Claiming The Don’s Daughter

by Renee Rose

  She feared that meant he was still hurt by it or that he didn’t believe her yet, but she would find a way to prove her love. Because Carlo was her man, like no other man could ever be.

  * * *

  The sweats had just started. He needed to pick up more H before the nausea hit; but first, he was going to teach that dago dickwad a lesson. Because of Carlo Romano, the police had put a fucking tail on him. Forced him to relocate the girls.

  So, it was simple: Carlo lost Alexei’s girl; Alexei would take one from Carlo.

  Tonight was the WOP’s high-stakes poker game, so he’d be out.

  Alexei pulled out his key-making equipment. It took longer than usual because his fingers were shaking, but eventually he cut a key for the place and slid the lock open. Pushing the door in, he walked into the asshole’s apartment.

  It looked like a man’s place—he didn’t see many female touches, but in the bedroom he found girl clothes. And more than you’d have from a one-night stand. Yes, makeup in the bathroom. Bingo. Carlo had a girl.

  And soon Alexei would own her. Viktor would get over his temper tantrum over the loss of Anya. He’d already shaken the cops from his tail without Viktor finding out they had the girl. Everything would be all right.

  He yanked out drawers and searched the place for cash or drugs, but found neither. Where did the asshole keep his money? Because he sure as hell wasn’t depositing that shit in the bank and paying taxes on it.

  The sound of the key turning in the door made him yank out a long knife. He had a gun on him, but knives were better for women—more terrifying. They were more worried about scars on their pretty faces or blood on their clothes than they were about dying. A gun wasn’t real to a woman. A knife was.

  He waited beside the door. A young woman walked in—beautiful, if you were into brunettes, which he wasn’t. She would do, though. He covered her mouth from behind and put the knife to her throat. “Shut up,” he said in her ear over the muffled screams. “I said shut up.” He forced her down to the ground and put his knee in her back while he worked the duct tape out of his jacket pocket.

  The bitch got in a loud scream before he smacked her head against the floor and silenced her. Good. It was easier when they were unconscious.

  He taped her wrists behind her back.

  Her eyelids fluttered back open, which was good, because he had no intention of carrying the girl to the car. “Get up.” He hanged her roughly to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  She lurched forward when he shoved her, tottering, as if having her hands tied behind her back threw off her balance.

  He tossed his jacket over her shoulders to hide the taped wrists. “You make one sound—one single sound—and I’ll cut your tongue out. You understand, yes?”

  Tears leaked from her eyes and she bobbed her head.

  He yanked off the tape and dragged her out of the apartment and down to the street. Looking both ways and not seeing anyone around, he popped the trunk and shoved her inside, slamming the door.

  Of course she screamed now, but it didn’t matter. In a moment, he’d be driving, on his way to get more H, and she’d be on her way to their slave-house.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Carlo. “You took my girl, so I’m taking yours.” He hit send and started the car, counting down until the Italian mobster got his message. No one fucks with Alexei.

  His phone rang five seconds later. “Where is she?” the Italian snarled. Foolish man thought they’d be bargaining. He wasn’t holding her hostage. He was keeping her. And he’d only told the fucker that he had her so he’d remember. No one fucks with Alexei.

  “She’s mine now. Your mistake.”

  “You took the Don’s fucking daughter. If you touch one hair on her—”

  He ended the call and tossed the phone on the seat beside him. The Don’s daughter.

  The better part of his brain registered that was a problem. He’d just triggered a war. But he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. Once he got a fix, he’d figure it out...

  * * *.

  Carlo threw the oak poker table onto its side. Sonny and Vinny jumped back. “What is it, boss?”

  “The cazzo Russian picked up Summer.” He was already moving to the door. The guys jogged behind him. “Game is cancelled.”

  He pulled out his phone and dialed the cop’s number.

  “Carlo.”

  “The Russian picked up my girl—the Don’s daughter. I need a location.”

  Detective Bailey blew out his breath. “We lost the tail on him earlier, but there are two locations he frequents. I’ll text you both addresses. My money would be on the first as the place where they keep the girls.”

  He walked swiftly to his car but Sonny darted in front of him, cutting him off. “I’ll drive, boss. So you can strategize.”

  He handed the keys over. Every second felt critical. Every fucking second the Russian had Summer meant... he couldn’t even go there. To the detective on the phone, he asked, “Are we going to have a problem?” Meaning—if I kill this motherfucker are you going to nail me for it?

  “I’ll give you ten minutes from when you get there before I call it in. After that, it’s on you.”

  “I’m not leaving this guy alive.”

  The cop sighed. “I know.”

  He hung up and climbed in the car. Vinny got in the back seat and Sonny sat behind the wheel. He gave him directions to the house and texted the same to every soldier they had.

  Russians took Summer La Torre. All guns needed at 5458 Lakeview Drive.

  He hit send and called Al before the guy called him. “What the fuck?” Al yelled.

  “I don’t know. He’s a junkie.” That was the only explanation he could come up with for the shit-brain’s actions. “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

  “Not if I get there first.” Al hung up.

  Sonny screamed through the streets, running red lights and screeching the tires around curves. He took it down a notch as they approached the house, to avoid alerting the Russians.

  The address was in a seedier part of town, but not the worst. They jumped out of their cars. Across the street, a man sat behind the wheel of a dark sedan.

  He aimed his gun, squinting in the darkness.

  The interior light of the car came on, illuminated the face of Michael Bailey, the detective.

  He lowered the gun. Okay, then. Ten minutes.

  He could definitely take care of business in ten minutes. He palmed his Ruger and went in, shooting the lock off the door and slamming his shoulder into the wood to break it open.

  Gunfire made him pull back but not before he’d aimed and fired at the guy pulling the trigger. Guy went down.

  Carlo went inside as three men stormed up a flight of stairs that led from a basement. He jumped back when one of them fired. Wood from the doorframe splintered in his face. Sonny and Vinny crowded behind him. He shoved his Ruger around the corner and risked a quick look to aim. He pulled the trigger as more shots rained from them.

  From the sound of it, one body hit the ground. Vinny shot another. The third guy fired until his gun ran out of ammo, and Carlo stepped out, shooting him between the eyes.

  He darted past their tumbling bodies, not waiting to see how far behind Sonny and Vinny lagged.

  In the basement he found a dozen or more girls, scantily dressed and looking high. Alexei had been passed out on a couch, but he stumbled to his feet at the gunfire and screams of the women. He fumbled for the gun at his holster.

  Where in the hell was Summer?

  Carlo shot each of Alexei’s kneecaps. The man screamed, falling to the floor and writhing. He took the guy’s gun and two knives, then kicked his ribs, hard. “Where is she?”

  Sonny and Vince ran through the basement, checking for more men or Summer. “No sign of her boss,” Sonny said.

  “Keep looking,” he yelled at the guys. “Check upstairs.”

  Alexei groaned and mumbled something.
/>   He kicked him again. “Where is she?” he snarled between clenched teeth.

  The bastard chuckled.

  He dropped to his knees beside him. Carlo searched the guy’s pockets. He found a bag of heroine. He pulled out his phone, but the last call made was to Carlo’s phone. Nothing of interest in the texts.

  He grasped his shirt in his fist, picked up his head and slammed it back into the floor. “Who has her? Where’s. My. Girl?”

  Alexei’s unfocused gaze swung around the room, scanning at the girls huddled around the room. He looked genuinely confused.

  “He didn’t bring a girl,” one of the women said in a thick Russian accent.

  Cold fear pierced his heart. “What?” he surged to his feet.

  She shrank back and he had to stop himself from advancing on her and scaring her further. “He came alone—no girl.” She shook her head emphatically.

  Fanculo.

  “How long ago did he arrive?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “When? When did he get here?”

  “Thirty minutes, no more.”

  Thirty minutes. Was that time for him to have sold her to someone? His drug dealer, maybe, since he’d obviously had a fresh supply.

  He ran up the steps, two at a time. “Go sit on the Russian, see if you can make him talk,” he yelled at Sonny as he passed him.

  Outside, The cop still sat in his car, watching. Al had just pulled up. Oh God, how would he tell him his daughter wasn’t safe yet? He wanted to kill the fucking Russian a million times over.

  “I’m going to try the other address. The guys are downstairs trying to get the bastard to talk,” he said, jogging to his car.

  “Carlo!” the muffled sound came from the trunk of the car he was passing.

  “Summer,” he bellowed. He slammed his hand down on the metal. “Are you in there?”

  Al and his men raced over. Across the street, Detective Bailey climbed out of his car.

  “Carlo, Carlo, please. Get me out of here.”

  Oh God, the fear in her voice made him want to rip the car apart with his bare hands. He yanked on the handle but it was locked. He didn’t want to risk shooting the lock out, not with her in there.

  Al shot the window to the driver’s side out and reached in to pop the trunk.

  He threw it open. Summer lay inside, her hands and feet duct taped together. Blood covered her face. She blinked at the light, struggling to push herself up.

  “Hang on, baby.” His voice shook as he cut through the tape.

  She threw herself into his arms the moment he had her free. “I knew you’d come for me.”

  Her words cut him like glass. This had been his fault. He wasn’t the hero here.

  “I’ll take care of the Russian,” Al said, murder on his face.

  Carlo wanted to do it himself, but Summer was his priority.

  “Make it fast—the cop’s here,” he said tersely, lifting his chin toward the detective.

  Al swiveled to take in Detective Bailey, who stood five feet back, observing. He nodded once, gravely. “Detective.”

  “Don Alberto.”

  They hadn’t met before, but Carlo had filled Al in when he’d taken the Russian slave, and any detective who worked on organized crime would know Al’s name and face.

  “I need to take care of something, and then we’re through.”

  “Two minutes.”

  “Appreciate it.” Don Al stalked toward the house, his pistol in his hand, two men flanking him.

  Carlo turned to the detective. “The girls are in the basement. The rest of the house will be clear when we’re through.”

  The cop nodded and pulled out his radio, calling in to the station.

  He wanted to thank the detective for his help, but the moment was too dark. Besides, the understanding and mutual respect between them seemed clear. He didn’t doubt they’d continue their cautious relationship in the future.

  He carried Summer to his car and climbed into the backseat with her, cradling her on his lap.

  The guys emerged from the house and convened outside the vehicle.

  “It’s done. Bring her to my place,” Don Al said.

  “No. I’m taking her home.” Summer was his now—they’d already agreed. He needed to take care of her, even if Al pistol-whipped him for disobeying an order.

  He saw the conflict on the older man’s face, then he swore. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Sonny and Vince got in and they left the scene behind.

  “I knew you’d come,” she whispered again.

  He held her closer. “Where are you hurt?” Her forehead sported a bruise and her nose had bled, but didn’t actually look broken.

  “My face. That’s all.”

  Grazie, Mary, Queen of Peace. He lifted his eyes to heaven.

  The guy must’ve been so high he forgot about her in the trunk. Thank God he hadn’t violated her, or Carlo would never have forgiven himself.

  He rocked his girl, trying to make the images of what could have happened to her leave his mind. Praying she wouldn’t forever be traumatized by this.

  * * *

  Her father showed up at Carlo’s place and the two men took turns pacing, looking grim and making sure she held ice to her nose and forehead. Carlo poured her a jigger of grappa, which took the edge off the adrenaline.

  She knew they both felt like they’d let her down, but she was okay. She really was. She hadn’t been raped. Her face throbbed, but it wasn’t anything more than a few bruises. Her nose wasn’t even broken.

  She curled up on the couch with the kittens purring in her lap. “I’m hungry,” she announced, since it seemed like they needed something to do.

  Carlo hightailed it to the kitchen and re-emerged with a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and a spoon.

  She beamed at him for knowing she wanted something sweet.

  At last her father left and she curled back up in Carlo’s lap and soaked in the strength from his warm embrace.

  “Bambina... I’m so sorry,” he choked.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said quickly, looping her arms around his neck. “And I’m fine.”

  Maybe it was a sign of what a spoiled mafia princess she really was, but she’d had every confidence that her father and Carlo—one or both of them—would show up to rescue her. She hadn’t doubted it for a minute and that faith in them had cushioned her from experiencing any emotional trauma about the thing.

  She should be shaken up over the deaths of the Russians, but she felt buffered from that somehow, too. Those men deserved to die and Carlo had done what had to be done. She didn’t question it or judge it. She’d known he was a warrior, like her father. Not a man to stand back when confronted.

  He stroked her face, looking beyond the bruises and truly studying her for the first time that night. His hazel eyes held concern, but some of the anguish fell away as she looked steadily back at him.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’re so brave.”

  She shook her head. “No. I just knew you’d come for me.”

  He blinked rapidly and leaned his forehead against hers. “I won’t let anything like this happen to you again. I promise.”

  “You can’t control everything, Carlo. Bad things happen. But I know you’ll always be there for me, and that’s what counts. You’re my man.”

  The corners of his lips lifted in a sad sort of smile. “I have something for you, cara.”

  “Is it a present?” she asked with exaggerated childishness.

  He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a little box. “Not a present. A promise. My claim on you.”

  She opened the box and stared at the glittering engagement ring—a diamond surrounded by smaller sapphires. Prying it out, she slid it on her finger. “It’s perfect,” she breathed.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “I don’t recall you asking me anything,” she teased.

  He grew grave. “Marry me, ba
mbina.” Behind the intent stare, she saw he had much more to say, but as usual, he remained the man of few words.

  “Yes.”

  His face broke into a smile.

  “Si?”

  “Si. Yes, I will marry you, Carlo Romano.”

  “Soon. I want to marry you soon. No long engagement and a year’s worth of planning.”

  “Afraid I’ll change my mind?”

  He grinned. “Maybe. A little. Or maybe I’m sick of waiting. For me it’s been eight years.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and once again, she wondered how she could have missed this miraculous affection he held for her.

  He cupped her face and stroked his thumb along her cheek with a tenderness, a reverence. “I love you, Summer La Torre.”

  “And I love you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Carlo stood in front of the hotel mirror and tied the bowtie on his tuxedo. He’d checked into the honeymoon suite before the wedding to bring their suitcase and put the 1988 Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon on ice for later.

  He picked up the boutonniere—a pale pink rose—and pinned it on his lapel. Summer had chosen pink roses as her wedding flower because that was what he always brought her. Not wanting to disappoint, he’d had the suite filled with dozens of them and petals scattered on the bed, across the counter of the sink and in the tub.

  He checked his phone. It was early, but there was nothing left to do. He might as well head to the church where he could greet the early arrivals. He picked up his keys and headed to the elevator. They’d been lucky enough to nab a hall at the Ritz Carlton for their reception, thanks to a last minute cancellation. Normally the hotel was booked nine months out.

  Carmen had been pissed about the short engagement, but Summer had been perfectly serene in facing down her mother. Once they’d had the graduate school showdown, Summer had found her stride with separating from her parents’ desires for her. Actually she’d been perfectly serene in general. Any last misgivings he’d had about her not really loving him, only needing him, had faded as he’d watched her anxieties disappear and a quiet happiness bloom.