His To Claim: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  It answers on the second ring.

  Snaps’ voice is taut, as though he’s been awaiting this call.

  “Yes?”

  “Snaps, it’s me,” I tell him.

  He sighs. “Thank God. Do I have time to get your father?”

  He speaks as though I’m being held at gunpoint somewhere, as though somebody has been torturing me for the past twenty-four hours. I almost laugh when I imagine sending him a photograph of my bedroom and the lovable pooch with his head resting on my lap.

  “Yes, you have time,” I say.

  I drum my fingers against my legs, thinking about Arturo and the man named Elmo who escaped, whoever he is.

  A prisoner, a man Arturo’s been torturing for information, a drug dealer?

  I want to believe that Arturo is a good man deep down, but good men don’t order people kidnapped and held prisoner, even if this is the best prison in the world, even if – crazily – this place feels more like home than my own house has for years.

  “Aida?” Mom says, relief flooding her voice.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” I tell her. “I’m not hurt. Nobody’s touched me. I’ve been fed and I’ve been allowed to wash and … I really am okay.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she gushes. “I’ve been so worried. I …”

  She breaks off into choking sobs, struggling to talk past her emotions.

  “I love you,” she says finally.

  “I love you, too,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I’ve made you so worried.”

  “Sorry?” she gasps. “Don’t be foolish. Where are you? Who has you?”

  In the background, Dad grumbles, “Give it here, Lyndsey.”

  “Franco, she’s alive,” Mom cries. “She’s safe.”

  Mom passes over the phone and then Dad’s gruff voice fills my ear.

  “Aida, where are you?” he says quickly. “The men who took you, are they Russian? Are they Eastern European? Irish? Mexican? Aida?”

  His barrage of questions leaves me with my mouth hanging open, as the realization dawns that Dad has so many potential kidnappers to choose from.

  “Exactly how many enemies have you made, Dad?” I snap, rage swimming in my voice.

  “This isn’t the time for—”

  “Actually,” I interrupt, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “You’re being held prisoner somewhere, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how the fuck do you have all the time in the world?”

  “Don’t swear, Franco,” Mom snaps in the background.

  “Sorry, dear,” Dad sighs. “Aida, I don’t understand.”

  “I understand,” I say, voice trembling. I think I’ve been holding this in for a long time. “You’ve been lying to me my entire life. You’re not in real estate. You’re a criminal, plain and simple, and you’ve always tried to keep me in the dark. Heck, maybe I purposefully ignored reality. Maybe I was too willing to lose myself in books and singing and … But you’ve lied to me, Dad, haven’t you? Otherwise, why would he take me?”

  “It’s complicated, Aida,” Dad sighs. “Life isn’t always that simple. Tell me who has you.”

  “Arturo Amato,” I snap.

  “You’re at his estate?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. Who is he to you? He said you knew each other.”

  “I don’t think we need to—”

  “Dad,” I hiss, the anger making my voice taut, Jackal flinching and looking up at me. “You can’t keep lying to me.”

  There’s a long pause, and then Dad finally says, “We were friends when we were children. But things changed. We grew apart. Now he—Jesus, Aida, you don’t need to know all of this. I’ve kept you safe for a reason.”

  “You’ve lied to me for a reason, you mean. And it hardly worked, did it? Here I am. Now he what? Now he what, Dad?”

  “Now he runs one of the biggest crime families in America,” Dad says.

  “And you run one too,” I finish for him because on some level I’ve always known this.

  It just took a kidnapping to make me look at it.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “Believe it or not, Aida, I really did have your best interests at heart.”

  “Franco, who is it?” Mom says, her voice quiet in the background of the call.

  “Arturo,” Dad says.

  “Oh, thank God,” Mom cries.

  She’s always had a penchant for the dramatic, but in this case, with everything going on, it seems warranted.

  Thank God? Does that mean Arturo is a good man?

  “And he hasn’t hurt you? Or ordered you hurt?” Dad goes on.

  “Would he do that?” I demand.

  “I doubt it. Arturo has never hurt a woman before, but we’re at—”

  “War. I know. At least I guessed. I feel so stupid for letting myself live in the dark for so long. But I’ve sensed that something’s going on for a while. Who started it, Dad?”

  Dad grows silent. I can almost hear him fidgeting on the other end of the line.

  “Can you escape?” Dad says after a long pause.

  “Who started this war, Dad?” I say, voice rising, trembling.

  “It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is you’re safe. I should be able to work out a deal with Arturo. He’s always been reasonable … mostly.”

  “You started it,” I snap. “That’s why you’re not answering. You started a freaking mafia war, didn’t you? Jesus Christ, Dad. Why would you do that?”

  “There are things you don’t understand,” he says.

  “Then explain them to me.”

  “I can’t.”

  I clench the phone tightly in my hand, so hard I almost think I might break it.

  “You mean you don’t want to,” I yell, unable to hold back the heartache and the confusion anymore. “Fine, if you won’t talk to me, I’ll ask Arturo instead. Tell Mom I love her.”

  “I love you, Aida,” Dad growls. “I always have.”

  I sigh, softening a little.

  Despite everything, he’s still my father.

  “I love you too, Dad,” I say, and then hang up and throw the phone onto the mattress.

  I lie back on the bed and let Jackal climb onto my belly, a warm furry blanket. I slide my hands into his fur and bite down on the budding emotion, rising in me like a stream of pain and heartache.

  And yet despite everything, one thing stands out in my mind more than everything else.

  We were friends when we were children.

  That means the man I’m obsessing over, the man I can’t stop thinking about, the man who took me savagely in the shower and promised to take me again, was once my dad’s friend and is now his enemy.

  “Jackal, boy,” I whisper. “I think things just got way more complicated.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Arturo

  I walk down the corridor of the underground complex, the sounds of the city and the bar above muted with so much concrete between us. The place is made of simple stone, the walls and the floor uncarpeted.

  When people are taken here, they undoubtedly think they’re being dragged to some dingy prison, but the cells don’t deserve the name. Each one is well furnished, with an ensuite shower and all the amenities a person could want for a short-term stay or drug detox.

  Elmo was being held in the cell at the end of the hallway – the men who helped him have had their wages docked and been placed on a one-year watch, meaning if they slip up again they’ll be exiled from the East Coast – and that’s where I head as I walk, my footsteps loud, my growling heartbeat somehow louder.

  I need to be with Aida. This is a distraction.

  The thought is absurd.

  It’s the other way around.

  Aida is the distraction.

  And yet it doesn’t feel that way.

  The door to the cell is open, revealing a comfortable, simple bed and a rug covered floor. The electric lights are turned off, casting the room into darkness. The door
hasn’t been broken, but someone clearly helped Elmo escape.

  The corpse leaning up against the wall is evidence of that.

  His name Piero, a middle-aged man with no wife and no children. That’s a small blessing, but it doesn’t excuse the bullet hole in his forehead. He was still one of my men, a soldier trusted enough to guard a high-valuable asset like Elmo.

  He still had hopes and dreams and a fucking life.

  “Do we know who did this?” I growl.

  Vinnie, standing on the other side of Piero’s body, shakes his head.

  “Nobody’s claimed responsibility for the attack,” I muse. “That means this wasn’t a message. They would’ve left a sign, a calling card, something. But this is too clean. They got into the bar, the storeroom, then past the secret door, and then came down here and shot Piero – they must’ve been using a silencer – and then picked the lock and freed Elmo. Franco has never worked that clean. The Irish, the Russians, shit—nobody works that clean.”

  “It’s like a military operation,” Vinnie agrees. “It’s government stuff, boss. That’s my guess.”

  “You think Elmo was working with the Feds?”

  I can’t keep flames from flaring in my voice as I turn to him, pinning him in place with my gaze.

  Despite everything, Elmo’s one of my oldest friends.

  The only person I’ve known longer is Franco.

  But he’s not a friend anymore.

  Vinnie flinches, but he looks me straight in the eye when he answers, like a man, like the same bastard who didn’t back down when the Cartel went at him.

  “I think drugs can make even the most loyal man do fucked-up things,” he says.

  I nod. He’s right. And no amount of bluster or friendship will eradicate the possibility.

  “Has the room been searched?”

  “No, I wanted to wait for you.”

  “Alright then,” I say. “Let’s go. Maybe this sneaky bastard left a more subtle message.”

  We walk into the room and turn on the light. The covers lie in a crumpled mess across the bed, balled up, as though Elmo struggled when the shooter came into the room and leaped at him. Or maybe it’s just that Elmo’s a messy bastard. It’s impossible to know.

  The glasses on the table in the corner in the mini-kitchen are undisturbed, so maybe there was no struggle … or it didn’t reach that far.

  I curse myself for not having the security cameras enabled, but I didn’t see the need. This was supposed to be a detox mission, not a goddamn prisoner situation.

  We search the room.

  It’s small and doesn’t take long.

  Under the bed, in all the drawers, pulling everything out, cutting open the pillows, and sending fluff flying everywhere.

  In the shower – inside the shower head, behind the panel of the mechanism – but there’s nothing.

  No message.

  “Get the security footage from the bar upstairs.”

  “Already have, boss.”

  “Good,” I say, nodding. “It’s being combed?”

  “As we speak.”

  “You’re a good man, Vinnie,” I tell him. “Give me word the second we spot anything suspicious. We should see him going into the backroom, but … do we know when this happened?”

  Vinnie grimaces tightly, telling me he’s thinking the exact same thing.

  “Piero was on shift from two o’clock last night until two o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Meaning that the place was packed when this bastard slipped into the back,” I sigh.

  The bar is a popular one, a trendy hipster spot, its clientele having no idea who owns it or what they’re dancing on top of. Having the cells situated in such a loud, busy, upscale location drastically reduces the chances of any rival Family or organization trying to stage an escape.

  At least, that’s what it’s supposed to do.

  In this instance, it might’ve helped them.

  But I’m normally counting on sloppy criminals, not spy-like motherfuckers.

  “Comb the tape,” I sigh. “I’m going to interrogate the men who went with him on the Capullo job. Maybe they know something.”

  “We talking a conversation or a darkroom situation?”

  The darkroom is where we take the real evil bastards, the rapists, and the child molesters when we need them to give up their equally-evil cohorts.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to take my own men there.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say. “But if it does, we’ll do what we have to do. A man is dead, a good man who served the Family well. They shouldn’t have anything to hide.”

  I walk down the corridor, not relishing the task ahead of me. First I’ll need to personally inform Piero’s mother about his death and make arrangements for her financial support over the coming months and years and decades—as long as she needs it.

  And then I’ll need to gather up the men and interrogate them one by one, which will probably take me late into the night, depending on how they answer.

  Which all gets in the way of what I was planning on doing today.

  I was going to take Aida and drag her into the bedroom, and then push her onto the bed and strip her naked and fuck her, fuck her hard and without mercy.

  I was going to pummel her virgin pussy until it was raw and knew what was expected of it.

  After a short break – minutes at the most – I’d take her again, maybe even giving her a treat of slowing down that time, letting her feel every inch as I plunge inside of her.

  But a man in my position doesn’t get to give in to his desires, not when so much shit has hit the fan.

  I sigh and clench my fists, wishing I could find the bastard who did this and crush his throat.

  And not just because he freed Elmo and killed one of my men.

  But because he interrupted my chance to claim my virgin princess.

  When I think about the way she admitted to having all those secret desires over breakfast, my manhood swells and pumps full of hotness, despite the circumstances, despite the war.

  Even now, when I should be entirely focused on my business, she plays on my mind.

  I need to take her.

  Maybe then the never ending fantasizing will stop.

  Yeah right, a voice comments grimly within. Keep telling yourself that. You’ll never stop being attracted to her, you’ll never stop thinking about her. You could fuck her ten times in one night and still get rock hard at the sight of that big bouncy ass begging for more.

  I clench my fists hard, digging my fingers into my palms, feeling the skin on my knuckles pull taut.

  Business first, and then …

  And then I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want with her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aida

  I roll over and let out a huffing breath, glancing at the bedside clock, subtly backlit with a soft glowing light. It’s three in the morning, and still, I can’t sleep, which is weird considering last night – after the kidnapping – the silk sheets were able to pull me into blessed oblivion.

  I spent the day with Jackal, walking Arturo’s large grounds, going right to the end and around his private pond, and watching as Jackal bound around, grinning happily with his tongue hanging out.

  After that, I came back to the ensuite and made use of the sauna and the large hot tub, sitting in there and trying to let the bubbles and the warmth soothe my anxious thoughts.

  Dad is a mafia boss.

  Arturo is a mafia boss.

  They’re at war.

  But why, and when did it start, and why did they stop being friends, and, and …

  These are the questions, spinning endlessly around my mind, that make me sit up in bed and let my head fall back with yet another sigh.

  Seriously, I’m starting to really get bored with the sound of my sighing.

  I let out a few song notes instead, just some wordless long sounds, the sort I used to make as a little girl before I really even knew I
wanted to be a singer as my life’s passion.

  There was something soothing about it back then, losing myself in the task of trying to make the notes sound just right, even though I had no idea how good or bad I was.

  I sang – and now I sing – just for the sake of it, a wonderful distraction.

  It’s an amazing thing, being able to open my mouth and lose myself in another world like that. It requires no equipment, it costs nothing. It’s a simple, pure pleasure.

  Pleasure.

  That makes me think about Arturo and this morning—well, yesterday morning now.

  So much has happened since then between us, this stranger and I, and yet I know that if I told him about these crazy ideas swirling around my consciousness he’d laugh in my face. Or, if he didn’t laugh, he’d became Stern Arturo and snap at me not to be a stupid immature girl.

  But then he did say he doesn’t want to use protection when he finally takes me.

  Surely he knows what could happen in that scenario.

  I let my mind return to the moment, to the feeling of his hand on my ass cheeks, spanking me playfully. And yet for all its playfulness, I can still feel the phantom of his hand on my tingling skin.

  I can still feel the stinging pleasure of it.

  I grind my ass cheeks against the silk sheets, back and forth, the silk caressing my bare skin. I took off the sweatpants to sleep since the heating is so effective in here.

  I shift back and forth until the pressure becomes intolerable, and then I slide my hand down my body, toward my center, knowing it’s risky when any second the door could burst open and somebody could come running in here.

  If it’s one of the guards, I’ll be thankful that the sheets are pulled up over me, obscuring their vision.

  And if it’s Arturo?

  That thought sends me into overdrive as I lightly graze my clit, imagining Arturo charging in here, his face twisted like an animal who’s barely able to restrain himself.

  He isn’t able to restrain himself if his unleashing in the ensuite yesterday is any indication.

  My pussy thrums and buzzes as I press down.

  Then there’s a loud crash from the other side of the room. It’s like somebody’s blown open part of the door with a bomb.