.

I’m dead.

Suddenly, my feet left the ground. He’d lifted me effortlessly. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the worst — and landed on something soft.

I looked down. Shoes — his shoes — now covered my feet. His coat draped over my shoulders, its scent rich and unfamiliar.

“Mr. Dylan DiMaggio,” a calm voice said. “Let me take you home.”

Francesco was already walking to the car. One of his men stood waiting.

Confusion tangled in my chest. Why would he help me? Why give me his coat and shoes?

“Follow me,” the man said.

And I did.

The ride was silent — except for the pounding in my head.

When we pulled into the driveway, Hunter was already there, stalking toward us like a storm.

“How does he know I’m coming?” I muttered.

He ripped the coat from my shoulders without a word, leaving the shoes behind, and carried me inside.

In the bedroom, he threw me onto the waterbed.

“Why, Dylan? Why?” His voice was low, trembling with restrained fury.

“You didn’t want sex before marriage, so I’ve been holding back. I’ve done everything for you — and still you ran.”

He loomed over me.

“Why don’t you admit it? You’re only safe with me.”

He tore my shirt open, lips crushing mine in a kiss that stole the air from my lungs.

“Mmh—” I gasped before he gripped my face hard.

“You can never escape me, Dylan. You were always mine. The day we get married… I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t even think about another man.”

His mouth marked my chest.

“Tell me, Dylan… who do you belong to?”

“You,” I whispered.

“And who’s in your heart?”

“You,” I repeated.

A dangerous smile curved his lips before he kissed me again — deep, consuming.

But inside, my heart whispered:

You were in my heart the whole time… and now you’ve destroyed it.

...****************...

I woke to the weight of a breakfast tray on my bed. The smell of toast and coffee filled the air, but it didn’t make me hungry—it just reminded me no one had dared to step into my room since last night. Fear was thicker than the morning air here.

I ate in silence, every movement pulling at my sore back. The pain was a reminder of Hunter’s jealousy—the way his eyes had darkened when he saw me in that coat and those shoes, the way his toys had cut across my skin in sharp, stinging lines.

His scent still clung to me, woven into my skin. Years ago, I used to breathe it in with a smile. Now, I wanted to scrub it off until my skin burned.

The shower was longer than usual. I stood there, letting the hot water drown out the echo of his voice from last night, the heat masking the ache in my muscles. But breakfast had triggered something—a wave of nostalgia I couldn’t ignore.

After dressing in loose clothes, I wandered into my endless wardrobe, fingers brushing over old jackets, shoes, and keepsakes. Then I saw it—the heavy wooden box I hadn’t touched in years. My so-called golden memories.

Back then, the names DiMaggio, Hendrix, and Fiorello were more than feared—they were untouchable. Three families at the top of the mafia chain, each with one heir.

Hunter Hendrix and Francesco Fiorello had raised me more than my own father ever did. Hunter was reckless, my partner in crime; Francesco, the eldest, was calm, controlled, the only one who could handle the chaos we caused. He rarely spoke, but when he did, you listened.

Apart from them, I had no one. At school, I was popular but untouchable—lonely in a crowd. Maybe it was because I was the son of the most ruthless mafia boss alive. People whispered about me, stared, but never came close.

Then came the day I told them I liked men. That’s when Francesco began to pull away. I’d suspected his discomfort, but I didn’t expect him to avoid not only me, but Hunter too. His distance deepened under the influence of his fiancée, Eda Blanco—a woman who seemed to hate me for existing.

Eda was beautiful, older, and promised to Francesco since birth. Maybe she was jealous of the attention I got, maybe she just liked watching people fall. Whatever it was, she went too far—accusing me of harassment and bullying. Lies, but they spread like wildfire.

Francesco believed her. Others followed. My reputation burned, and I was left standing in the ashes.

Except for Hunter.

Hunter never looked down on me. He defended me, silenced the whispers, and made sure Eda’s games didn’t break me. He picked me up from school, helped me with homework, and taught me how to fight—how to survive.

Somewhere along the way, I fell for him. Maybe it was inevitable. He was everything I thought I wanted—protective, dangerous, magnetic.

The creak of the door snapped me out of the memory. I shoved the box back into its hiding place and turned.

Hunter walked in, carrying plates of food. He set them on the table before looking at me with that unreadable gaze. Then he stepped closer, hands sliding onto my hips.

“Let me help you get dressed,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

In the wardrobe, he pulled out a crisp shirt and tailored pants.

“Are we going out?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” he smiled—a smile that could be gentle or dangerous, depending on the day.

He dressed me himself, fed me lunch, and drove me to the aquarium he had booked entirely for me. It was beautiful, but the empty halls felt strange. I kept imagining children’s laughter echoing against the glass tanks.

Still, we took photos, ate ice cream, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot.

Then, as we walked back to the car, a group of men passed by.

“Look at him,” one said. “Cute, handsome, and hot—all at the same time.”

Without thinking, I smiled. A small thing. A reflex.

I forgot I wasn’t allowed to smile at anyone but Hunter.

Before I could stop him, Hunter had one of them by the collar.

“What the hell?!” the man yelped.

“Dude, chill—we were just giving him a compliment!” another stammered.

“Compliment?” Hunter’s voice was ice. “Go and praise someone else. Not my man.”

The punch was so quick, so brutal, that blood sprayed across the pavement. I rushed to pull him back, panic tightening in my chest, but his shove sent me crashing to the ground. Pain shot through my wrist as I landed.

My hiss of pain snapped him back.

“Dylan…” he said quietly, stepping toward me.

“It’s Dylan DiMaggio and Hunter Hendrix,” one of the men whispered to the others before they bolted.

But I knew Hunter. They wouldn’t get far.

And when he caught them, they would never compliment anyone again.

I woke up to the soft brush of Hunter’s lips against my skin.

“Happy third anniversary,” he whispered in my ear.

I smiled back, murmuring the same.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked at him. The smile on his face made something ache inside me — it felt like a memory. In front of me sat a perfectly cooked breakfast. Hunter rarely made breakfast, let alone waited for me to wake up. Usually, I opened my eyes to an empty bed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t spend the whole day with you,” he said, kissing my lips. “But name it — where do you want to go for dinner?”

I sipped my coffee before answering absentmindedly, “Where you proposed to me.”

He paused, eyes narrowing for the briefest moment, before kissing me again. “Why not.”

The way he looked at me — and the smell of coffee in the air — dragged me back three years, to a time when Hunter was the man of my dreams. Back then, he cared about every little thing, took me to all our favorite places, made me feel like I mattered. He was the one who pushed me to chase my dreams. I was in love with him long before I dared admit it.

But one day, he started ignoring me. Late replies. Cancelled plans. I thought he was just busy — until I saw him with a girl. People whispered they were dating, and I believed them. I cried for two days straight before I finally caved and checked his Instagram.

There they were, at Francesco’s club. My control slipped that night. I went there, heart pounding.

The moment I saw him, I screamed his name and ran to him, hugging him tight.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Are you two dating?” I blurted.

“Yes,” he said with a smile that shattered me. Tears burned my eyes, but I forced out, “C-Congratulations.” I turned to leave before breaking in front of him. People were watching. I didn’t care.

Then Hunter cleared his throat, and suddenly the crowd was cheering. Confused, I turned back to see him kneeling in front of me.

“I like you, Dylan. Would you go out with me?” His voice was low, husky.

“But… aren’t you dating her?” My hands trembled.

“I lied. She’s just my sister.”

Relief crashed over me so hard it left me dizzy. “Of course yes.”

He smirked, slid a slightly-too-tight ring on my finger, and I threw my arms around him.

---

I shook off the memory when Hunter handed me a huge branded box. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said.

Inside was a turtleneck top, matching overcoat and pants, and branded gumboots. When I tried them on, I realized it wasn’t my style at all. Not a single inch of skin showed. The high neck felt almost suffocating. It was his taste, not mine.

I spent the day studying until evening, then dressed and waited. When Hunter arrived, he was in a matching outfit — except his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, exposing part of his chest.

I didn’t expect him to actually take me to Francesco’s club. How had he even booked his enemy’s place? The interior was unchanged, just as I remembered. Our table sat perfectly centered, a candle flickering between us, soft music curling through the air. It reminded me of nights we danced together in the kitchen.

We toasted with expensive wine, exchanged bracelets, and he said, “Cheers to our three years together.”

I smiled, but when the food arrived, I noticed it was all his favorites — half of which I disliked. Still, I ate in silence.

Then the lights went out. Smoke thickened in the air. Gunshots split the night.

“Come to me, Dylan!” Hunter’s voice carried a sharp edge of panic.

I stumbled toward him as he called David, his assistant. Anthony. The name made my blood run cold. Anthony hated my father, and killing me would be his way of sending a message.

“Go hide,” Hunter ordered, gun in hand.

I ran upstairs in the dark, afraid to use my flashlight. On the second-to-last floor, I heard footsteps. Multiple. My chest tightened. I ducked into the last room, clapping a hand over my mouth to silence my breathing.

The footsteps came closer. Gunshots rang out. A body fell. A gun slid across the floor to my feet — the guard’s, probably. I picked it up, checking the chamber. Loaded.

Footsteps again. I aimed, finger trembling. The moment a shadow appeared, I lunged — but before I could shoot, the figure knocked the gun from my hands and shoved me down.

He was huge. Even in the dark, I could tell. My wrists were pinned above my head, my kicks useless. My breath came fast, my pulse hammering. Then I saw his face.

Francesco Fiorello.

He didn’t speak, didn’t smile. Just stared for a beat before lifting me onto his shoulder like I weighed nothing. I fought, shouting, hitting his back, but he didn’t even flinch.

The darkness swallowed us as he carried me toward a door I couldn’t see.

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