The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)

“Hello there,” Lara says, her voice silky and melodic.

I sigh unable to stop myself for what’s about to happen next.

“General Kenobi,” I say as if it’s my divine duty.

For a moment, the world seems to freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize what I’ve just done, made a nerdy Star Wars reference to the psychopathic redhead Maddy explicitly warned me about. The one who “loves to hurt men” as a hobby.

But instead of the violent reaction I’m bracing for, Lara’s expression transforms. Her face soften, and her blue eyes widen with delighted surprise. A smile spreads across her face, not the predatory grin I expected, but something almost childlike in its enthusiasm.

“A boy that likes Star Wars!” she exclaims, her voice rising with genuine pleasure. She clutches my Birkin bag tighter. “How refreshing! Most men I meet are so busy trying to impress me they forget to be interesting.”

The tension in my shoulders eases fractionally, though wariness still pulses through me with each heartbeat. This playful reaction doesn’t match the monster Maddy described, which somehow makes her even more unsettling.

“I, uh... yeah. I’m a man of many mysteries. “I stammer out.

‘Chat is my life, Joever?’

Lara tilts her head, studying me with those intense blue eyes that seem to take in every detail, my nervous posture, my swollen eye, my disheveled appearance. There’s something clinical in her gaze, like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.

“Shall we sit? I’ve brought your bag, but I’d love to chat for a moment.” She says, her voice surprisingly gentle. She gestures toward the living area with a graceful movement of her hand.

Every instinct screams at me to make an excuse, to retreat to the bedroom and lock the door until Caterina returns. But what choice do I have? Refusing might anger her, and according to Maddy, that’s the last thing I want to do.

“Sure,” I agree, my voice surprisingly steady despite the fear churning in my gut.

We walk to the seating area, her movements fluid and catlike beside me. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps, creating an eerie silence broken only by the soft rustle of her tailored suit. She places the Birkin bag carefully on the coffee table, treating the expensive accessory with a reverence that seems at odds with her supposedly violent nature.

We settle onto opposite ends of the plush sofa, the expensive leather creaking softly beneath our weight. Lara crosses her legs with elegant precision, her posture perfect yet somehow not rigid.

“I like your bag,” she says, nodding toward the Birkin. “The craftsmanship is exquisite. Caterina has excellent taste.”

“Thanks,” I reply, watching her carefully.

Lara smiles warmly. “Caterina is quite generous with those she cares about.”

Her blue eyes drift to my swollen eye, and something flickers across her face, not the sadistic pleasure I might have expected, but what appears to be genuine concern. She doesn’t comment on it, though, which I appreciate.

“I saw Claire today,” she says casually as if mentioning she’d spotted a mutual acquaintance at the grocery store rather than the woman who sold me like property.

I sigh heavily. “She’s alive?” The question comes out flat, devoid of the concern one might expect when asking about a spouse’s well-being.

Lara notices this, her head tilting slightly as she studies my reaction.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Very much so.”

I stare at Lara, my jaw clenching involuntarily. Claire. Even the thought of her name sends a wave of disgust crashing through me. My so-called wife, who not only failed to help when the other Adam was gang-raped but then turned around and sold me to the fucking mafia to settle her gambling debts.

“Is she adjusting well to her new life?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice. Each word tastes like ash on my tongue.

Lara nods,. “She seemed to be doing well,” she says, her tone carefully neutral.

“Oh, she’s living happily?” The question comes out sharp with annoyance. I picture Claire, free of both her debt and her husband, perhaps celebrating her newfound liberation with a nice dinner or shopping spree, while I sit here with a black eye and an uncertain future.

Lara’s perfect brow furrows slightly. “No,” she says slowly, deliberately. “I wouldn’t say she’s living happily. I’d never say that.”

I nod, dropping my gaze to my hands. “I’m not really a big fan of Claire at this point,” I admit quietly. The understatement of the century. What I feel for Claire has transcended mere dislike, morphing into something cold and hard that sits like a stone in my chest.

Lara’s expression softens, a sympathetic frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, and the gentleness in her voice catches me off guard. “Marriage should be a sacred bond. Breaking that trust...” She trails off, shaking her head slightly.

Her blue eyes drift to my swollen eye again, lingering longer this time. Something shifts in her expression, a calculation happening behind those intense eyes. She leans forward slightly.

“Do you want me to save you?”

The question hangs in the air between us, so unexpected that for a moment, I wonder if I’ve misheard. I blink at her with my good eye, confusion washing over me.

“What?” I manage, my voice barely audible.

“I’ve saved dozens of people from Caterina and the rest of the mob,” she continues, her voice still low, intimate, as if sharing a precious secret. Her blue eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes it difficult to look away. “Men and women like you who found themselves trapped in situations they never asked for.”

The question hangs in the air between us, so unexpected that for a moment, I wonder if I’ve misheard. I blink at her with my good eye, confusion washing over me.

I stare at her, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the alarm bells clanging in my head. Something feels off about this entire interaction. The way she just happened to show up with my bag, the casual mention of Claire, and now this sudden offer of salvation, it’s too convenient, too perfectly engineered to prey on my desperation.

‘This is a test,’ I realize with startling clarity. ‘She’s testing my loyalty to Caterina.’

I remember Maddy’s warning about Lara being unpredictable, dangerous, someone who enjoys hurting men. What better way to justify hurting me than to catch me plotting escape?

“Caterina has taken other men before me?” I ask a bit annoyed that Maddy may have lied to me. “Am I just the latest in a long line?”

Lara’s expression shifts subtly, something flashing behind those intense blue eyes.

“No,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “You’re quite special to her. Caterina doesn’t take male companions. You’re the first I’ve seen in... well, ever.”

The confirmation of what Maddy told me earlier makes my heart rate kick up a notch. I’m not just another toy to Caterina, I’m something unique. The knowledge should terrify me, but instead, it sends an unexpected flutter through my chest.

“I don’t want to be saved,” I say, the lie feeling better than I expected. “I’m staying with Caterina.”

Lara studies me intently, her gaze so penetrating I feel like she’s trying to peel back my skin to examine the truth beneath. Her head tilts slightly, red hair cascading over one shoulder like a curtain of blood.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice taking on an almost maternal quality, gentle and concerned. “This is your chance. I can help you disappear, start a new life somewhere Caterina would never find you.”

I force myself to stay composed, to meet her gaze without flinching. Every instinct screams at me to accept her offer, to grab this lifeline and run. But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s keeping me alive, knows better. This is a trap, an elegantly laid snare designed to catch me in an act of betrayal.

“I’m sure,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Caterina has been good to me. Last night was... a misunderstanding.”

I gesture vaguely toward my swollen eye, trying to appear casual about the violence inflicted upon me less than twenty-four hours ago. “I provoked her. It won’t happen again.”

The words taste like copper in my mouth, bitter and metallic, but I maintain eye contact with Lara, refusing to blink or look away. Every muscle in my body is tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

There seems to be a brief hint of pity in Lara’s eyes before she pulls herself back.

Finally, something in her expression shifts. Her shoulders relax.

“Alright,” she says, her voice lighter now, the maternal concern evaporating like morning dew. “Well, I’m gonna take a shit and bounce.”

“Huh?” I blurt out, my carefully maintained composure cracking under the weight of a new and confusing panic. “You gotta be careful not to say stuff like that.”

Now it’s Lara’s turn to look confused, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together in a delicate frown. “What?” she asks, genuine puzzlement in her voice.

“At my old job, I used to love making shit jokes,” I explain with a warning that transcends social order, “but then everyone accused me of having a scat fetish.”

Lara stares at me, her expression a perfect blend of disbelief and bewilderment.

“You think I have a scat fetish because I said I have to shit? I didn’t even make a shit joke, Adam.” she finally asks, her voice carefully controlled, as if she’s speaking to someone particularly fragile or deranged.

“No, I don’t think you do,” I reply hastily, holding up my hands in a placating gesture. “But someone else might. You know how people are, they hear one bathroom joke and suddenly they’re convinced you’ve got some weird fetish.”

“That’s stupid,” she says as she laughs at me.

“No, I know,” I agree enthusiastically, nodding like one of those dashboard bobbleheads. “It’s ridiculous how quick people are to judge. Like, can’t a person just make a bunch of poop jokes without it being some deep psychological revelation?”

Lara’s expression shifts from amusement to something more quizzical.

“I read your file, Adam,” she says, cutting through my verbal diarrhea with surgical precision. “You’ve never worked a job.”

I sigh deeply, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yup, you’re right. I forgot.” I lie in admission, not bothering to explain that I’m not the original Adam, that I’ve somehow been transported into this gender-flipped world and dropped into the life of a man who apparently has never held employment.

“Alright. I’m gonna go shit then… And I won’t like it.” Lara jokes at me with a smile.

*****

[Claire’s POV]

Since the slots weren’t giving me any returns, I switched to roulette. Ole reliable. I’m on a hot streak. Since I got to the table, I’m up one thousand. I have yet to break even from my losses though.

I see the ball land on black 17. I win four hundred bucks.

“I can’t stop winning!” I yell, drawing annoyed glances from the other players at the table. I don’t care.

The rush of winning is like a drug, better than sex, better than love, better than anything I’ve ever known. My heart pounds against my ribs as I watch the dealer push more chips toward me. My hands shake slightly as I stack them, already calculating my next bet.

“Ohhh, you’re off the slots,” a familiar voice sings from behind me.

My shoulders tense instantly, the euphoria of winning evaporating like water on hot pavement. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Lara’s presence is like a physical weight pressing against my back, suffocating and inescapable.

‘Hasn’t she had enough of me today?’

“Thought you’d be home by now, Claire,” Lara continues, sliding into the empty space beside me at the roulette table. Her tall frame looms over me even as she leans casually against the green felt. “I figured I’d scared you off when I called you evil. That was what? Four hours ago?”

I refuse to look at her, keeping my eyes fixed on the spinning wheel as the dealer releases the ball. The little white sphere bounces and skips, a blur of motion that somehow feels more real than anything else in my life right now.

“Leave me alone, Lara,” I mutter, the words barely audible above the ambient noise of the casino.

She doesn’t move. Of course, she doesn’t. Lara never does what you want her to do. It’s like her entire existence is dedicated to being as contrary and unsettling as possible.

“Place your bets,” the dealer announces, her voice professionally detached.

I reach for my chips, but Lara’s hand shoots out, her long fingers wrapping around my wrist.

“Skip this round,” she suggests, her voice deceptively casual. “I want to show you something.”

I pull my hand back, irritation flaring hot in my chest. “I’m on a winning streak,” I protest, gesturing to my pile of chips. “I can’t stop now.”

“No more bets,” the dealer declares nervously looking at Lara, effectively making the decision for me.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair as the wheel spins and the ball dances. Lara takes advantage of my momentary stillness, pulling out her phone with a flourish. Her long fingers tap and swipe across the screen.

“I visited your husband today,” she says, her voice carrying a sing-song quality that makes my skin crawl. “Lovely man. Very polite. Has quite the shiner, though.”

My stomach drops, a sickening lurch that has nothing to do with the thousands I’ve gambled away today. I force myself to look at her, to meet those manic blue eyes that never seem to blink quite enough.

“What?” I manage, my voice small and uncertain.

Lara’s smile widens, stretching across her face like a wound opening. With theatrical slowness, she turns her phone toward me.

“Look,” she commands, her voice soft but brooking no refusal.

I look.

The photo punches the air from my lungs. It’s Adam, my Adam, sitting on a couch in some hotel room. He’s caught in profile, unaware of the camera, his attention focused on something outside the frame. The left side of his face is visible, and what I see makes bile rise in my throat.

His eye is swollen completely shut, the skin around it a violent collage of purple, black, and sickly yellow-green. The bruising extends down his cheekbone, spreading like spilled ink across his face.

I reach for the phone instinctively, my fingers trembling as they close around the sleek device. Lara lets me take it, her smile never wavering as I pull the screen closer, desperately hoping that what I’m seeing is some trick of the light, some cruel Photoshop prank.

But it’s real. The bruising on Adam’s face is unmistakable. My husband looks small and vulnerable in the photo, his usually confident posture diminished, his body language screaming defeat.

“When... how...” I stammer, unable to form a coherent thought as guilt crashes through me in violent waves.

Lara’s expression transforms in an instant. The playful, manic smile vanishes, replaced by something cold and hard. Her blue eyes narrow to icy slits, her jaw tightening until I can see the muscles working beneath her skin.

“Caterina did that to him,” she says, each word precisely enunciated, “last night.”

The ball drops in the roulette wheel with a clatter. Someone at the table cheers. I barely notice.

“After you sold him,” she hisses, her face now inches from mine, “after you abandoned him to save your pathetic ass.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but no words come. What could I possibly say? That I had no choice? That I was desperate? That I thought Caterina would treat him well?

“And here you are,” Lara spits, her voice dripping with disgust as she gestures at the roulette table with a sharp, violent movement of her hand. “Gambling away more money. Breaking promises. Being the same selfish, pathetic addict who sold her husband.”

“While you’re down here breaking promises,” she snarls, her perfect teeth bared in a grimace of pure loathing, “he’s just trying to survive.”

Lara’s fingers curl around the edge of her phone, tugging it from my unresisting grip. The device slides away, taking the evidence of my failure as a wife, as a decent human being, with it.

“Honestly, Claire,” she says, her voice suddenly gentle, “you should kill yourself.”

The words land like gunshots, each syllable a precise strike against whatever fragments of self-worth I have left. There’s no theatrical cruelty in how she delivers them, no manic glee or twisted pleasure. Just a flat, matter-of-fact suggestion delivered with the casual indifference of someone recommending a restaurant or commenting on the weather.

That’s what makes it so devastating. Not that she said it, but that she means it. She genuinely believes the world, that Adam would be better off if I simply ceased to exist.

Without waiting for a response, without another glance or word, Lara turns and walks away. I watch her fiery hair disappear into the sea of bodies.

The dealer’s voice penetrates the fog surrounding me, distant and muffled as if coming from underwater. “Ma’am? Do you want to place another bet?”

I blink slowly, my gaze drifting from the empty space where Lara stood to the roulette wheel.

My stomach churns with acid and self-loathing. I feel something fundamental breaking inside me, some essential support beam cracking beneath the weight of what I’ve done.

I look down at my chips, about three thousand dollars worth, sitting in neat stacks before me. Money from Caterina’s gift to Adam. The money I stole like the wretched thief I am.

“Ma’am?” the dealer prompts again, her professionally neutral face betraying the slightest hint of impatience.

Something shifts inside me, a tectonic plate of emotion grinding against the bedrock of my character. I gather all my chips, every last one, and push them toward the zero.

“All on zero,” I say, my voice hollow yet somehow steadier than it’s been in months.

The dealer’s eyebrows rise slightly, the only indication of her surprise. “All in on zero,” she confirms, loudly enough for the pit boss to hear.

A ripple of interest passes through the other players at the table. Someone mutters “Jesus Christ” under their breath. Another person whistles low. I ignore them all.

This isn’t about winning anymore. This is about punishment. It’s about cleansing. About finally hitting rock bottom so hard that I’ll have no choice but to look up.

The dealer’s hand hovers over the wheel, her eyes meeting mine one last time, silently asking if I’m sure. I give a small, decisive nod.

The wheel spins. The little white ball dances along its rim, a blur of motion that seems to contain my entire future within its chaotic trajectory. I watch it with a strange detachment as if observing someone else’s life unraveling.

For the first time since entering the casino, I feel nothing. No thrill, no anticipation, no desperate hope. Just a hollow peace, the calm acceptance of a condemned prisoner walking to the gallows.

‘I am a monster,’ I think as the ball bounces erratically. ‘I sold my husband. I broke every vow I ever made.’

The ball slows, hopping from number to number with decreasing momentum. My breathing slows with it, my heart rate steadying as I watch what I assume will be the final nail in the coffin of my gambling addiction.

‘I need to change,’ I think as the ball settles into its final bounce. ‘I need to save Adam somehow.’

The ball lands on zero.

‘No.’

Time seems to freeze. The wheel continues to rotate lazily beneath the now-stationary ball, carrying it around in a victory lap. The green pocket cradles the little white sphere perfectly, but something’s wrong, the ball is wobbling, teetering on the edge of the pocket as if unsure of its decision.

I hold my breath. Everyone at the table holds their breath. The dealer’s knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table. The wheel slows further, the ball’s wobbling becoming more pronounced with each passing second.

It’s going to fall out. It’s okay. I want it to fall out. I need it to fall out.

The wheel makes one final, agonizingly slow rotation. The ball tips to one side, lifting almost entirely out of the pocket.

‘But what if it didn’t fall out? What then?’

I close my eyes. I can’t watch. The sound will tell me everything I need to know, the distinctive click of the ball finding a new home, the collective sigh of the table, the dealer’s mechanical announcement of my loss.

But the sound doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a strange, suspended silence, followed by a collective gasp from the table. My eyes snap open just in time to see the ball settle back into the zero pocket with a finality that seems almost deliberate, as if it considered all other options and chose, against all odds, to stay put.

“Zero!” the dealer announces, her professional mask slipping for just a moment to reveal genuine surprise. “We have a winner!”

The table erupts in excited chatter. A woman to my left slaps my shoulder in congratulation.

I stare at the wheel, unable to process what’s happening. The dealer calculates my winnings, her fingers flying over the chips with practiced efficiency.

“One hundred and five thousand dollars,” she announces, pushing a mountain of chips toward me. “Congratulations, ma’am.”

The pit boss appears at her shoulder, verifying the payout with a quick glance and a nod. People are staring now, other gamblers drawn by the commotion, craning their necks to see who just hit the jackpot.

I should feel something, elation, relief, vindication. But as I look at the pile of chips before me, all I can see is Adam’s bruised face, his swollen eye, the defeat in his posture.

Even with that, the hold the table has on me just feels strengthened by this new win.

“I guess I’ll stay a few more spins,” I say, almost completely detached from myself.

‘What if I really can’t stop winning?’