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

I sit on the edge of the massive hotel bed, watching Caterina rummage through our luggage to get us ready for a meeting with her cousin. My mind keeps replaying our encounter with Luna and Tony in the lobby. Something makes me feel a pang of annoyance. Something I can’t quite let go of.

“Cat,” I say, the question burning in my throat, “did you ever hurt Tony? You know, when you were married?”

Caterina pauses mid-motion, a crisp white dress shirt dangling from her fingers. She turns to face me, one perfect eyebrow arched in confusion.

“What? No,” she says, sounding genuinely perplexed. “I hardly ever talked to him, let alone laid a finger on him.”

I fidget with the leather collar around my neck, feeling the smooth material between my damaged fingers.

“So you never, like, hammered his hands or anything?” I press, watching her face carefully for any sign of deception.

Caterina stares at me for a long moment, confusion evident in her crimson eyes. Then, slowly, her expression shifts, understanding dawning across her perfect features. Her lips curl into that evil smile that simultaneously terrifies and arouses me.

“Adam,” she purrs, dropping the shirt and stalking toward me with predatory grace, “are you jealous?”

Heat rushes to my face as I squirm under her intense gaze. “No,” I mutter unconvincingly, avoiding those piercing crimson eyes.

Caterina reaches me in three long strides, her tall frame looming over me where I sit. In one fluid motion, she’s straddling my lap, her strong thighs bracketing mine as she takes my face between her hands. Her touch is gentle but firm, forcing me to look up at her.

“I only hurt you because I love you, Adam,” she whispers, her crimson eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “I never even considered Tony worth the time to hurt.”

Her words shouldn’t comfort me, but they do. There’s something deeply fucked up about feeling special because I’m the only one she’s broken. Yet the knowledge settles something restless inside me.

I lean into her touch, craving the contact despite everything she’s done to me. Or maybe because of it. I’m not sure I really care anymore as long as I feel safe in the moment.

Caterina’s hands slide down from my face to my shoulders, her touch leaving trails of electricity on my skin.

“We should get you ready,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “Arms up.”

I raise my arms without hesitation, the movement coming naturally now after countless repetitions. She reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it upward, her knuckles brushing against my ribs as she works the fabric over my head.

“Good boy,” she purrs, her crimson eyes darkening as she takes in my bare chest.

The praise shoots straight to my cock, my body responding to her words like a dog hearing the kibble box shake. I feel myself hardening in my pants, a fact that doesn’t escape Caterina’s notice. Her lips curve into that predatory smile I’ve come to crave.

“Cat...” I smile, suddenly feeling bold. “Do you think we have time for...?”

She sighs, her crimson eyes flicking to the elegant watch on her wrist. Her teeth catch her bottom lip as she considers my request, clearly tempted. For a moment, I think she might say yes, push me back onto the bed, and have her way with me.

“No,” she says finally, genuine disappointment etched across her perfect features. “Valentina is expecting us in twenty minutes.”

She looks devastated by her own answer, her crimson eyes lingering on the bulge in my pants with naked hunger. It’s strangely empowering to see her want me this badly, to watch her struggle with her own desire.

Caterina moves behind me, helping me slip into the crisp button-down shirt she’s selected for dinner. Her movements are precise and gentle as she guides my damaged hands through the sleeves, careful not to put pressure on the healing joints.

“By the way,” she says casually as she begins fastening the buttons from the bottom up, “Valentina is completely clean. She’s not involved in the family business at all.”

I turn my head slightly, trying to catch her expression. “Really?” The surprise in my voice is genuine. From what little I know of the De Luca family, being uninvolved seems almost impossible.

Caterina nods, her crimson eyes focused on aligning the buttons perfectly. “It’s not like she’s ignorant,” she explains, her fingers moving deftly up my chest. “Her mother was involved after all, but she dedicated her life to racing when she was young.”

Her hands pause at my collar, adjusting it carefully around the leather band at my neck.

“You’re okay with that?” I ask, genuinely curious. Caterina doesn’t strike me as someone who tolerates family members going their own way.

She chuckles, the sound low and throaty as she finishes with the top button. “Less competition for the top makes life easier,” she says with a shrug.

I can’t help but smile at her pragmatic approach. Of course, Caterina would see her cousin’s career choice through the lens of business advantage rather than family disappointment.

“Besides,” she adds, reaching for my pants, “having a famous race car driver in the family provides excellent cover. Who would suspect the cousin of Ferrari’s star driver to be running Boston’s criminal enterprises?”

“That’s true, I guess.”

*****

The restaurant Caterina has taken me to is exactly what you’d expect from a high-end Italian place frequented by Formula 1 royalty. Chandeliers drip from ornately painted ceilings, and every table seems positioned for optimal privacy while still allowing diners to see and be seen. The hostess, a tall woman with short-cropped hair and a tailored black suit, leads us through the dining room.

I’m hyperaware of the collar around my neck as we weave between tables. Caterina’s hand rests possessively on the small of my back, guiding me forward while simultaneously keeping me close. The medication she gave me before we left the hotel has settled into a pleasant hum in my veins, making everything seem slightly less intimidating.

“There she is,” Caterina murmurs, her crimson eyes fixed on a table near the back of the restaurant.

I follow her gaze and see a woman who could only be related to Caterina. She has the same striking blonde hair, though cut much shorter in an athletic style that frames her face. As she stands to greet us, I’m struck by how tall she is, nearly matching Caterina’s impressive height. But it’s her eyes that catch me off guard, the same unnatural red as Caterina’s, a genetic anomaly that apparently runs in the family.

Valentina’s face breaks into a wide, genuine smile when she spots us. There’s something disarming about her expression, none of the predatory calculation I’ve grown accustomed to seeing in Caterina’s face.

“Caterina!” she calls out, her voice carrying a spaghetti sauce thick Italian.

They meet in the middle, embracing with the enthusiastic familiarity of family members who genuinely like each other but don’t see each other often enough. Valentina claps Caterina on the back in a gesture that seems almost brotherly, while Caterina’s embrace is more reserved but no less affectionate.

“Cousin, it’s been too long,” Valentina says as they separate, her crimson eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.

“It’s good to see you again, Val,” Caterina replies, her usual predatory demeanor softening just slightly around the edges.

Valentina’s gaze shifts to me, curiosity evident in her expression. I notice her eyes briefly flick to the collar around my neck, but her face reveals nothing beyond polite interest.

“Val, this is my lover, Adam,” Caterina says, her arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that’s both possessive and protective.

Caterina turns to me with a slight nod, her crimson eyes softening in a way that I’ve come to recognize as permission to speak.

“Hello, It’s nice to meet you.”

Valentina’s smile widens as she extends her hand toward mine. “The pleasure is all mine. Cat never introduces me to anyone important to her.”

Before I can respond, Caterina smoothly intercepts the handshake. “I’m so sorry, Val, but Adam’s hands are severely… broken,” she explains, her tone matter-of-fact despite the horrific implications. “They’re still healing.”

Valentina’s scarlet eyes widen as they drop to my damaged hands. I resist the urge to hide them in my pockets as she takes in the scarring and unnatural angles of my fingers. Then her gaze shifts to my collar, lingering there for a heartbeat too long.

“Ah, I see,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

There’s something in her expression, a flash of understanding, perhaps concern, that makes me wonder how much she truly knows about Caterina. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that same warm smile.

“Please, sit down,” she says, gesturing to the table.

Caterina guides me to a chair, her hand never leaving me. As we settle in, a waiter appears immediately, pouring wine into our glasses with practiced precision.

“So,” Caterina says, swirling the deep red wine in her glass, “how’s the race looking for Sunday?”

Valentina’s face falls, her crimson eyes dimming as she gazes into her wine glass. She swirls the dark liquid absently, her shoulders slumping slightly beneath her Ferrari team jacket.

“Honestly?” she sighs, setting down her glass with a delicate clink against the tablecloth. “I’ll be lucky to get fifth place on Sunday. The car’s just not competitive this season.”

The disappointment in her voice is palpable, a stark contrast to her earlier warmth. She runs a hand through her short blonde hair, frustration evident in the gesture.

“It’s truly disheartening,” she continues, her Italian accent thickening with emotion. “I thought I could lead Ferrari to victory, you know? An Italian for an Italian team. Give the fans something to celebrate.”

Caterina leans forward, her crimson eyes studying her cousin with unusual softness. “Are you still thinking about retiring this year?”

Valentina nods, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Seven championships is plenty, don’t you think? I’ve had a good run.”

My eyes widen at this revelation. Even through my drug haze, I recognize the significance of what she’s saying.

“Wow, seven wins...” I murmur, genuinely impressed. “That’s so many.”

Caterina’s lips curve into a proud smile as she glances at me. “Yes, Valentina here is tied for the most world championships ever won in Formula 1.”

I look between them, curious now. “Who’s the other driver?”

“Michaela Schumacher,” Valentina answers, a respectful tone entering her voice as she mentions the name.

“Oh, cool,” I nod, pretending to know more than I do.

Caterina swirls her wine thoughtfully before asking, “Hey, do you ever hear anything about Michaela these days?”

Valentina’s expression darkens, her crimson eyes dropping to the table. “No,” she says quietly. “I think she might be brain-dead after the skiing accident. The family keeps everything very private.”

A somber silence falls over our table, the background chatter of the restaurant suddenly seeming too loud in contrast. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the collar around my neck feeling heavier somehow.

“Such a waste,” Caterina finally says, breaking the tension. “She was a legend.”

Valentina nods in agreement, then deliberately brightens, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Enough about racing. Tell me about you two! How did you meet?”

I freeze, panic flashing through my system despite the drugs. What are we supposed to say? ‘Oh, Claire sold me to her to pay off gambling debts, then Caterina broke my hands with a hammer’?

Caterina’s crimson eyes meet mine for a split second, a silent communication passing between us. Her lips curl into a smile that makes me want to jump her bones on the table.

“I found him in a rather difficult situation,” she says, her voice smooth as silk as she reaches over to stroke my cheek with unexpected tenderness. “And I saved him. Simple as that.”

The simplicity of her answer hangs in the air between us. It’s not a lie, not exactly. Lord only knows what else Claire would have done had I stayed with her.

‘Probably not hammer me though…’

Valentina’s crimson eyes flicker between us, taking in Caterina’s possessive touch and my docile acceptance of it. For a moment, I think she might press for details, might ask about the collar or my hands or the way I keep glancing at Caterina for permission to speak. But something in Caterina’s expression seems to warn her off.

“Well,” Valentina says with a small nod and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “sometimes the simplest stories are the best ones.”

Valentina: