Claimed by the Don

by Brook Wilder

  Vittorio flipped the wide face of his Rolex towards him, squinting in the darkness. It had already been almost an hour, with no sign of any of the women he was looking for. He shifted in the chair he sat in. This shit was starting to drag on longer than he liked.

  “And now! The moment most of you gentlemen have so patiently been waiting for… the fresh meat!”

  There were a few drunken hollers from the crowd and Vittorio’s jaw clenched as he tried to stifle his growing urge to break some heads.

  A curvaceous girl was shoved forcibly onto the stage from the wings; tan skin, dark hair and a full chest straining against a red lacy bra. Tattered pieces of fabric hung from her shoulders, as if someone had cut her clothes open. Dark eye-makeup stained her cheeks in fat black streaks, her lips were dry and cracking, and she stared out at the room full of men in complete and utter horror. She seemed frozen at the back of the stage, her legs quaking and chest heaving.

  The terror in her eyes almost motivated Vittorio to lift the auction paddle on their table, but he wasn’t there to waste money saving lives. The announcer began to list the girl’s stats, but before he could finish, paddles began flashing up around the room. The bids for new girls were always embarrassingly high.

  “Going once, going twice, sold! To number 453! You may collect your prize when the auction concludes.”

  Vittorio took another sip of scotch.

  “No!” the girl screamed. A man strode out from the wings of the stage, grabbed her bound forearms, and yanked her back offstage roughly. She kicked and struggled, but the man was bigger and stronger. From what Vittorio could see, he practically threw her offstage. There was a thud and some more yelling before the door closed behind them.

  The scotch was almost gone, and he was tempted to get another.

  The girl’s new owner chuckled and drained his tumbler. Vittorio hadn’t seen this man before, but he made a mental note of the man’s face when he turned to his companions at his table and commented about loving a woman with fighting spirit.

  “And finally… our last piece for the evening…”

  With that, the door opened, and a pale girl tentatively stepped out. She was short, much shorter than any of the other girls, and she was barefoot. She had thick thighs, a rounded ass and wide hips that tapered to a tiny waist. Her blonde hair was woven into two pigtail braids, a few pale strands falling into her sweet, blue-eyed little face. She wasn’t decked out in seedy lingerie like the others; instead she wore pale blue cotton boy shorts covered in tiny hearts and a utilitarian nude bra that had clearly been designed for comfort, not seduction.

  The girl squinted against the bright lights, padding softly down the catwalk with scared little steps. A chorus of whoops and catcalls rose up from the crowd of men. She fought to maintain a placid expression, but Vittorio saw her quick breaths as she exhaled out of trembling lips. Her wrists were bound in front of her with a stiff white zip tie, just like the others, which forced her breasts together in a generous line of cleavage.

  She looked about college-age, and if Vittorio had seen this girl on the street, he probably wouldn’t have spared her a second look. She was too pretty, too sweet, almost angelic. She didn’t look like the easy types of girls he met in club bars, or the other washed-up zombies being sold; yet, somehow, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. If her underwear was any indication, she was probably a modest dresser. She probably hadn’t planned on fucking anyone, much less getting bought and used by men she didn’t know.

  The fiery swirl of emotions in his gut continued to burn and grow, fueled by the Scotch. This girl didn’t belong here. There used to be some fucking honor in the Crime Families.

  “Measuring in at about five-foot-two and a generous one-hundred and forty pounds…” The announcer purred.

  “Hey,” the girl said, shooting a glare towards the announcer.

  The announcer returned her sour look with a sickly smile. “This little lady is one-hundred percent, certified fresh.”

  She winced as he said that, squeezing her thighs together.

  “And from the looks of it, she’s got a bit of a mouth on her!” He paused to let the crowd chuckle. “We’ll be starting the bidding at fifty-thousand!”

  Vittorio drummed his fingers on the handle of his white paddle. This girl wasn’t why he was here. He could walk out now, with his pockets full, and drive home right then. It was the last girl. None of his guys’ missing women were here.

  But, somehow, he just couldn’t leave. There was something about her, a certain innocence, that he found appealing and frightening all at once. She still looked like the type of young woman with a family—with a future.

  Who would be searching for her by morning? He wondered. He thought of a homey little family, never to see their daughter again because she was being soiled by a man who had no regard for her life or well-being.

  Not why you’re here, he reminded himself.

  “Fifty-thousand,” called a familiar voice that instantly changed everything.

  There he was, Rocco Anafesto. Vittorio hadn’t seen him when they’d come in, but he was seated two tables down to Vittorio’s right. The old man raised his paddle and smiled, revealing a row of misshapen yellow teeth. His pathetic, wispy comb-over was slicked back with too much gel for a man nearing his seventies and shone under the dim lights like polished silver.

  Vittorio felt a heat rise within him, unfiltered rage mixed with the deepest loathing. If there was anyone on the planet Vittorio would be happy to see dead, it was Rocco Anafesto.

  “Fifty-five,” Vittorio called, flipping up his paddle before he even realized what he was doing. His words hung tense in the air and he felt eyes on him from all over the dark club.

  Marcello looked confused and the look turned into icy anger when he spotted Vittorio.

  Rocco leaned forward and gave a throaty chuckle. “Sixty,” he countered.

  Vittorio knew that Rocco had a heart for young blondes, despite his age and lengthy marriage. He was also a man whose fragile ego refused to accept a loss.

  All the more reason to make this bastard squirm. “Sixty-five.” He countered.

  From the stage, the girl watched the men volley back and forth, her face crumpling a bit more each time the number grew. She shrank back into herself, as if she wanted only to disappear. Every time she looked at Rocco, his sick smile and his wrinkled face, she grew more and more desolate. Every time she looked at Vittorio, it was as if her blue eyes were begging him silently for salvation.

  “Seventy,” Rocco said, his humorous tone becoming more serious.

  “Seventy-five.” Your move, old man. Vittorio was determined. He’d heard rumors about the way Rocco broke in his girls, each story crueler and uglier than the last. From sick sexual games to passing them over to his sadistic capos. Vittorio wasn’t going to let this girl face that. He didn’t know why, but he just couldn’t let it happen.

  “Eighty!” called a random voice comically from the back.

  “Do I hear eighty-five?” the announcer countered, his voice still grating on Vittorio’s nerves.

  Vittorio wrapped his hand tight around the handle of his paddle, ready to accept the eighty-five bid. He was fiercely determined to win, tunnel vision setting in on the sweet girl in the ugly bra. He just couldn’t see her in the life she’d have with Rocco. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t know why he needed to do something but he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

  “One-hundred thousand.” Rocco’s graveled old voice boomed. He was really stepping it up, obviously hoping to psych Vittorio out.

  Shit, Vittorio thought. He patted his jacket pockets. He felt the familiar thick rectangular bulge in his interior pocket, the hundred grand he carried ‘just in case’. He realized that was the only cash he had.

  “Do I hear one-hundred-five?” the announcer asked Vittorio, eyebrows raised, clearly excited by the volume of the betting.

  Vittorio opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he felt slight pressure nex
t to his thigh. Marcello had slid him a wad of bills wrapped neatly in a rubber band. Under the table, his associate flashed him three fingers, then wrapped his hand into a zero.

  Thirty thousand? Vittorio wondered.

  He hoped that was the case, he didn’t have time to waste. “One-hundred-thirty thousand!” Vittorio said.

  Immediately he regretted his impulsiveness. He showed his hand too quickly. What if Rocco countered his bet? He had nothing else to outbid that old fuck.

  “One-hundred-thirty going once!”

  Rocco smiled behind his dark glasses but said nothing.

  “One-hundred-thirty going twice!”

  He held his hands up in surrender, his mocking attitude palpable from two tables away.

  “Sold! For an incredible one-hundred-thirty-thousand dollars! Thank you to everyone who participated. You may now come forward and the staff will help you collect your prizes!”

  The blonde girl squinted at Vittorio from the stage, looking just as confused as he felt. She backed away slowly, turning and exiting the stage.

  Men around the room began to shift and stand, shaking hands and exchanging congratulations and goodbyes. The men who had purchased women made their way to the announcer’s table, while the cartoonish man quickly counted their thick wads of cash.

  “What was that all about?” Marcello asked, cocking a confused eyebrow at Vittorio.

  “I’m not sure. But thanks for the cash.” Vittorio said, still in disbelief that he had done what he had done.

  “You owe me, boss.” Marcello said, clearly probing without overstepping his bounds, which Vittorio appreciated. “She’s pretty, though.”

  “She is,” Vittorio agreed pointedly. “She’s not what we came for.”

  “Hey,” Marcello said, holding up his hands defensively. “No judgment here.”

  Vittorio knit his brows, frustrated. No matter his intention, word of what he did was bound to get out. He admitted to himself that the girl was sexy in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe something to do with that sweet little face. He wanted to fuck her—he’d be lying if he tried to claim otherwise. But there’d be hell to pay—if not from Anafesto being humiliated at his own auction, then from Vittorio’s own men.

  Well, Vittorio thought as he walked up to the man collecting the payments and flipped out his wad of cash. How do I square this circle?

  Chapter 12

  Sharon

  “She’s all yours.” Sharon’s kidnapper said as he hooked a hand around her elbow and thrust her towards the man that had bought her at the auction. She winced at his rough pushing and shot him a dirty look, which he returned with total indifference.

  As she stumbled forward, she came face to face with her new captor and his associate.

  Though she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she could have been bought by somebody worse. He had to be well over six feet tall, with a lean build and dark features that demanded obedience.

  “Thanks,” he told her kidnapper. He had an air of elitism about him, like her kidnapper was some tiny worm he couldn’t be bothered with. Sharon, with her bleeding heart, didn’t like selfish attitudes, but somehow it suited this man.

  “Careful,” the kidnapper said to him. “She’s more of a fighter than you think.”

  With that, he gave Sharon a salacious wink that made her want to vomit. Her head still throbbed from whatever it was he used to drug her. She just wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

  Her buyer glared the man down. Hatred and disgust shot out of his eyes like lasers. His friend stood next to him and wore the same nasty glare with stone-like intensity. The kidnapper flinched under the glares and slunk away, frowning, without another word.

  Finally, the buyer said. “Let’s go,” and hooked a finger around the zip tie that held her arms together.

  “What about my clothes?” Sharon asked as she followed his gentle tug out onto the street. Many of the streetlights on the block were out. Those that weren’t flickered uncertainly, casting a sketchy vibe across the entire rundown strip of road. The Brooklyn air was chilly, and no sane person wanted to be wandering around city sidewalks without shoes, especially not in New York.

  “Don’t worry about your clothes.” He told her dismissively.

  Sharon wondered what that meant.

  Even stranger, two men got out of a mid-size SUV that was idling across the street with the lights off. Both dark-haired, short and trim, the men could have been brothers. They jogged across the street and handed her buyer a set of car keys. He thanked them and they jogged away just as quick, got in the SUV and waited, watching.

  Her buyer clicked the key fob. A sleek black car that had been neatly tucked into a small lot across the street beeped and flashed its headlights.

  “Come on,” he instructed her.

  His voice was a deep baritone, and if this had been happier circumstances, Sharon would have found it attractive as hell.

  “Uh, okay,” Sharon said, tentatively picking her way across the cool, jagged asphalt with her naked feet.

  “Jesus,” he grumbled, still seeming annoyed.

  In one motion, he swept her quite literally off her feet and into his strong arms. Sharon felt her panic cease just a bit as he carried her across the street. Somehow, being in his arms, rocking with the motion of his strong body as he strode with long steps, felt safer than she would have expected. He opened the passenger door of the black Mercedes, gingerly dropped her into the impeccably clean leather seat, and then closed the door.

  Chapter 13

  Sharon

  Sharon took a deep, shaky breath. She still couldn’t fully process that this man was her new… owner. She had never really had a serious boyfriend, much less be owned by anyone. What’s he going to do to me? She asked herself, and almost immediately, the terrible answer surfaced and she shuddered.

  As he made his way around the front of the car, she started thinking. She couldn’t outrun him, especially not without shoes. If she screamed or tried to get someone’s attention, who would even help her?

  Oh God, she wondered. What if he has a gun? She’d seen him patting down his jacket pockets in the auction. Was that what he had been looking for? She never had to prepare for something like this. Should she be compliant? Would that lessen the chance of him killing her?

  But it wasn’t death she was worried about, she realized as her stomach turned; it was her body. She remembered something from her Psych 101 class—something about trying to humanize yourself to your captors to make them less likely to hurt you.

  The man climbed in the driver’s seat of the car. Might as well give it a try. Sharon thought.

  “I…” she started nervously. “I… uh… I’m Sharon.”

  His face didn’t even change as he turned the key and started the car.

  “And look, here’s the thing… I know you just, um, technically bought me… but the thing is I really don’t belong here. I don’t have money to pay you back. But, if you just let me call my parents, I’m sure we can figure something out. They’re probably really worried about me and…”

  “Stop.” He unzipped his jacket, tossed it into the back seat and fiddled with the heater, all without looking at Sharon.

  “Okay,” she said obediently. A nervous shiver snaked down her spine.

  He put the car in gear and began to navigate roads Sharon had never seen before. She tried to look at street signs, but the windows were tinted dark and the poor street-lighting made it almost impossible to read. She started counting the turns they made but eventually realized she was totally lost. She had never spent much time in Brooklyn outside of Williamsburg, so it hardly mattered how many turns they made.

  What direction were they even going in? Sharon had no idea. Eventually, she realized he had started driving them back towards Manhattan. The zip tie bit in to the tender, pinkish flesh around her wrists and she shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to him, feeling totally exposed in just her underwear while he w
as fully clothed.

  The energy in the car was tense and silent until he slid the Mercedes smoothly onto the interstate. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m Vittorio. Vittorio Contarini.”

  Was it a good or bad thing that he had told her his name? Was he going to kill Sharon now? But wait, she thought. His last name sounded vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “Hi, Vittorio.” Sharon wriggled awkwardly, not sure what else to say.

  “Relax,” he told her. “I’m not gonna keep you in my sex dungeon and fuck you until you’re raw.”

  “You’re not?” Sharon asked, hope rising in her chest.