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Lahat ng Kabanata ng CLAIMED BY THE DON: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

137 Kabanata

Blood Debts

ENZO’S POV The Gulfstream’s wheels screamed against the runway at 21:47. By 21:59 I was already tearing through the streets of Naples, windows down, night air slicing my face like a warning. Matteo’s last words still burned in my ears: “She’s safe now, boss. But at the beach…some woman had accused her of kidnapping the kid she was trying to save. She hasn’t said a word since, she’s just been staring out the window.” I killed the car and floored it. I beat them to the penthouse by nine minutes. The elevator ride to the top floor felt like an eternity. When the doors finally opened into the dark apartment, I didn’t bother with lights. I paced the length of the living room, marble cold under my bare feet, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, sleeves shoved up to my elbows. My right thumb was between my teeth hard enough to leave marks; my left hand pressed flat over my heart like I could physically hold the rage inside. Every tick of the clock on the wall sounded like a countdown to mu

The First Taste

ELENA’S POV The soup had gone cold ten minutes ago, but I kept spooning it into my mouth anyway, mechanical, tasteless. My hands still trembled from the beach, from the woman’s screams, from the word kidnapper ringing in my ears like a bell that wouldn’t stop. I had scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, twice, until the water ran clear, and still felt filthy. A soft knock broke the silence. Matteo’s voice came through the door. “Signora. The boss is calling for you downstairs.” Downstairs—not at the gym, not at the garage but downstairs. Why? Didn’t he say that he was going to settle some scores? I stood on numb legs, pulled a black dress shirt over my damp skin—it swallowed me, sleeves past my fingertips, hem brushing mid-thigh, and followed Matteo to a steel elevator I had never seen before. The ride down was silent except for the hum of cables and my own pulse thudding in my throat. When the doors slid open, the air hit me like a slap: cold, wet, metallic, the smell of old blood

Ice on the Breakfast Table

ELENA’S POV I woke to the taste of iron and the echo of screams that weren’t mine. My fingers still remembered the weight of the scalpel, the way skin parted so easily under the blade. I sat up too fast, heart jack-hammering against my ribs, the black shirt I’d fallen asleep in was stiff with dried blood at the cuffs. I tore it off and threw it across the room like it burned, and stumbled into the shower. The water ran scalding, then ice-cold, then scalding again. I scrubbed until my skin was pink and raw, until the red under my nails finally dissolved into nothing. When I stepped out, the mirror showed a stranger: hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, lips bitten swollen. I looked like someone who had crossed a line and liked the view on the other side. Maria had left clothes on the ottoman; a white silk blouse, high-waisted cream trousers, delicate gold sandals. There were no notes, just the silent command to appear downstairs looking human. I obeyed because I didn’t know what else to do

The Devil Wears Emerald

ENZO’S POV The Maybach ate the road in silence, but inside my skull there was a war. I stared at the reflection of her in the tinted window: emerald silk clinging to every murderous curve, the slit riding higher every time she shifted, throat bare above the plunging neckline, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. She looked like sin poured into fabric and handed to me on a silver platter. I hated how much I wanted to drag my tongue along that pulse. Last night kept replaying behind my eyes. Elena barefoot in that black shirt that showed her thighs, blood freckling her wrists, scalpel flashing as she carved PUTTANA into that nurse’s ribs. The way her lips parted on a soft, shocked laughter when the girl screamed. The way she looked at me afterward—her eyes shining, cheeks flushed, asking for approval like a good girl who’d just discovered she was born bad. Isabella looked at me exactly like that the night she took a man’s toes. The memory punched the air from my lungs. Six years

The Rage of the Devil

ELENA’S POV The second we stepped away from his brothers, the floor titled under my heels. Enzo’s hand stayed on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like I was a trophy he’d already won, but every smile he’d worn for them had vanished. The warmth that had flared when he called me the love of his life was gone, replaced by the same arctic silence I’d woken up to. Only now it felt different, now it carried weight, now it carried death. I had just been introduced to the two men who wanted Enzo six feet under, and he had introduced me as the woman who’d dragged him from the clutches of death and the woman who would keep him filthy rich forever. I was no longer invisible, I was now the obstacle, I was now the prize they would gut to get to him. My lungs forgot how to work. I didn’t think, I just grabbed his wrist and dragged him sideways, past velvet drapes and gold sconces, into a shadowed alcove that smelled of cigar smoke and old money. My back slammed against cold

The Taste of Her Rage

ENZO’S POV Dante was still choking on his own blood when I straightened. I didn’t look at him again, I didn’t need to. The message had been carved into his face with my knuckles and delivered to every soul in the room. I turned to Elena. Matteo stood two paces behind her, holding the Negroni like nothing had happened. I took the glass, pressed it into her trembling fingers. “Here’s your Negroni,” I rasped, “I’m sorry I came back late.” She wrapped both hands around it, her knuckles bone-white, and threw back half the drink in one swallow. I reached out, slow enough that the entire room could see, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb lingered on the shell, tracing the edge like I had all the time in the world. Marcini and Giovanni appeared at my shoulder, their faces tight. I slid my arm around Elena’s waist, palm flat against the dip just above her ass, fingers spread wide so no one could miss the claim. “Fratelli,” I said, voice smooth as silk over steel. “S

The Weight of a Flutter

ELENA’S POV “You make my heart flutter.” The words landed between us like a live grenade with the pin already pulled. I stood frozen in that steel box of an elevator, mouth parted, lungs seized. Enzo DeLuca—king of blood contracts, broken knuckles, and frozen dawns—had just spoken the most fragile sentence I’d ever heard him utter. Flutter. The same mouth that ordered executions before breakfast had said flutter. My heart answered him with a vicious slam against my ribs, so hard I swear the silk over my chest moved. I stared at him. He stared at the doors like he hadn’t just cracked himself open and bled poetry all over my shoes. The elevator dinged like salvation and torture in one soft chime. He stepped out first, I followed on legs that didn’t feel like mine. Matteo held the back door of the Maybach, Enzo slid in and I followed. The partition rose with a whisper, sealing us in scented leather and unsaid things. He didn’t look at me, he just stared straight ahead, jaw sharp

She’s the Devil

ENZO’S POV The door to the red room slammed shut behind us with the finality of a coffin lid. I threw her. She landed in the center of the black silk like a sacrifice I’d been starving for, an emerald dress twisted around her waist, thighs already open, chest heaving. Moonlight bled through the high windows and painted silver across the sweat gathering between her breasts. I didn’t speak. I started with the tie, silk hissed through my collar and hit the floor, then the shirt—one button, two, three—slow enough that she felt every second of the wait. Her eyes tracked my fingers like they were a loaded gun. When the fabric parted and slid off my shoulders, the air left her lungs in a rush I felt in my cock. She looked… different tonight. Not the bought girl I’d dragged out of an auction two months ago. Not even the defiant little nurse who’d tried to keep me at the hospital against my will five years ago. Tonight she looked like a ruin wearing a sin. “Take off your dress. I want

Throne of Flesh

ELENA’S POV The plug hummed inside him, a low, steady pulse that made his cock twitch against his stomach like it had its own heartbeat. His wrists were still bound above his head by the shredded belt, chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths. Sweat slid down the grooves of his abs and pooled in the hollows of ink had claimed years ago. And that smirk, God, that infuriating, amused smirk, curved his mouth like he was watching a kitten try to roar. I straddled his hips, naked, dripping, thighs trembling from the blowjob I’d just wrung out of him, and stared down at the devil who’d finally met someone willing to play his game better. Power tasted like copper and honey on my tongue. I leaned down, licked a slow stripe up his throat, and bit the sharp edge of his jaw. He growled, hips jerking, cock sliding through my slick folds but not inside. Not yet. Then I climbed off him. Cool air kissed my wet skin. I stood at the foot of the bed and let him look. Really look. My

The Devil Collects His Due

ENZO’S POV I was still buried inside her pussy, my cock jerking with the last of my release, her walls fluttering around me like they were trying to keep me there forever. Sweat dripped from my jaw onto her tits, the room stank of cum and salt and the metallic tang of power flipped upside down. I pulled out slowly, watched our mess spill out of her in thick ropes, watched it coat her swollen lips and drip down her thighs in filthy rivers. “We’re not done, baby girl,” Her head snapped up, her eyes glassy, mascara streaked, lips bitten raw. “…What?” My cock didn’t even think about softening, it stood slick, angry, veins pulsing, ready for blood. I rolled off the bed, stood, and let her see exactly how hard I still was. Her breath hitched. I walked to the iron cabinet like a man marching to war, the doors screamed open. Inside waited everything I hadn’t touched in years. Heavy oak stockade, thick leather posture collar with O-ring, spreader bar with ankle cuffs, perforated steel

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