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

[Adam's POV]

I wake up in a world of pain as my head throbs, each pulse of blood through my veins bringing fresh waves of agony to my swollen eye. I try to move but discover I'm nestled between Caterina's naked, huge breasts, my face partially buried in the soft valley of her bosom. Her skin is warm against my cheek, smelling faintly of booze and something uniquely her, a scent that makes my body respond even as my mind recoils.

I sigh, realizing I'm still in this confusing and erotic hell. The events of last night flash through my mind in disjointed fragments. The violent slaps, the sex, the ropes binding my wrists, the blinding pain when her hand connected with my eye.

Caterina must sense that I'm awake because she shifts slightly, adjusting her position so she can look down at me. Her crimson eyes are somber in the soft morning light filtering through the partially drawn curtains.

"Good morning," she says, her voice hesitant.

I look her in the eyes, terrified to talk. My throat feels dry, constricted with fear. 'What if I say something wrong? What if I trigger that rage again?' The memory of her hand flying toward my face makes me tense involuntarily.

Something in my expression must reveal my thoughts because her perfect features crumple. To my shock, tears well up in those hypnotic crimson eyes, gathering at her lower lashes before spilling over onto her flawless cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Adam," she whispers, her voice breaking. "Last night... I never meant to hurt you like that."

I refuse to speak. She hit me every time I said something she didn't like. My silence seems to hurt her more than any words could. Her lips tremble slightly, a vulnerability I wouldn't have thought possible from the bullish woman who terrorized me just hours ago.

She reaches out slowly, telegraphing her movement as if approaching a wounded animal. I flinch violently, jerking my head away from her approaching fingers. The sudden movement sends a spike of pain through my injured eye, making me gasp involuntarily.

Caterina pulls her hand back instantly, pain flashing across her face at my reaction. Her tears flow more freely now, tracking glistening paths down her cheeks.

"The swelling is still pretty bad," she says softly, her eyes fixed on my injury. I can barely open the eye, the tissue around it puffy and tender.

"Are you afraid to speak because you think I might hit you again?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I hesitate for a moment, weighing my options. Lying seems pointless. My reaction has already given me away. Slowly, cautiously, I nod my head, the slight movement sending another pulse of pain through my injured face.

Something breaks in Caterina's expression. Her face crumples completely, and a sob escapes her perfect lips. In one fluid motion, she pulls me against her, wrapping her arms around me and pressing my face gently back into her chest.

"I promise I'll never hurt you again," she whispers fiercely into my hair, her voice thick with emotion. "Even if you make me mad, okay? I'm so sorry, baby. So, so sorry."

Her fingers thread through my hair, the touch gentle and soothing, nothing like the violent woman from last night. She rocks me slightly, her body curled protectively around mine as if she could shield me from the pain she herself inflicted.

"I'm sorry, Adam. I'm so fucking sorry," she says, her voice breaking on the words. "Last night, I got nervous to see you, so I did too much cocaine, and I think that made me go a little crazy, you know?"

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and unexpected. I blink at her with my good eye, trying to process this new information.

"Cocaine?" I repeat, my voice hoarse from disuse and the lingering effects of her hands around my throat last night.

She looks at me and wipes her tears, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself. When she opens those crimson eyes again, they're clearer, more focused, though still rimmed with red.

"Adam, it's a stressful job being a mafia boss," she says softly, her voice steadier now. Her fingers continue their gentle exploration of my hair, careful to avoid the tender areas of my face. "I don't expect you to understand everything about my world, but there are pressures you can't imagine."

"Mafia?" I say, the word coming out high-pitched and panicked.

Caterina's eyes widen in surprise, her perfect lips forming a small "o" shape. She stares at me for a long moment, her crimson eyes searching my face with growing realization.

"Oh my... I forgot," she says slowly, her hand freezing mid-stroke in my hair. "Wait, does that mean you forgot Claire was working for the mafia?"

I bolt upright in the bed, ignoring the pain. The sheets pool around my waist as I stare at Caterina, my good eye-widening.

"M-mafia?" I repeat, my voice climbing even higher, cracking like a teenage boy's. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I'm certain Caterina can see it through my chest. "Like, actual mafia? With guns and hits and concrete shoes and people sleeping with the fishes? That kind of mafia?"

My hands begin to tremble uncontrollably, and I press them flat against the silk sheets to hide their shaking. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as memories from last night slot into a terrifying new context, the way the hotel staff had practically bowed as Caterina walked past, how Maddy had stood guard like a soldier, the casual way Caterina had mentioned "collecting" Claire's debt through "other means."

"Yes!" I shriek, the word exploding from me in a burst of panicked comprehension. "YES, CLAIRE FORGOT TO MENTION SHE WORKS FOR THE MAFIA!"

Caterina stares at me, her crimson eyes blinking slowly as she processes my reaction.

"But... but you're blonde?" I blurt out, my anxiety-addled brain latching onto this detail as if it's somehow the most important fact in this horrifying revelation.

"What?" Caterina asks.

"You can't be Italian if you're blonde," I insist, gesturing wildly at her golden hair cascading over her bare shoulders. "Italians have dark hair. You know, like in The Godfather. Al Pacino. Robert De Niro. Dark hair!"

"You mean the Godmother?" She murmurs with confusion.

Caterina's jaw drops slightly, her expression morphing from confusion to utter disbelief. She reaches up to touch her own hair as if confirming it's still there.

"My last name is De Luca," she says slowly, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a particularly dim child.

"I thought that was Irish," I counter.

"God, no!" Caterina exclaims, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "It's as Italian as it gets!"

I stare at Caterina, the reality of my situation crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. The room seems to tilt and spin, the opulent surroundings suddenly feeling like the gilded cage they truly are.

"So my... wife..." I speak the word with utter disgust, the taste of it bitter on my tongue, "sold me to a mob boss." The statement hangs in the air between us, stark and undeniable.

Caterina's expression softens, those crimson eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. She reaches toward me, but I flinch away instinctively.

"I... Can I go back?" I whisper. "I don't think she's worth this."

The change is immediate and terrifying. Like a switch being flipped, Caterina's gentle demeanor vanishes. Her face hardens, those crimson eyes blazing with a fury that turns my blood to ice.

"Adam," she says, her voice low and dangerous, each syllable precisely controlled, "I'm not letting you go."

I shrink back against the headboard. The look on her face reminds me of a predator about to pounce, and I'm acutely aware of how much stronger she is than me, how completely at her mercy I am.

Seeing my reaction, something shifts in her expression. The rage doesn't disappear entirely, but it recedes like a tide pulling back from shore. Her features soften marginally, though the steel remains in her gaze.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," she continues, her voice gentler now but still edged with warning, "and I promise I'll make you feel safe. But please don't push it."

Before I can respond, her arms encircle me, pulling me against her warm body in an embrace that's both comforting and terrifying.

"Just give me a chance, Adam," she whispers into my hair, her voice suddenly warm and pleading. "Let me show you true love."

The contrast between her threat and her tenderness leaves me dizzy with confusion. My body responds to her warmth even as my mind screams in protest. A single tear escapes my good eye, tracking a warm path down my cheek.

"Okay," I say, feeling like a trapped animal.

*****

The morning sunlight slices through the partially opened curtains in geometric patterns across the Presidential Suite's dining area. I sit awkwardly at an ornate table that could comfortably seat twelve but currently hosts just two. Caterina insisted I sit beside her rather than across, saying something about "not wanting distance between us."

A private chef, a woman in her forties with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun, moves efficiently around us, setting down plate after plate of exquisite breakfast foods. There are delicate crepes folded around fresh berries, a towering stack of golden pancakes glistening with authentic maple syrup, and some kind of egg dish with truffle shavings that probably costs more than my old monthly rent.

As she leans in to place a pitcher of coffee near my right hand, her eyes dart to my face, lingering for a microsecond on my swollen eye. I catch the flicker of shock before she quickly averts her gaze, suddenly very interested in the perfect alignment of the silverware.

"Will there be anything else, Miss De Luca?" she asks, her voice carefully modulated to betray nothing.

"No, that will be all, Elise," Caterina replies, her tone casual as if having a man with a freshly blackened eye at her breakfast table is an everyday occurrence. "Please ensure we're not disturbed for the next hour."

"Of course." The chef nods, backing away with practiced deference. As she retreats, I notice her shoot one final glance my way, something like pity flashing across her face before she disappears through a side door.

A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall plays silently, captioned news scrolling across the bottom. Something about a political scandal, the stock market, a celebrity divorce, normal life continuing while mine has been turned inside out. I can see the anchor's mouth moving, but the sound has been muted, rendering her animated gestures meaningless.

Caterina looks radiant this morning, dressed in a simple silk robe that somehow manages to appear both casual and elegant on her statuesque frame.

"You must be starving," she says, her voice warm with concern. "You barely ate yesterday."

"Yeah," I admit. The rich aromas of the breakfast spread make my mouth water involuntarily. Despite everything, my body still has basic needs, and food is definitely one of them right now.

Caterina beams at my response as if my simple acknowledgment of hunger is some great victory. She picks up a fork and knife, cutting into the stack of pancakes with elegant precision.

"Let me feed you," she offers, her crimson eyes sparkling with eagerness as she lifts a syrup-drenched bite toward my mouth.

"No, it's okay," I say quickly, pulling back slightly. "I can feed myself."

I reach for my own fork, but misjudge the distance completely. My hand grasps at empty air several inches from where the silverware actually sits. The lack of depth perception throws me off.

"Oh honey," Caterina coos, her voice dripping with sympathy that makes my skin crawl. "Let me help you out until your eye gets better."

Before I can protest, she pushes our chairs even closer together until our thighs are pressed against each other.

"What do you want?" she asks, gesturing to the elaborate spread before us.

I scan the table, looking for something simple that won't require much coordination to eat. Most of the pancakes are drowning in syrup.

'I don't like syrup.'

"Can I have a pancake with the least amount of syrup on it?" I ask, trying to spot one that isn't completely soaked.

She says, "Uhhhh," looking at the mountains of pancakes with syrup. Her crimson eyes scan the elaborate stack, brow furrowed in concentration. She grabs a stack and removes the first two layers, revealing a few golden discs beneath that have somehow escaped the syrupy deluge.

"Found some!" she announces triumphantly as if she's discovered buried treasure rather than unsweetened breakfast food.

With surprising gentleness, she transfers the dry pancakes to my plate, arranging them with the care of a museum curator handling a priceless artifact. The pancakes land with a soft plop, perfectly centered on the fine bone china.

"Is this okay?" she asks, looking at me with an expression so earnest it's almost painful to witness.

"Yeah," I nod, reaching for my fork again. "Thanks."

"I really can do it on my own," I insist as i try to reach for the fork again.

Caterina's hand closes over mine, stilling my movements. Her touch is warm.

"No," she says firmly, though her voice remains gentle. "When you're in pain, it's my job to nurse you back to health."

'You were the one to hurt me.'

Before I can protest further, she takes the fork from my unresisting fingers. With quick, efficient movements, she cuts the pancake into neat, bite-sized pieces. The knife makes a delicate scraping sound against the fine china as she works.

"Open wide," she says with a smile that transforms her face, making her look almost girlish in her enthusiasm.

The pancake, while plain, is surprisingly delicious. The texture is impossibly light and fluffy, like biting into a cloud that somehow maintains substance.

"How is it?" Caterina asks, leaning in close. Her crimson eyes track the movement of my jaw as I chew, fixated on my mouth with an intensity that makes heat rise to my cheeks.

"Good," I manage after swallowing, the single word inadequate to describe the quality but all I can muster under her intense scrutiny.

Caterina shifts even closer, her silk robe parting slightly to reveal the curve of her breast. Her eyes drop to my lips, lingering there with unmistakable intent.

"May I?" she whispers her voice husky with desire, her face now mere inches from mine.

I want to refuse. I want to push her away, to scream that she can't just beat me one minute and expect kisses the next. I want to tell her that this whole situation is insane, that normal people don't buy other people, that relationships aren't supposed to start with violence and captivity.

But what choice do I even have at this point? She's made it clear I'm not going anywhere. She's a mafia boss with resources I can't begin to comprehend. If I anger her again...

So I just say nothing and close my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.

Her lips meet mine, gentle at first, almost tentative. Her lips are warm and plush, moving against mine with a reverence that feels completely at odds with everything that's happened between us.

Then, without warning, the kiss transforms. Her tongue breaks into my mouth like a robber blowing a bank vault, skilled and determined and unstoppable. She tastes faintly of coffee.

Her tongue leads mine in a dance, coaxing, teasing, demanding response. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, careful to avoid my injured eye, her touch firm but gentle as she angles my head to deepen the kiss further.

Despite my hang-ups, despite everything that's happened, I'm lost for a brief moment in the kiss. My body responds traitorously, a warm current of desire flowing through me as she explores my mouth with practiced expertise.

As Caterina's tongue explores my mouth, I find myself responding against my better judgment. My hand drifts to her thigh, feeling the smooth silk of her robe and the warmth of her skin beneath.

'Fuck this. If I'm stuck, I'm going to at least enjoy her body.'

She moans softly into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, igniting something primal that I've been trying desperately to suppress.

Her fingers thread through my hair, careful to avoid the tender areas around my swollen eye.

My cock stiffens beneath the silk pajama bottoms she provided me this morning, tenting the expensive fabric in a way that's impossible to hide. Caterina notices immediately, her crimson eyes flicking downward before returning to my face with a triumphant gleam.

"Someone's feeling better," she purrs her voice a husky whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

Her hand slides from my hair down my chest, her fingers trailing fire through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. She traces lazy circles around my nipple, teasing it into a hard peak before continuing her downward journey. Each touch feels electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my groin.

I hate how good it feels. I hate that I want her even after everything that's happened. I hate the way my breath catches when her fingers dip below my waistband, brushing against the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen.

"Cat," I gasp, the word half-protest, half-plea.

She smirks, clearly enjoying the power she holds over me. Her hand inches lower, tantalizingly close to where I'm throbbing with need.

"Yes, my love?" she asks, feigning innocence even as her fingers dance along the elastic of my waistband.

I'm about to give in, to surrender completely to the desire coursing through my veins, when movement on the TV screen catches my eye. The news is still playing silently, but words scrolling across the bottom of the screen make me freeze.

'President Jill Biden addresses nation on economic policy' [A/n: Current setting is fall 2024. Also, I am not a Chargers fan.]

I blink, certain I've misread. But no, there it is in bold text, clear as day.

"Look at that," I say, nodding toward the screen, momentarily distracted from Caterina's seduction.

She follows my gaze, her brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "What?"

"They have a typo," I explain, pointing at the TV.

Caterina squints at the screen, her perfect features scrunching up adorably as she tries to spot the error. "What typo?"

"Jill Biden isn't the president," I say, as if explaining something obvious.

Caterina pulls back slightly, her crimson eyes widening with genuine confusion. "What?" she asks, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together. "Jill Biden has been president for almost four years now."

"What?" I sputter, my good eye darting between her face and the television screen. "No, Joe Biden is president."

Caterina stares at me as if I've suddenly started speaking in tongues. "Joe Biden is the First Gentleman," Caterina says slowly, her tone suggesting she's explaining something painfully obvious. "Has been since the 2020 election."

My jaw literally drops open, hanging slack as the implications of this information cascade through my mind like dominoes. Memories flash before me in rapid succession, the female doorman, the female chef, Maddy's position as bodyguard, Claire wanting to fuck me in the shower, it was even women that gang raped me.

"Oh my God," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I'm in a reverse world."

'Just like the slop I loved to read in my last world.'

"What?" Caterina asks, her perfectly sculpted features contorting with bewilderment. "Adam, what are you talking about?"

My mind races, connecting dots that suddenly form a clear and terrifying picture. The gender dynamics, the power structures, everything is flipped. Women dominate society, politics, even organized crime. Women are strong. Men are weak. Men are demure. Men are vulnerable.

'I need to test this theory immediately.'

"If I said I wanted to fuck you right now," I blurt out, my voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in my mind, "what would you say?"

Caterina's expression transforms instantly. The confusion melts away, replaced by a predatory hunger that makes her crimson eyes gleam like polished rubies. Her perfect lips curve into a smirk that's equal parts seductive and dangerous, a look that screams dominance and desire in equal measure.

"Bring it on."