Page 2 of Claimed By Daddy
Our father’s reign is over… But ours is just beginning.
“Stay?” I grumble, frantically brushing my hair from my face to find my brother leaving the room with two other men. After pushing myself from the deep cushions of the dark gray couch and to my feet, I quickly pad barefoot across the cool hardwood floor after them. “What am I? A fucking dog.”
As I round the corner and step into the front hallway, the door clicks shut. I grip the knob and pull, but they’ve locked it. I reach for the deadbolt, only to find there isn’t one. My hand slides along the cold steel loft-style door for a moment—not finding a single way to unlock it—and I anxiously pull the knob again, to no avail. My heart races and I panic,terrified that my brother is going to lock me away worse than my father did.
“Cian?” I slam my hand against the door so hard that pain radiates across my palm. On the other side of the steel, I hear the distinct ding of an elevator. The elevator door slides shut in the hallway and deep, muffled voices echo in my ears as everything falls silent and I stare blankly at the door.He wouldn’t do this to me…I pound on hard metal. “Cillian! Please! Don’t lock me in here!”
My screams go unanswered, and I stand frozen, staring at the door. Breathing out slowly, I try to wrap my head around what the hell just happened.Why would he leave me here instead of taking me to the meeting with Father?This late dinner was so important toour father, and there is no way Cillian would want to endure the wrath that is going to come from not delivering me to it as planned. It just doesn’t make sense.
But locking me in his apartment? That takes the cake. Cillian has watched me survive in my father’s prison—a figurative one, at least sinceMamdied—nearly my entire life. Cameras watching my every move, bodyguards at every turn, and never having a moment of privacy—ensuring I stayed my father’s perfect, innocent little girl. Cillian was the only person who hated it as much as I did. Of all people, he’s the last one I ever expected to lock me away.Apparently, I thought wrong…As I lean my forehead against the cool steel, I angrily exhale, “Fuck you, Cillian.”
My hand lingers on the door when I push back from it, my fingertips dusting along the smooth metal as I turnto face the apartment. So caught up in trying to escape that I didn’t realize it at first, but this isn’t the same apartment I’ve visited Cillian at before.
Where the hell am I?
Tentatively walking back in the direction I came from, my eyes scour over the wide-open living space. This place is massive. Far too big—and probably expensive—for just Cillian.
The rich, dark navy cabinets and matching subway tile in the kitchen gleam under the soft light, blending seamlessly into white granite countertops.This is not the kitchen of a man who hasn’t cooked a meal in his life.It’s immaculate—pristine and sterile. It feels like a show apartment—meant to be impressive—not a place to be lived in. I run my fingers over the countertop, tracing the veins in the stone, as my gaze wanders to the living room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, giving a breathtaking view of Manhattan’s skyline. With my hand dragging along the cool sheet of glass, I peer through it into the night on the other side. The lights on the other side of the window shimmer just enough to illuminate the terrace. The grand patio looks like it wraps around the entire floor.
This place might be bright and airy when the sun is shining into it, but under the cloak of darkness, the room is practically cavernous. Dark gray walls. Coordinating charcoal couches. Even the pool table is a black frame covered with a slate felt. The only warmth in the vast space comes from therich wood of the tables and the bronze light fixtures hanging from the high ceiling.
What is this place? A fucking villain’s lair? Have we not heard of color?
A wrought iron spiral staircase twists up toward the second floor. Unable to stop myself, I walk toward it.If Cillian didn’t want me to wander, he would’ve tied me to the couch… right?My hand runs along the smooth railing, and the soft thud of my footsteps is barely audible as I climb the staircase. A hallway stretches before me when I reach the top—one door directly in front of me and two more at either end.
I feel like an intruder and contemplate going back downstairs to wait for Cillian, but curiosity has taken hold.I want to know where the hell I am.Turning to my right, I walk down the hallway, the wood floor creaks beneath my feet as I reach the room at the end of the hall.
After pushing open the door, I hesitate for a moment before stepping into a massive bedroom. The large, dark bed frame faces the massive windows, matching those on the main floor. The white bedding is meticulous—the pillows arranged so neatly it’s as if no one actually sleeps here.
I take a few more steps, finding myself in the attached closet. It’s massive, almost the size of the bedroom itself. Row upon row of athletic sneakers—more shoes than I own—and crisp, polished suits hang neatly in place. These definitely aren’t Cillian’s belongings. The shoes are too flashy, the suits too luxurious.Nothis modest style.These belong to someone else—someone with a taste for excess, someone who’s concernedwith vanity.Someone vastly different from anyone I’ve ever seen my brother spend time with.
Being polite, I flip off the lights and step out of the room, making my way back to the one at the top of the staircase. The difference between the two is stark. The walls are lighter—a silvery gray instead of the deep charcoal that coats most of this apartment. Curtains cover most of the windows, shielding the space from the unwanted eyes in the adjacent buildings.
The bed is covered in a dark duvet, and the bedside lamp gives off a soft, warm glow, casting faint shadows along the walls. Beneath it, a small stack of books sits on the nightstand—most of them read a handful of times, the covers creased and worn. I lift a soft, leather-bound copy of Immanuel Kant’sCritique of Pure Reasonand immediately recognize Cillian’s taste in literature.His boring taste. Bookshelves line the wall, likely full of more philosophical and non-fiction books.
Curiosity piqued, I move to the last door at the other end of the hall. It creaks open, and I’m greeted with the first room in this apartment that actually feels lived in. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling in this room, too. A platform bed has been shoved into the corner of the room, the gorgeous panoramic view of the city shimmering below. The dark covers of the bed are thrown back, revealing twisted black satin sheets beneath them.Satin? Really? Who actually sleeps on those?
The room opens to a massive closet full of custom Italian suits, shirts, and dark shelves lined with expensive men’s dress shoes—Ferragamo, Gucci, Louboutin. When I pull opendrawers, I find ties—silk, of course—rolled so perfectly they could be on display in an upscale custom men’s clothing store.
The valet holds more rings, watches, and cufflinks than any man could ever need. Tucked into the corner is a small, mangled piece of metal, bent almost beyond recognition. Picking it up, I turn it over in my hand before realizing it’s a bullet. I put it back as I found it quickly, flip off the lights, and leave the room.
What kind of secret friends are you living with, Cillian?
My curiosity—and exploration—has only left me with more questions. Questions that I can’t answer on my own. Ones I really need my brother to come back for. After grabbing some dry treatise on the meaning of life—something he probably finds fascinating—from Cillian’s room, I head back downstairs.
I help myself to a bottle of wine from the small fridge under the counter in the kitchen and curl up on the couch. Sipping at the bitter Pinot Noir, I thumb through the pages of the book resting in my lap. But with everything else on my mind—and how boring I find the words sprawled on the pages—it does little to hold my attention.
Hours tick by as I wait for my brother and his friends to return, and the buzz of the city below the apartment fades to a soft hum. With the warmth of the wine lulling me to sleep, I find myself struggling to stay awake. A struggle I’m not going to win.
I’ve washed the last of the physical blood from my hands, but the metaphorical claret still stains my skin. Following Cillian and Nikolai through the dimly lit warehouse, I step over our fathers’ bodies as we collect every last shred of evidence that could link us to their murders. We rid the scene of bullet shells and fingerprints—erasing every trace of us ever being in this room.
The reality of what we’ve just done starts to settle in as I flick off my gloves and shove them into my pocket.We’ve made our mark. We’ve been preparing for this for weeks, moving pieces like a game of chess—a discreet location, a secret meeting, and a mafia execution that will go down in history.
“All right,” Cillian mutters, slipping the last of the shells into a bag, his face emotionless. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Nikolai doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the bottle of vodka we toasted with off the table and takes another swig. “It already has our DNA on it. Might as well bring it with us.” He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
