His To Claim

“What about you and Dad?” I murmur. “Why are you at war in the first place?”

“You should ask him,” he snaps.

“I’m asking you,” I say, with just as much passion in my voice.

He smirks. “You’re the only person who’s ever dreamed of talking to me like that, Aida.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” I tease.

“Fuck it—fine, what harm can it do? Your father and I grew up together. I’m not sure how much you know about your paternal grandparents …”

“I know they died before I was born,” I murmur. “Mom’s mentioned it, but never in detail.”

“Well, our parents died in the same car crash. We were taken into the system together. We were like brothers growing up. We met Elmo there. He’s one of my men … He’s the man who kidnapped you, Aida. I’m sorry.”

I almost gasp, the word sorry sounding so incongruous coming from this hulking behemoth of a man.

“You didn’t order it,” I tell him firmly. “It’s not your fault.”

His expression flickers and hardens, as though my words have reminded him of who he is, that he doesn’t owe me anything.

I’m supposed to just be his fuck toy, after all.

But he doesn’t pull his hand away from mine, and that means a lot.

“We came up together,” he goes on after a pause. “And then somewhere along the way, Franco decided that he wanted to be the top dog. He split away from me and started his own organization. By then I was in too deep with my own people to show any kind of weakness, so I was forced to disavow him. We’ve been frosty ever since, but it’s never broken out into war like this before.”

“So why now?” I murmur, head spinning with all this new information.

Arturo sighs and stands up, pacing over to the window, hands behind his back. He looks like he might snap any second and smash the window with his fists, just for the sheer violent release of it.

“Arturo,” I call, unable to move because then I’ll be naked, and this conversation will end.

He’ll take me.

I want it.

Bad.

But I can’t give in to my urges right now.

“I found two of my men slaughtered last month, their throats slits, with a message written on the wall in blood.”

I let out a shivering choked noise.

For a moment, it’s hard to believe that the sound even comes from me.

“What did it say?” I whimper.

Arturo turns, glaring at me. “It said, Franco, is coming for you.”

My mind conjures up the image in gruesome detail, the blood a vivid sickening shade on the wall, their throats torn open in a way that makes me want to scream.

Part of me wishes I could reverse time and make it so I didn’t ask the question.

But now I know that Arturo didn’t order me taken.

He wouldn’t do that.

Would Dad really order two men killed – or kill them himself – and leave a message in their blood?

I feel sick, and for a second I let myself believe that it’s impossible morning sickness, though of course there’s no way I’m pregnant yet or at least no way that I’d be feeling symptoms so quickly.

“Have you spoken to him about it?” I whisper.

“No,” Arturo growls. “He’s refused to meet with me so many times I stopped asking in the end. All I can do is try to get him and his Family under control. But that’s enough talk, Aida. Shit—that’s more I’ve talked to anybody in years. There must be something special about you.”

Leaving me with a confusing mixture of star-like warmth and death-cold shivers in my body, he paces across the room, throws the door open, and marches out.

It slams behind him with a reverberation that travels along the floor and into the bed and straight into my heart.

My heartbeat becomes deafening in my ears, thoughts whirring.

I wish I knew what to do, but my mind has no answers.

I lie back, closing my eyes, knowing I won’t be able to sleep now no matter how fatigued my body feels.

Chapter Twelve

Arturo

I spend the day attending to mafia business, mainly chasing down leads about the government agency the men told me about last night.

Questioning them was harder than I’d anticipated. I soon noticed that they were trying to hide something from me, everything about them screaming suspicion, their facial expressions dripping in nervousness, every tic, every gesture giving them away.

I didn’t have to hurt them, which I’m grateful for.

They weren’t holding out because of allegiance to some cause.

No, this was fear.

“He’s called Mr. Johnson,” they kept saying. “But that’s it. That’s all we know.”

All the men have been exiled, allowed to flee the East Coast with their families.

But if they return, there will be blood.

There’s no way around it.

I just hope they’re not that stupid.

I return to my estate with a savage need for Aida pounding through me.