Page 1 of Claimed By Daddy
“Where the fuck have you been?” I shout when the front door clicks open. After shoving from my stool at the kitchen island, the leather soles of my Ferragamo Oxfords slap against the hardwood floor as I storm toward the foyer. “The meeting is in twenty fucking minutes. We were supposed to leave five minutes ag?—”
A shrill scream—definitely not belonging to the extremely tardy Cillian who I’m berating—interrupts me. “Put me down, Cian!” As soon as I step around the corner and into the front hall, my eyes are immediately drawn to the perfectly round ass slung over his shoulder. Her fists pound hisback, and every flailing kick of her feet causes the tiny little black dress she’s wearing to inch further up her thick thighs.
Gritting his teeth and his knees buckling—likely a result of her foot connecting with his groin—he snarls, “For fuck’s sake! Would you fucking stop? I’m not going to hurt you.” He pushes past me carrying the still-screaming woman, and I follow behind him as he carries her deeper into the apartment. She continues to fight him with every step, her long copper hair swaying against the back of his pants and shrouding her face.
“What the actual fuck?” Nikolai huffs. “We’re bringing women here now? Oranyone,for that fucking matter?”
We don’t bring people here.Ever. It’s an unspoken rule between the three of us. Most men of our kind who keep a secret apartment in the city hide their mistresses in it. We keep this one to hide an even more forbidden indiscretion—our friendship. Outside these walls, Cillian O’Brien and Nikolai Romanov are the sons of rival families that I’ve been taught to hate my entire life. But in here, those same men are my brothers.Soon enough, they’ll be my family.
“If she’s for later, Cian, I’m gonna pass.” Nikolai disapprovingly shakes his head as Cillian walks past him. “I like my women feisty as fuck, but I also like them willing.”
With the girl still slung over his shoulder, Cillian abruptly turns on his heel. The heated flush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks burns a deep shade of crimson by the time he fists the front of Nikolai’s crisp, white shirt. His angry, narrowed eyes dart between me and Nikolai as he spits, “Evenif she were fucking willing, I’d fucking end you for trying to put yourmankycocks anywhere near her. Either of you.” He lets out a heavy exhale and shoves Nikolai away from him, muttering, “She’s my little sister.”
“I’m sorry? Your fucking what?” I exclaim, storming behind him—unable to withhold my anger—as he crosses the open space to the adjoining living room. “We are about to… And you brought your fucking sister here?”
“We’re late. We can talk about this later,” he gruffs, dropping the fiery redhead to the couch. With hair tousled over her face, she quickly clambers to her feet, and he lightly shoves her back into the cushions. “Stay,” Cillian demands like she’s a dog. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”
The three of us briskly walk from the apartment to the elevator, leaving the grumbling and unwelcome house guest behind. Waiting for the cab to arrive, I listen to her muffled screams and fists hammering against the front door as I anxiously tap my foot and glance down at my watch.7:22 p.m.There is no way we’ll make this meeting on time.We step into the cab when it arrives, and Nikolai slaps at the button for the parking garage. Staring at the rattling front door as the elevator closes, he grouses, “Really? Your fucking sister?”
“Later,” I huff with angered annoyance. I’m as pissed about this change in our meticulous plan as he is, but this isn’t the time. “We don’t need the fucking distraction. Not tonight.”Definitely not tonight…
Our heavy footsteps clap against the concrete and echo through the parking garage as we make our way toward my G-Class. I turn over the engine and slip the gear into reverse, glaring at Cillian in the rearview mirror. Meeting my stare, he grumbles, “I know I fucked up. I had no cho?—”
“Fucking later!” I shout, pulling into traffic. “We have twenty minutes until the biggest meeting of our family’s lives. Your sister isn’t what any of us need to be thinking about.”Not whatIneed to be thinking about.Tabling the dissension between us, we verify our strategy for tonight. While it might not be complicated—at least not from an execution standpoint—there is zero room for failure. If even one of us falters, we’re all fucked.
The SUV falls silent by the time we reach the meatpacking district of Chelsea. When I make a left toward our destination, I note four very out-of-place cars parked in front of the abandoned warehouse the moment I spot the building. My father’s prized Rolls Royce Ghost, a black Tahoe, a Bentayga, and a BMW Z4—the latter three I assume belong to Cillian’s and Nikolai’s fathers and their guest.
“They’re all here,” I mutter, more to myself than my brothers as I park in the alleyway. Being honest with myself, I didn’t expect all of them to show. A meeting between our three families is unheard of. One to discuss a joint business venture—like they’re doing tonight—is even more ludicrous. Apparently, the opportunity to make billions trumps decades of disdain.
For years, Cillian, Nikolai, and I have talked about how great it would be to merge our families. How strong and powerful we could be if we were working together instead of fighting each other at every turn. The three of us should bepleased with this turn of events. But not one of us supports this, at least not the venture our fathers are planning to enter into. By combining our family’s attributes—importing and exporting illegal goods, strip clubs, and massive networks of powerful people—all they’re seeing are the dollar signs that come from human trafficking. Not one of them is giving pause to think about the innocent lives that will be ruined.
We’ve individually shared our hesitations and objections with our fathers—only for them to fall on deaf ears and find ourselves reminded of our place.Not at the head and not yet our turn to make decisions.
My reminder came in the form of the back of my father’s hand crashing across my cheekbone as he spat, “You might have been groomed to take control, son, but this is still my fucking empire. Youwillcome to this fucking meeting. Youwillshake fucking hands with our enemies. And you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut while I make you more fucking money than you can ever spend.” He made it very clear that as long as he is in charge, I would be crossing a line that pushed my morality, whether I wanted to or not.
The three of us pause at the door to the warehouse, my gaze meeting Nikolai’s and then Cillian’s. Both their faces are stoic, but I know there’s faint hesitation hiding behind their eyes. I’m sure they can see the same tinge of it in mine. “My brothers,” Cillian exhales with a slight nod. Nikolai and I both echo his sentiment. With a deep breath, I pull open the door.
This is it…
It creaks loudly on the hinges, alerting our fathers to our arrival. The three of them—Tazio Roseti, Rian O’Brien, and Rurik Romanov—are seated around a dimly lit table with the fourth man in their business plan, an Armenian who is going to supply the women from overseas. Their eyes lift to watch us as we file into the dark space. All four of them rise from their seats almost in unison to greet us as we approach, and I vaguely hear the Armenian grumble, “I thought you were bringing your daughter.”
But I’m unable to pull my eyes from my father, his narrow gaze and clenched jaw letting me know my tardiness clearly angers him. He claps his hand around the back of my head, pulling me into an embrace of sorts when I reach him. His fingers dig into my flesh as he tightly grips my neck while harshly whispering into my ear, “You’re fucking late.”
“I know,” I return, grabbing my gun from the back of my waistband. Before I have a moment to second-guess myself, I shove it into his gut and squeeze the trigger. He gasps loudly against my ear, and I pull back to find a pained look of horror on his face as a deafening bang reverberates off the metal walls and through the massive space. I hold his conflicted gaze for a moment before hauling him back into me and squeezing the trigger again. “I wish I could say I was sorry, Papa.”
He pushes from my embrace and stumbles backward a few steps before slumping to the floor at Cillian’s feet. My father presses a hand to his bleeding gut. The thick claret liquid soaks through his otherwise pristine, pale blue shirt and oozes between his fingers as he clambers for the gun tucked into the waistband of his suit pants. Without hesitation, Cillian stepsaway from his father and raises his gun toward mine. I close my eyes as he fires a shot into my father’s chest. The room is in complete chaos—our fathers and the Armenian fighting for their lives from the floor—but all I hear are the sounds of heavy breathing, the sploosh of blood pumping from bullet wounds, and the thumping of my racing heartbeat.
Adhering to the plan, I round the table and step over Rian O’Brien. With my feet straddling his waist, I stare down at the near lifeless man. He glares up at me, pleading, silently asking to be spared. An ask I will not heed. I lift my gun and he parts his lips, blood spilling from them instead of words as I add another bullet to his chest.
Still standing over Rian’s body, I pump two rounds into Rurik. They aren’t needed. He’s already dead. But this was the plan—a bullet from each of us into our fathers. Each of us as guilty as the next in their murders. Cillian empties the rest of his clip into the Armenian.He deserved death as much as they did, but that many bullets into a dead man is fucking personal.
From my position beside the table, I stare down at the dead men splayed across the blood-soaked floor—the men who have ruled this city for decades. Their reign is now over.
“To my brothers,” Nikolai’s toast cuts through the silence that has filled the room. I turn to find him raising a bottle of vodka from the table into the air. He takes a swig and wipes his chin with the back of his hand as he passes it to Cillian.
Cillian takes the bottle from him and swallows back a couple of gulps. When he pulls the bottle from his mouth, vodkaspittle sprays from his lips when he speaks. “Ugh… fucking vodka… To my brothers.”
“To my brothers…” I echo, taking the extended bottle from Cillian. I throw back a shot, and the warm liquor burns down my throat and into my chest. “The Kings of New York City.”
