by Brook Wilder
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Claimed by the Don copyright @ 2018 by Brook Wilder and Scholae Palatina Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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INTRODUCTION
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CLAIMED BY THE DON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
CLAIMED BY THE DON
Chapter 1
Sharon
Man, I’m tired, Sharon thought as her mouth stretched into a wide yawn.
All her days had been long days lately. Between school, work and volunteering, it seemed she never got a moment to rest. She wiped her dirty hands on the worn denim thighs of her faded jeans, just adding to the kaleidoscope of stains she already smeared there. Preparing food at the soup kitchen was hard work but she always felt better when she left than when she got there—like she had actually made a difference.
She looked up and checked the clock on the dingy kitchen wall. Yikes, she winced. It was almost ten o’clock, which meant it was almost nine back home in Kansas. It had been a few days since her last call and she promised her parents she’d call today.
“Hey, Annette?” Sharon said. “Is it okay if I head home? I want to try to give my parents a ring before they go to bed.”
Annette peeked her gently wrinkled face around the corner. “Sharon! Honey, of course! Get home safe, okay?”
“I will!” Sharon promised. “I’ll see you Friday.”
Slinging her sporty, purple backpack over her shoulder, Sharon pushed her way out of the back door. She slipped her outdated phone out of her pocket, dialed her home number, and waited as it rang.
After a few rings, she heard her mother answer on the other end. “Dartini residence.”
Sharon’s heart swelled at the sound of her mother’s voice. It threw her back to her modest little house back in Flats, Kansas. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Sweetie! Hi! Let me get your father.”
Sharon kept walking as she listened to her mother holler at her father that their daughter was on the phone.
“Shar-bear!” Her father called happily into the speakerphone. “How are you, kid?”
“Hi Daddy!” Sharon smiled. “Oh, you know, just busy as usual. How about you guys?”
“Fine, fine, just fine.”
“How’s school?” her mom asked.
“School’s good,” Sharon answered. “Statistics is giving me a run for my money this semester but I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m sure you will!” her father encouraged.
“How’s work?” her mother asked.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Sharon sighed. “I’m only getting a few shifts a week but I’m getting by. Thank God for the good tippers in New York. I’m actually just leaving the soup kitchen now.”
“Oh Honey, good for you!” Her mom had a heart bigger than most and spent most of her time volunteering as well. She had always been Sharon’s inspiration.
“Now, Sharon, you be careful okay?” her father warned. “Give yourself time to rest. You don’t want to burn yourself out before you’re even out of school.”
“I won’t, Dad,” she assured him.
After a few more minutes of catching up, the Dartinis said good night to their daughter and ended the call. Sharon smiled to herself as she navigated through the subways and back to the East Village.
It was night but New York never seemed that way. The combination of streetlights, lit storefronts, and the energy that seemed to pulse made the city feel even more alive at night.
She was blessed, not only to have two parents who loved her as much as they did, but for everything else in her life. Here she was, in New York, busting out an Economics degree just like she had always dreamed. The idea of becoming a financial manager thrilled her. Not only would she get to work with numbers, her intellectual gift, but it would also provide her with the consistency she craved.
The money won’t be bad either, she thought honestly. Throughout her childhood, her father managed the town’s small grocery store and her mother worked as the front desk receptionist of the elementary school. Both her parents seemed happy enough, but Sharon wanted something more than just a tiny job in a tiny town. She wanted the ability to touch lives, to travel and see the world, to be able to give more than just her time to those in need.
There was a shortcut to her apartment building an unlit side street crowded with dumpsters. Sharon decided to cut through and risk the stench. Just before she made it to the opening at the far end, a dented silver van turned and skidded erratically onto the street.
Sharon jumped back, practically throwing her body to the dirty brick wall.
Asshole! She thought. Who taught this clown how to drive?
The van stuttered to a sloppy stop. The front windows were tinted dark and Sharon couldn’t tell make out the features of the drivers inside. But something felt odd about the way the van was stopped, its engine idling.
She stood where she was, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t want to start walking again until the van began to move. Something doesn’t feel right.
The passenger door open. A tall, well-built man stepped out of the van, swearing back to whoever was driving.
“Nah, you fuckin’ ass,” the man sneered. “I told you, Rocco likes blondes. So not only did you fuck that up, but now we’re going to be late because you drive like a fuckin’ asshole.”
Sharon heard some muffled words from the driver. She didn’t need to hear it to take a good and accurate guess of what they might be.
“No, fuck you!” the man hollered back. He got down on his knees, looking under the van, as if checking for damage.
Sharon’s better instincts screa
med at her to run but she stayed frozen in place instead. What did the man mean, that someone preferred blondes? She was morbidly curious but, as a blonde herself, she hoped and prayed the man wouldn’t see her pressed against the wall.
“Well, the axle looks fine,” the man said, dusting his hands off on his black jeans as he straightened up. “But get out. I’m driving the rest of the way…”
He stopped as his dark eyes met hers.
“Well, hello,” he said, an icy smile creeping across his lips.
Chapter 2
Sharon
Sharon’s breath quickened, but her feet rooted in place as the man’s leery eyes gave her an up-and-down. Run. C’mon, Sharon, you gotta start running. You gotta go! C’MON! But somehow, her feet remained still—paralyzed.
“Hey, dickbag.” The man called back over his shoulder to the driver without breaking eye contact with Sharon. “I might’ve just saved your ass. Come out here and help me a minute.”
He took a step towards. It was as if a switch had finally been thrown, Sharon turned and bolted.
“Hey!” the stranger called behind her as she fled.
She had never been much of an athlete, but the fear that turned in her stomach and the hurried heavy footfalls behind her urged her to run faster. Just as she was about to her lips to call for help, her foot slipped on a stray piece of dog shit and she crashed gracelessly to the concrete. Her cry for help choked in her throat and turned into a whimper of pain. She had almost gotten back to her feet when a big hand wrapped around her mouth.
“C’mere Blondie,” he whispered harshly. “We’re going for a ride.”
Sharon kicked and tried to scream. But the man was strong. He peeled her off the sidewalk as his strong tobacco-reeking hand clamped closer over her mouth and dragged her towards the van.
Not ready to give up the fight, Sharon tossed her body around, rammed his gut with her backpack, and bit down hard on his hand.
“Ow, bitch!” the man yelped. He yanked his hand back, away from her gnashing teeth, and hit her hard on the side of the head.
Spots danced across Sharon’s vision. She’d never been hit before, let alone that hard. Rough hands reached for her again and she instinctively kicked out.
“Little help would be nice!” the stranger growled again, exasperated as he struggled to subdue Sharon.
Sharon heard a car door shut, then footsteps as someone jogged lazily around the car. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’. What, you can’t hold down some little blonde bitch?” It was the driver.
Together the two men stripped her out of the straps of her backpack, and shoved her towards the van.
“Help!” Sharon screamed desperately. “Help! Please! Somebody, help me!”
“Hey!” The first man wrapped a firm hand around her throat, closing her windpipe. “Shut the fuck up!”
Sharon’s vision began to fade as she lost oxygen. She stomped hard on her assailant’s foot and heard him hiss out in pain as he loosened—but never releasing—his grip on her throat. It wasn’t enough for her to try yelling again, but at least enough now she could draw in a breath.
Together, the two men hauled her wriggling, thrashing body towards the van. One of them pulled a well-abused roll of duct tape out of his pocket. One hand was held around her throat while they forced both her forearms out in front of her and bound them together with sloppy loops of tape.
The man who’d grabbed her held a strong arm around her waist while the other unrolled more tape. They released Sharon’s throat just long enough for her to take a deep, desperate inhale before slapping the newest piece of tape over her lips.
“Keep her there,” the shorter driver said. He meandered around the side of the van. Sharon’s entire body shivered with fear. She hoped and prayed with every fiber of her being that someone might come save her, but it was a vain hope. No one saw her and her attempts at screaming from behind the tape sounded more like pathetic humming than a cry for help.
The driver came back with a wet towel. With no emotion in his face, he pressed the soaked rag over Sharon’s nostrils. She shook her head violently, trying to hold her breath as long as she could. When she finally succumbed and took a breath, a sharp smell—almost like gasoline—shot into her nostrils.
The world began to dance in front of her eyes, gently swaying at first, then fading away completely like an unfinished watercolor painting that someone had smeared. Sharon’s knees weakened and her eyes close as the spinning sensation grew unbearable. Only vaguely aware of her surroundings, Sharon thought she heard a squeak like a door opening then closing.
“Good to go now? Let’s roll. We’re already late.” was the last thing she heard before the urge to sleep overtook her.
Chapter 3
Vittorio
“Whew,” the girl sighed as she finessed her tight black skirt back over her petite little ass. “That was amazing,” she purred. She slowly inched her thong back up her thin, yet soft, thighs.
“Yeah,” Vittorio Contarini said, vague disappointment and disinterest in his voice.
Ever since he got there, this dumb slut had been shamelessly flaunting herself in front of him at the club, shaking her hips and groping herself on the flashing dance floor, making wild eyes his way from between thick rings of eyeliner.
It hadn’t even taken much to get her to follow him into the bathroom—just a smile and a nod towards the door. She’d been waiting for him in the stall, the deep V neck of her dress pulled open to reveal a bright fuchsia lacy bra. Her ‘fuck-me’ eyes bored into him like lasers; the whole process had been too easy. Vittorio was pretty sure the girl had told him her name, but he hadn’t bothered to remember it.
You’d think, with as much practice as they get, these sluts could be a better fuck, Vittorio thought as he zipped up his pants.
“So… can I get your number?” she asked coyly, walking her fingers up his chest.
Her body coiled into his, way too close and overwhelmed his nostrils with the heavy perfume she wore. Her wildly teased hair tickled under his nose and made him itch. The bright yellow acrylic tips of her snaky fingers dug into his skin and he brushed her hand away, annoyed.
He yanked his shirt down over his rippled stomach and grabbed his jacket from where it hung on the back of the stall door. He fiddled with the shitty lock and pushed the metal stall door outwards as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and checked himself in the mirror, smoothing his black hair back down where the girl’s claws had mussed it up.
“Nah,” he said casually, watching the hurt and shock register across her overly made-up face in the mirror. Avoiding further eye contact, he finished buckling his belt, pulled his phone out of his pocket and lit up the screen. Fuck, he thought. Six missed calls.
“Aww, why not?” the club slut pouted her smudged red lips. She probably thought she looked cute, he realized, but she just looked trashy. He almost pitied her. Almost.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically. “Did our dirty toilet stall fuck give you the wrong idea? Are you expecting me to propose now? Get out of here.” He nodded at the door.
“Hey, asshole…” she started indignantly, her face twisting into an even uglier sour expression.
“Later, slut,” Vittorio didn’t spare her a second glance as he pushed his way out from the bathroom and back into the chaos that was the nightclub. Maybe she would follow him, maybe she wouldn’t. There he knew there was no way she’d be able to push her way through all the grinding bodies the way he could with his impressive height and strength.
The thumping electronic music drowned out any noise, so he couldn’t hear if she was calling after him. He made his way to the door, nodding at the bouncer as he left.
Once outside, he tapped on the red missed calls icon on his sleek touchscreen. They were all from his associate and personal friend, Marcello. The chilly wind nipped at his hands as he waited for an answer.
“Finally,” Marcello said four rings later. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Just walked out of the club.” Vittorio told him. “Got buried in a broad.”
“Of course you did,” Marcello chuckled. Vittorio’s womanizing habits were common knowledge with his friends. “Well I just got word that the Anafestos are holding an auction tonight. Was wondering if you wanna go check it out. Could be where they took those girls of ours.”
Vittorio adjusted his freshly milked cock in his pants and said. “Yeah, let’s go. You know where I am.”
“Already on my way. See you in five.”
Vittorio hung up his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He dug around his jacket pockets for a pack of smokes and a lighter. He took a long drag of dry, bitter smoke and blew it out, watching the smoke and his misty breath curl in the night air in slow, almost hypnotic patterns.
The heavy flow of strangers on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth and Vittorio liked it that way. It wasn’t surprising really; no one wanted to fuck with the six and a half feet of pure muscle and bad attitude that was Vittorio Contarini.