Mafia's Virgin Hostage
Chapter 1
Elena Caruso's white dress was meant to keep her pure, not soak up blood on Chicago's docks. The midnight air stank of diesel and saltwater, the kind of stench that clung to your skin like a bad decision. She stood shivering in the neon glow of a flickering sign from a nearby strip club, its pink and blue haze painting the rusted shipping containers around her. Her uncle Marco's meaty hand gripped her arm, his gold rings biting into her flesh as he dragged her toward the center of the dockyard. This wasn't a family outing—it was a fucking handover, and Elena was the prize.
"Stand straight, Elena," Marco hissed, his breath reeking of cigars and cheap whiskey. "You're the key to peace. Don't screw this up." His eyes, cold as the steel of the gun tucked in his waistband, flicked to the shadows where men in dark suits waited. The Volkov Syndicate. Her new captors.
Elena's heart hammered, her pulse a war drum in her ears. She was twenty, untouched, a virgin in every sense—never kissed, never loved, never free. Marco had kept her locked away in their crumbling South Side mansion, a Caruso princess preserved for one thing: leverage.
Her virginity was currency in this world, a bargaining chip to seal alliances or end wars. Tonight, she was being traded to Dante "The Reaper" Volkov, the Russian-Italian kingpin who ruled Chicago's underworld with blood and iron. The man who could save the Caruso family from ruin—or burn it to ash.
She clutched the leather-bound journal hidden in her coat, its edges digging into her ribs. Her father's journal, the only thing he'd left her before a bullet took him five years ago. Its pages were filled with coded notes, sketches, and secrets she hadn't fully cracked. It was her lifeline, her weapon, and she'd be damned if she let Marco or anyone else get their hands on it.
The dockyard was a maze of crates and rusted machinery, the Chicago River lapping darkly nearby. Marco's goons—six of them, all packing heat—flanked them, their eyes darting like rats. Across the open space, the Volkov crew emerged from the shadows.
Ten men, maybe more, their silhouettes sharp against the neon. At their center stood Dante Volkov, and Elena's breath caught.
He was taller than she'd imagined, broad-shouldered, his black suit tailored to a body built for violence. His dark hair was slicked back, a single strand falling over eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian. He moved with the grace of a predator, every step deliberate, his presence sucking the air from the night. The rumors didn't do him justice—Dante wasn't just feared; he was a fucking force, the kind of man who could make you want to kneel and run at the same time. Elena hated how her body reacted, a shiver of heat betraying her untouched skin.
"Marco," Dante's voice was low, a growl wrapped in velvet. "You're late."
Marco forced a smile, his grip tightening on Elena's arm. "Had to make sure the girl was ready, Reaper. She's pure, untouched—exactly what we agreed."
Elena's stomach twisted, bile rising. She wasn't a person to them; she was a contract, a virgin hostage to end a war that had soaked Chicago in blood for years.
The Volkovs and Carusos had been at each other's throats—hits, betrayals, bodies piling up. Her handover was supposed to stop it. But the way Dante's eyes locked on her, hungry and unreadable, made her doubt peace was on his mind.
"Bring her forward," Dante said, his gaze never leaving her. "I want a closer look."
Marco shoved her, and Elena stumbled, her heels catching on the cracked pavement. She caught herself, chin high, refusing to cower. She wasn't some damsel, even if her heart was pounding like a trapped bird. The journal pressed harder against her ribs, a reminder of the secrets she carried—secrets that could change everything.
Dante stepped closer, his boots echoing on the dock. He towered over her, his scent—leather, smoke, and something darker—filling her lungs. Up close, his face was sharp angles and danger, a faint scar tracing his jaw. His eyes raked over her, from her trembling lips to the white dress clinging to her curves, and she felt naked under his stare.
"Elena Caruso," he murmured, her name a caress and a threat. "You're prettier than I expected. Too bad you're a Caruso."
"Too bad you're a monster," she shot back, her voice steady despite the heat crawling up her neck. His lips twitched, a smirk that made her want to slap him—or worse, something she didn't dare name.
"Bold for a hostage," he said, stepping closer, his body heat brushing her skin. "Let's set some rules, angel."
Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her into a shadowed alcove between two shipping containers. The move was swift, his grip firm but not cruel, and suddenly they were alone, the dockyard's chaos muffled. Her back hit the cold metal, and Dante loomed over her, one hand braced above her head. Her pulse skyrocketed, her untouched body betraying her with a flush of warmth.
This was wrong, dangerous, but her skin burned where he touched her.
"You're mine now," he said, voice low, his breath hot against her ear. "Mine to protect—or to break. Your choice, angel."
"I'm no one's," she hissed, but her voice wavered as his fingers traced her wrist, slow and deliberate, sending sparks through her virgin skin. His touch was bold, sliding up her arm, grazing the edge of her collarbone, stopping just short of her lips. Her breath hitched, her body responding in ways she'd never felt—heat pooling low, her thighs pressing together. She hated him, hated this, but her body didn't care.
"Keep telling yourself that," he murmured, his lips so close she could taste the danger. His hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip, and for a moment, she thought he'd kiss her—her first kiss, stolen by a killer. She shoved against his chest, hard, but it was like pushing a wall. His smirk widened, and the explicit tension between them crackled, a promise of more to come.
A shout broke the spell—Marco's voice, sharp with panic. "Reaper, we've got company!"
Dante's eyes darkened, and he pulled back, drawing a gun from his waistband. "Stay close," he growled, yanking Elena back into the open. The dockyard erupted into chaos.
Motorcycles roared, their headlights slicing through the night. The O'Sullivan mob—Irish bastards with a grudge—swarmed in, at least a dozen, their guns blazing. "You killed my son, Volkov!" their leader bellowed, and bullets tore through the air. Crates splintered, sparks flew, and blood sprayed as Marco's goons and Dante's crew fired back.
Elena ducked behind a container, her heart in her throat. Dante shoved her down, his body shielding hers, hard and unyielding. His gun was pressed to her side, a mix of protection and threat, and their faces were inches apart, his breath hot on her cheek.
"Don't move," he snarled, firing over the crate, dropping an O'Sullivan with a sickening thud.
She wasn't helpless. Spotting a jagged metal pipe on the ground, Elena grabbed it, her hands shaking but her resolve steel. An O'Sullivan thug lunged at her, his knife gleaming, and she swung, slashing his arm. Blood sprayed, and he screamed, stumbling back. Dante's eyes flicked to her, a glint of surprise and something darker—respect, maybe, or desire.
"Nice swing, angel," he said, his voice rough as he gunned down another attacker. Their eyes locked, the air between them electric despite the carnage. Her dress was torn at the thigh, her skin exposed, and his gaze lingered, making her flush even as bullets flew.
The shootout slowed, bodies littering the docks. Elena's hands trembled, the pipe slick with blood.
She scanned the dead, and her eyes caught on a tattoo on an O'Sullivan hitter's neck—a serpent coiled around a dagger. Her breath stopped. She'd seen that symbol before, in her father's journal. Fumbling, she pulled the leather book from her coat, flipping it open under the neon glow. A sketch matched the tattoo perfectly, and beside it, her father's scrawled words: "The Reaper's blade took my life. Trust no one."
Her heart seized. Her father's death wasn't a random hit—it was tied to Dante, to his syndicate. Was he her captor, her protector, or her father's killer? The journal slipped back into her coat, but her hands shook, betrayal cutting deeper than any bullet.
Dante grabbed her arm, pulling her toward a rusted hatch in the dock.
"Move, now!" he barked, kicking it open to reveal a dark tunnel. The journal burned against her ribs, its secrets a ticking bomb. She stumbled after him, her torn dress catching on the ladder as they descended into the smuggling tunnels below Chicago. His crew followed, Luka among them, his scarred face unreadable but his eyes too intense on her.
The tunnel was damp, the air thick with mold and secrets. Dante's grip on her arm was possessive, his body close as they moved. "What's in the book, angel?" he demanded, his voice low, dangerous. "Don't lie to me."
"It's nothing," she lied, her voice steady despite the fear and heat coiling in her gut. His fingers tightened, his body brushing hers, and she hated how her skin burned for him, even now, with the truth of her father's death hanging between them.
They emerged into a Volkov safehouse—a sleek penthouse of steel and glass, Chicago's neon skyline sprawling below. The room was all sharp edges, like Dante himself, with a bar, a wall of monitors, and a single bed that made her stomach flip. His crew dispersed, but Luka lingered, his gaze flicking between them.
Dante cornered her against a wall, his hand on her throat—not choking, but possessive, his body close enough to feel his heat.
"I don't like secrets, Elena," he said, his voice a low growl. His fingers trailed down her arm, explicit in their intent, sparking desire she fought to ignore. Her dress was blood-streaked, her skin exposed, and his eyes drank her in, making her feel both hunted and wanted.
"I don't like killers," she shot back, but her voice trembled, her body betraying her as his thumb brushed her pulse. The journal's weight was a secret she couldn't share—not yet, not when he might be the enemy.
Before he could press further, a radio crackled, Marco's voice cutting through: "Keep her alive, Reaper, or the cartel burns this city down." Dante's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He didn't trust Marco, and now Elena didn't trust him.
She was no longer just a hostage. She was the key to a war—and the truth could destroy them all.