My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas Chapter 118: Boytoy and true Baby Daddy ( Lucrezia’s POV )

"Madam Akna?"

"Co closer."

Caleb Plutus. Heir of the Plutus Bank. A crackhead with too much arrogance and too little brain.

Useful rat, but unacceptable as son-in-law. Even if it’s just in the wave of the rumour, I can’t be associated with him the way he is right now.

It’s like being all dressed up in Chanel, yet reeking of sweat.

"I see the drug marks are still fresh..."

In a swift move, he covered the green needle marks on his neck. His breath, filling the room with the aroma of cheap liquor and cigars, got quicker and alert.

Pathetic.

But he does follow orders exactly the way he should.

The night the Pri Minister got murdered, Caleb executed every demand with more precision and care than I expected a junkie like him to have.

Of course, the survival of his father’s business, of his future and his current lifestyle was grabbing on to the rope I offered him. He made sure he was holding to it with both sleazy hands since it was his last chance to save himself.

Nothing as motivating than the threat of poverty for a boy fed with a golden spoon all his life.

Killing Cassian was quite a process. I honestly couldn’t have done it alone.

No matter how many rodents I had at my feet begging for my scraps.

Luckily, I had on my side an unexpected strategist, smart enough to cover all the tracks, conceal any detail, tracing the picture as his narrative wanted.

My dear boytoy.

Future husband I intend to marry.

Just for the fun of waving at the press.

Scandalous successful young man marrying the most successful businesswoman this country has seen in centuries.

Tom Hexlay.

An alpha. The owner and CEO of the biggest law firm in the country. A man of taste and refinent.

Cassian’s death was all his idea.

"A little more to the right."

It was a perfect morning, a few months ago.

The curtains were open because I like light on my skin.

My body looked flawless, tight, worth every cent I spent.

Tom’s hands worked on my back, slow and precise, just how I trained him.

He knew the spots, the pressure, because I demand perfection. He trained under my iron fists for a few months since Mark Begnifello introduced him to .

Tom was exactly what a man should be when he belongs to .

Lean, perfectly cut, not a gram of useless fat. Every line on his body looked like it was carved for pleasure and display.

I chose him not only because he looked expensive and dressed properly. He was a man smart enough to keep the conversation under his control.

Manipulative. Entertaining. Beautiful.

He intrigued .

His eyes had been teal, clear and striking, the kind that didn’t blink when you stared too long.

His hair had been red, ssy but obviously styled by soone who knew what they were doing. That balance between care and carelessness had taken skill.

Twenty-five, young enough to glow, old enough to know how to own a room.

And that smile—practiced, deliberate, perfect for every angle. It hadn’t co free. It had taken work to look that effortless, and he had done the work without complaint.

Such a rough diamond in a mass of cheap stones was sothing I just had to have.

"Here? Should I go deeper? Harder?"

"Act up, baby."

His fingers had traced the line of my spine with precision, then pressed into the muscles at my shoulders until they gave in.

Warm oil, perfect pressure, no mistakes.

He hadn’t rushed, not once.

He had known that my body deserved attention, that it commanded it.

I had felt the strength in his arms, contained, obedient.

"Have you thought about it, madam?"

"No matter how tempting it sounds, Cassian is still useful if he becos the president. Killing him isn’t a viable option business-wise."

"Madam, thought about it like this-"

His fingers moved skillfully on my waist, pressing exactly on the point that made my body feel weak.

My red little devil seed to try to grab the upper hand in the negotiation. How adorable!

"Cassian will never willingly be at the end of your leash. Not without you sacrificing the straightness of your spine. But, if you succeed in putting another man in his place, that would be free leverage and power for you without any added effort."

"Too much of a tedious and risky process to risk my reputation on."

"Why should you risk anything, madam? After all, are you the only person who wants the Pri Minister dead?"

"Madam Akna?"

Caleb’s annoying voice pulled back to the present.

"You will be seen leaving the sa hotel as my dear Clara tomorrow. I want you cleaned up by tomorrow at eight. If you show any flaw, the deal will drop. And patch up that neck. Your needle points look like leaking sewage."

"Yes, madam."

"Get out of my face."

He was about to leave the room, but I changed my mind.

A sudden horrifying thought lingered suddenly over .

"Caleb."

"Yes, Madam Akna."

"Sit."

So he turned, slowly, and ca back to .

Silent.

Careful.

Then he dropped to his knees in front of , like it was the only thing left to do. His hands hovered, unsure where to rest. His head tilted down, but his eyes flicked up, anxious, almost pleading.

"What exactly happened the night you injected Killian with the rut inducer?"

"I-I waited outside. I listened as you ordered so I could make sure Killian doesn’t accidentally kill Damian."

"Oh really?"

"Y-yes."

"That’s a different story from what I’ve heard from Damian."

Crack, brat. Admit to it.

I know you were with them when the rut started.

There is no other explanation for the terrified expression on the pathetic oga when I asked Killian if the child was his.

Sothing is fishy and this junkie is the only card that could have gone wrong.

"Madam..."

"Yes? Save yourself now while you can, child."

"I injected Killian. But his body started to act wrong. He started to have— I don’t know. An epilepsy crisis."

"So what did you do?"

"We-we got scared. So Damian started to release his pheromones. Everywhere. It was suffocating."

"Did Killian get better?"

"Eventually. Damian—"

He let his gaze hit the floor with whatever trace of dignity he had left. His yellow face given by the barely hanging on life by his liver turned red.

"Damian started to get him excited. Physically. He— When fluids were exchanged in multiple ways until Killian was stabilized."

"Oh?"

So my nephew was dying and those two’s plan was to rub each other out to feed him liquid pheromone? How utterly disgusting.

"So, when Killian got semi-conscious, he just bit down on Damian’s neck. Hard. Damian started to yell. It was quite a disaster."

"So you helped Damian?"

He pressed his lips together and nodded slightly.

"Damian was long gone into heat the mont he was bitten. There was blood and— you know, liquids everywhere. Killian was twitching in and out of consciousness, crying Luther’s na. Damian was half-passed out himself..."

"What about you?"

"?"

He gulped and covered his face.

"Were you still conscious?"

"I’ve taken suppressants before this."

"This is not what I’ve asked."

"I was more conscious than them."

"But not enough."

He crawled forward, leaving a wet trail of tears and sweat on the floor, shaking so hard his bones looked ready to snap.

He reached , his forehead pressing against the point of my shoe.

His breath ca in short bursts, hot and foul. His hands clutched at my ankle, fingers trembling like loose wires.

He lowered himself further, his lips touching the leather.

His chest hit the floor with a dull thud, body folding in on itself like trash.

I uncrossed my legs slowly.

The right foot slid back.

The left heel rose.

Then it ca down—straight on his ear.

Hard.

The sound was sharp, flesh tearing under the stiletto.

He scread, body convulsing, hands slapping the marble as his head twisted under my shoe.

I pressed harder.

The heel drove into him, pinning him like a bug. Blood ran down the side of his face in a quick line, dripping onto the floor between us.

He clawed at the ground, nails screeching.

His breathing turned broken, a mix of sobs and dry choking sounds.

The screams softened, turned into wet gasps. I kept the pressure steady until I felt the resistance fade.

Then I raised my foot.

A sar of blood and dirt clung to the tip before falling onto his shirt.

I placed the heel on his chest, just under the collarbone, weight resting there as his ribs jerked with each shallow breath.

His eyes were wide, staring up, drowning in panic.

I adjusted the cuff of my jacket and exhaled. The room was silent except for him.

It didn’t make any difference for if the child was his or Killian’s.

Both the baby and Damian will die at the birth anyway.