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

[Adam’s POV]

I’m laying on the bed in the presidential suite, eyes closed, listening to Enya. The ethereal vocals and soothing synths of “Orinoco Flow” wash over me like gentle waves, carrying my thoughts to distant shores far from this bizarre reality I’ve found myself in.

“Sail away, sail away, sail away.”

The melody fills the spacious bedroom, bouncing off the high ceilings and wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. I just found out about Enya today while browsing Spotify. I’ve heard of Enya before, but I didn’t know they wrote such bangers.

‘I wonder if Enya existed in my original world too. Maybe it was a guy there, though.’

It’s strange how something as simple as music can be a lifeline when everything else has been turned upside down. The songs feel familiar, like old friends visiting from a world I barely remember, but maybe they’re a little different too. [A/N: Enya is the same here.]

I hear the elevator doors opening, then closing. Footsteps approach, confident, measured steps that I’ve already learned to recognize. My heart does a little jump in my chest, anticipation and anxiety mingling in equal measure.

The bedroom door opens with a soft click.

I keep my eyes closed, allowing myself to exist in this moment of suspended reality, where I’m just a guy listening to music, not a man owned by a mob boss in a gender-flipped universe.

“Sail away, sail away, sail away...”

The mattress dips slightly as Caterina sits on the edge of the bed.

I finally open my eyes.

Caterina is watching me with those unsettling crimson eyes, her gaze intense yet somehow softer than usual. Her golden hair is pulled up in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. She’s still in her work clothes—an immaculately tailored white suit that makes her look like some avenging angel of the corporate world.

“Are you listening to Enya?” she asks, her voice carrying a note of surprise.

I nod, reaching for my phone to pause the music. “I found them while you were gone,” I explain, watching as she reaches up and begins putting her hair down. “I was just browsing around Spotify.”

Her hands move to her hair, fingers deftly removing pins one by one. The golden strands release from their tight configuration, cascading down like a waterfall of spun gold, catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. The silken mass tumbles over her shoulders in waves, framing her face with a softness that transforms her usual sharp features.

When she finally looks at me again, I’m startled by what I see in her crimson eyes. Gone is the predatory gleam, the calculating coldness, the barely contained violence that usually simmers beneath the surface. Instead, her eyes are filled with something I never expected to see. Pity, raw, and overwhelming, tinged with a sadness so profound it makes my chest tighten.

Her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she might actually cry.

“Are you okay?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches for me with both arms, pulling me into an embrace so tight it nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. Her arms wrap around me with surprising strength, one hand cradling the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong.

I freeze momentarily, unsure how to respond to this unexpected display of emotion. Slowly, hesitantly, I bring my arms up to return the hug, my hands settling awkwardly on her back. The expensive fabric of her suit jacket is smooth beneath my fingertips.

She says nothing for a long moment, just holds me with a desperation that feels almost frightening in its intensity. Her body is warm against mine, solid and real in a world that increasingly feels like some fever dream I can’t wake up from.

When she finally pulls back, her crimson eyes search my face with such tender concern that I barely recognize her as the same woman who gave me this black eye.

Caterina’s hands move to cup my face, her touch surprisingly gentle as her thumbs stroke my cheeks. She’s careful to avoid the bruised area around my eye.

“Adam,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, “no matter what happens, I would never sell you. I would never abandon you. I would never cheat on you.”

The intensity of her gaze makes something shift inside me, a tectonic movement of emotion that leaves me feeling unsteady. Her words shouldn’t matter to me as much as they do. This woman owns me. She hurt me. She’s dangerous and unpredictable.

Yet the conviction in her voice, the fierce protectiveness in her eyes, makes me believe her completely. And I’m startled by how much I need to hear those words, how desperately I want to belong to someone who won’t discard me when things get difficult.

I say nothing. No matter how badly I want to give in. This life is something I have to either escape, or survive.

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

“You’re mine now,” she murmurs, her voice a silken promise. “And I protect what’s mine.”

‘Fuck… Stop falling for her.’

“Okay,” I say simply, closing my eyes and letting myself lean into her strength.

She closes the distance between us, her lips meeting mine with an urgency that takes my breath away. The kiss isn’t about dominance or possession. There’s something almost desperate in the way her mouth moves against mine as if she’s trying to convey everything she can’t put into words.

I find myself responding instinctively, my lips parting as the kiss deepens. Our tongues dancing like a couple at a wedding.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, her crimson eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth, softening her usually severe features.

Suddenly, her brow furrows slightly. “Wait, you’ve never heard of Enya? Aren’t you 25?”

The question catches me off guard, yanking me from the haze of our kiss back to the bizarreness of my situation.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just never came across her music before, I guess.”

Caterina’s eyes widen as something seems to occur to her. She starts counting on her fingers, her lips moving silently as she does some mental math.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims, genuine horror crossing her face. “Were you born after 9/11?”

I can’t help but laugh at her expression. “No, I was born in ’98,” I assure her.

Her shoulders visibly relax. “Thank God,” she mutters, shaking her head slightly. “That would’ve been so awkward.”

The moment feels strangely normal, like a conversation any two people might have about their age gap. Not a mob boss and her captive/lover discussing generational differences.

“How old are you?” I ask, suddenly curious about the woman whose life is now so completely entangled with mine.

“38,” she replies without hesitation, watching my face closely for my reaction.

I nod, processing this information. Thirteen years older than me. Not a huge gap, but significant enough to explain her established position in the mob hierarchy, her confidence, her air of complete authority.

‘It’s so fucking hot.’

“Does that bother you?” she asks, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice that I wouldn’t have thought possible just days ago.

“No,” I answer truthfully. “That doesn’t bother me at all.”

Silence settles between us, strangely comfortable despite everything. The late afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, painting golden rectangles across the plush carpet.

I study Caterina’s face in this gentle light. Something shifts inside me, a decision forming before I even consciously acknowledge it.

‘Fuck it.’

The weight of carrying this secret alone suddenly feels too heavy, too isolating. Here, in this quiet moment with the woman who both terrifies and fascinates me, I feel an overwhelming urge to share the truth, my truth, no matter how insane it might sound.

‘Maybe she’ll believe me.’

“Caterina,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, “I need to tell you something.”

She tilts her head slightly, her golden hair cascading over one shoulder. “What is it?” she asks, her voice gentle but curious.

I take a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “This is going to sound completely insane,” I warn her, already bracing for her reaction.

“I’m happy you want to share something insane with me,” she says with a small smile.

The words tumble out before I can second-guess myself. “I’m not from this world.”

Her expression doesn’t change immediately, which somehow makes it harder to continue. But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

“I’m from a world where men act more like you and women act like the men here,” I explain, the words rushing out like water from a broken dam. “Where I come from, men are the ones in power. They run businesses, lead organized crime, start wars. Women also do those things, but like… Not as much, I guess. Women are usually valued for their beauty rather than their strength.”

‘Wait, this is really reductive. Fuck it, it gets my point across.’

I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “This whole dynamic, it’s completely backward from everything I’ve ever known. In my world, I wouldn’t be sitting here wearing clothes picked out by a woman who owns me. I’d be single ogling women online, thinking about how good I am at fumbling bad bitches like you.”

I watch Caterina’s face carefully as I speak, searching for any sign that she believes me, that she doesn’t think I’m completely insane. Her expression remains unnervingly neutral, those crimson eyes giving nothing away as she processes my confession.

“And then I woke up here,” I continue, the words spilling out faster now. “In this body that looks like me but isn’t me. With all my own memories. Married to a woman I hadn’t seen since high school, who sold me to you. I’m not the Adam of this world. I’m... someone else who got dropped into his life.”

I pause, feeling pretty good about what I said. Confident even.

‘I think I sold her on it.’

Finally, she sighs. Her shoulders slump slightly, and something shifts in her expression, a softening around the eyes, a gentle downturn of her mouth.

“You think I’m a ‘bad bitch'?” she asks, focusing on that one small detail from my rambling confession. She smiles with a weary look, the expression not quite reaching her eyes.

I blink, thrown by her response. “I mean... yeah? Where I’m from, that’s kind of a compliment. It means you’re powerful and don’t take shit from anyone.”

Her smile fades, replaced by a frown. She reaches out, her hand gentle as she rubs my head, fingers threading through my hair in a gesture that feels strangely maternal despite our earlier kiss.

“I’ve talked with Doctor Ramirez,” she says softly, her voice taking on a careful, measured quality. “She said the amount of trauma you went through could lead to dissociative episodes. Fantasy constructions. Your mind creating an alternate reality where you have control, where things make sense.”

My heart sinks, a cold weight settling in my stomach. She doesn’t believe me. Of course, she doesn’t. Why would she?

“I know it sounds crazy,” I insist, leaning forward. “But how else do you explain why I don’t know basic things about this world? Enya was a guy in my universe, I think.”

Caterina’s expression turns pained, her crimson eyes swimming with concern that feels suffocating. She takes both my hands in hers, her touch gentle but firm.

“Adam, listen to me,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. “Your mind is trying to protect you from the trauma you experienced. Creating this elaborate story where everything is reversed, it gives you a reason, an explanation for why those women hurt you.”

“No, that’s not…”

“In your ‘other world,’” she continues, cutting me off gently, “men are powerful and in control, right? Men wouldn’t be victims in the way you were. It’s a perfect psychological defense mechanism.” [A/N: Men can be sexually assaulted in any world.]

The fight drains out of me suddenly, like air from a punctured balloon. What’s the point? She’s never going to believe me. No one would. In her position, I wouldn’t believe me either. A parallel universe where gender roles are reversed?

‘Fuck.’

“Yeah,” I say finally, my voice hollow. “You’re right. That makes sense.”

Relief washes over her face, softening her features. She pulls me into another embrace, this one gentler than before, her arms encircling me like protective walls.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs into my hair. “You’ve been through so much. Your mind is just trying to make sense of it all.”

I lean into her warmth, letting my head rest against her shoulder.

“I know you’re lying right now,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear, “but that’s okay.”

I stiffen slightly in her arms, surprised by her perceptiveness. She tightens her hold, one hand moving to stroke my back in soothing circles.

“I’m sorry you feel like you’re an alien in a new world,” she continues, her voice gentle and free of judgment. “But I’m here for you. Whatever you need to get through this, I’ll help you.”

The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tighten with unexpected emotion. I swallow hard, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. There’s something profoundly lonely about being understood only partway, about having someone acknowledge your pain while completely misinterpreting its source.

“But don’t you think it’s weird how I’m horny for you all the time?” I blurt out, pulling back to look at her face. “Most men aren’t like that, right? Not in this world, at least.”

Caterina’s brow furrows, a shadow passing across her features. She hesitates, clearly weighing her words carefully before speaking.

“Uhh... Dr. Ramirez said that happens to... assault victims sometimes,” she says reluctantly, her crimson eyes darkening with discomfort. “It’s a way of trying to reclaim control over your sexuality after it’s been violated.”

I sigh deeply, the sound dragging up from the bottom of my lungs like it’s weighted with lead. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “That’s fucking dark.”

She nods awkwardly and says, “Yeah.”

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, the weight of her misinterpretation settling over me like a heavy blanket. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the presidential suite, and the silence between us grows thick with unspoken words and misunderstood truths.

“Hey, how about a drink?” I suddenly suggest, pushing myself up from the bed. The movement is abrupt, almost desperate, anything to shift us away from this conversation that’s going nowhere.

“What?” Caterina looks genuinely surprised, her crimson eyes widening slightly.

“Do you ever do shots?” I ask, already moving toward the bar in the corner of the suite, needing distance, needing movement, needing anything to break the suffocating empathy that’s based on completely misunderstanding who I am.

She laughs, the sound unexpectedly light and musical, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled between us. “If the moment calls for it.” She says.

“Maybe shots will fix the vibe,” I say, picking up a bottle of expensive tequila and examining the label.

Caterina hesitates, her fingers absently playing with a strand of her golden hair. She studies me with those unnerving crimson eyes, and I can almost see her calculating, weighing options, considering potential outcomes.

“Are you sure you really want to get drunk?” she asks finally, her voice carrying a note of genuine concern.

I nod, already pulling out two shot glasses from beneath the bar. “It’s just too sad in here right now,” I say simply, the honesty of the statement hanging naked in the air between us.

Something in my words seems to reach her. Her expression softens, and a small, understanding smile curves her lips.

“Alright then,” she agrees, rising from like a Goddess summoned by my words. She removes her white suit jacket, draping it carefully over a nearby chair, leaving her in a crisp button-down shirt that accentuates the strong lines of her shoulders.

“Let’s have fun then.”