His To Claim: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  Franco sighs and rests his face in his hands.

  He stays like that for a long time.

  I open my mouth to tell him to hurry up, but Aida shoots me a wait-and-see look. She’s the only person who could make me listen in a moment like this.

  I sigh darkly and wait.

  Finally, Franco begins to speak, his voice low, rumbling.

  “When Aida was first born, a man in a black suit wearing black sunglasses – basically a government-looking motherfucker – he came to me with a photograph of Aida in her crib. There was a man standing over it with a knife, wearing a mask, just staring at the camera. He told me that no matter where I ran, no matter what I did, they’d always be able to get their hands on Aida and hurt her. They scared the shit out of me, that’s the truth. So when they came to me and told me to split away from you, Arturo, I felt like I had no choice.

  “For years, they controlled my business, they controlled me. Whenever I tried to break away, they’d record themselves watching Aida, a sniper scope trained on her head. They’d always keep me in line.”

  He makes a choking noise like he’s fighting off tears.

  “I didn’t want to go along with any of it,” he growls. “But I felt like I had no choice. For years, it was simple. Just give them a portion of my profits. But lately, they’ve wanted to make a power play on the whole city. That’s why they killed your men and wrote that message. They want us at war, Arturo, so they can come in and pick up the pieces.”

  My head reels with all of it.

  I always thought he left because he wanted to be the boss.

  I never dreamed he was forced to.

  I look at Aida and see that she’s clearly just as shocked, her mouth hanging open.

  “But who are they?” I murmur. “Who the fuck are they, Franco?”

  “I don’t know their official name,” he says. “Maybe they’re FBI. Maybe they’re CIA. They just call themselves the Peacekeepers. They’ve got contacts in the military, in the police, everywhere—”

  “So have I,” I snarl. “If you came to me years ago, I could’ve found them. We could’ve gone after them together.”

  “And risk my daughter’s life?” Franco roars, glaring at me, eyes bloodshot and pain-red. “I couldn’t. I’m only telling you now because they crossed a fucking line. Taking my daughter.”

  “Don’t worry about these Peacekeepers,” I snarl. “Whoever they are, I won’t let them touch Aida. I won’t let them hurt her, ever. You have my word on that.”

  Franco flinches. “Why do you care so much?”

  I take a breath and look at Aida, waiting to see if she wants to take the lead here. But her face has drained of color, her lips trembling.

  She looks more frightened now than she did when we were talking about murder and kidnapping.

  I can’t help myself. I reach across and take her hand in mine, feeling her anxiety-fueled sweat. I grip onto her firmly and give her hand a squeeze, letting her know that I’m here for her.

  I’ll always be here for her.

  For the rest of our lives.

  “Franco, I’ve claimed—”

  Suddenly my vision goes blurry and my throat starts to close up.

  I try to stand, but my legs have turned to smoke, collapsing beneath me.

  I fall onto my knees and reach out for Aida, wanting – needing – to grab her, to protect her.

  Smoke is filling the room.

  Franco’s men – and my men – have already collapsed, their eyes falling shut.

  Aida slumps from her chair and lands on her side, her mouth open as though she’s mid-speech, but there’s no noise apart from the thump-thump of my heartbeat in my ears.

  I fight the smoke, the tiredness, my limbs heavy, my chest getting tight.

  “A-A-Aida,” I groan, but my lover’s name comes out twisted, hardly a word at all.

  Finally, I can’t fight it anymore.

  I collapse onto my back, staring up at the gutted patchwork of the ceiling.

  At first, I think it’s a giant insect, its eyes large and black, reflecting myself back at me.

  Then I realize it’s a gas mask, and that the man is holding a gun.

  He aims it at my face.

  “This one’s still awake.”

  His voice is a robotic echo coming from a million miles away.

  “Should I put him out of his misery?”

  “No, that’s Arturo Amato, we need him …”

  My eyelids collapse.

  My ears shut off.

  I drift away on a sea of night black water.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aida

  I wake with someone jabbing me in the base of the spine with a sharp metal object, keeping it held there, causing me to squirm into consciousness. I blink and look around the dark room, everything hazy, my brain feeling foggy.

  After a few disoriented moments, I realize I’m tied to a chair, the harsh metal of it jabbing into my body. I try to move my hands, but metal clamps secure them in place, big chunky pieces of metal that wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault. My ankles are secured in the same way.

  I’m trapped.

  “Arturo?” I call, my chest seizing at the thought that he’s dead. “Arturo?”

  “I’m here,” he growls from the other side of the room.

  I blink away the sticky fog and peer across the room. A tiny shred of light comes from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, letting me see that he’s naked apart from his boxer shorts. His muscular giant’s body is pulled taut, his hands tied above his head and his ankles tied up below, like a skewer of meat laid vertically.

  It must be painful, his joints being tugged on like that, but he just grits his teeth, staring over at me.

  “Your father’s behind you,” he says. “In a chair like yours. They did this to me when I woke up and started fighting the bastards. Cowards had to use tasers. Are you hurt, Aida?”

  I blink away tears – they won’t help me now – and shake my head.

  “No, not badly,” I say.

  With him strung up like that, flecks of blood on his face and his naked torso, it doesn’t seem worth mentioning the discomfort of the chair.

  “What’s happened?” I ask.

  “These Peacekeeper bastards is my guess,” Arturo snarls. “Aida, you need to know that I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’ll die before I do. Okay? You need to understand that. Because I—”

  Because you love me? Is that what you were going to say?

  But his words are cut short.

  Suddenly the room floods with light, a double door crashing open to the left and sending swathes of blinding yellow surging in.

  Behind me, I hear Dad stir. “What the fuck?” he groans.

  Figures appear in the door, walking quickly toward us.

  I can’t count how many there are, but all of them are wearing masks that cover their faces and heavy military-looking gear, jackets, and cargo pants that wouldn’t look out of place in a war zone.

  I don’t see any guns out in the open, but I’ve got no doubt they’re under those jackets, ready to be drawn and fired at any moment.

  Only one man doesn’t wear a mask, the one standing at the head of the group of faceless goons. He’s tall and muscular, wider even than Arturo, but he looks bloated like he got those muscles from needles and not lifting weights. He’s bald and his cold eyes flit around the room, from Arturo to me to Dad, never settling.

  “The three musketeers, eh?” he chuckles, his voice far more high pitched than I expected. It’s like a high school bully’s sniggering tenor. “Seems you three have been sharing quite a few home truths recently. Isn’t that right, Franco? Been talking a little too much, haven’t you?”

  “You bugged me,” Dad growls.

  “Of course I did,” the man says, head tilted at the darkness behind me – at Dad – as though he’s stupid. “What sort of idiot wouldn’t bug you, my man? Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

 
; “Now what?” Arturo snarls.

  Even with his hands wrenched above his head and his ankles tied, he exudes the protective energy of my savior, his dark eyes flooded with intensity, his muscles pulsing against his bare skin, as though any second he’s going to go completely werewolf.

  He looks like a beast ready to tear these people apart.

  “Mr. Amato, you’re not in charge anymore.”

  “Who are you?” Arturo snaps. “Who are the Peacekeepers?”

  “The Peacekeepers?” the man laughs. “That was just a silly name I gave to your dim-witted friend. We’re Uncle fucking Sam, Mr. Amato. We’re the men who do what we want when we want to who we want. We’re the darkness. We’re the—”

  “Is this a rehearsed speech?” I laugh, hoping to see him squirm. I can’t stand the way he’s glaring at Arturo, like any second he’s going to pounce on him. “Because it sounds really, really rehearsed. Not to mention cheesy. We’re the darkness. Give me a break.”

  The man wheels on me. Just past his bulky body, I see Arturo flinch in his bindings, straining with everything he has.

  The man’s faceless goons stand off to the side, clearly waiting for their boss to give them an order. They could be robots for all their lack of movement.

  “Does insulting me really seem like a good idea right now, little lady?” the man snaps.

  “Am I supposed to be scared of a man who won’t even tell me who he is?” I goad, even as fear lances through me, even as Arturo’s eyes flare at me, telling me to stop. “A cowardly steroid-head who’s too scared to say who he works for. Ooh, I’m so scared—”

  He leaps across the room, snatching a gun from under his jacket with more speed than I ever would’ve dreamed from a man as big as him, from a man bigger even than Arturo.

  He brings the barrel of the gun to my cheek, stroking it with the cold metal, sending hateful shivers up and down my body. The sensation is like a sick caricature of the way Arturo makes me shiver, tickling hands replaced with scratching fingernails.

  “Oh, nothing to say now?” the man grins. “That’s strange. You were just so talkative. And if you care that much, I’ll tell you. It’s not like you’ll be alive long enough to share it. I’m Marty fucking Johnson, ladies and gents, one of the top FBI agents this nation has to offer. But why be a good guy, or a bad guy, when you can be both? You see …”

  He leans in closer, pushing the barrel firmly against my face. I want to be brave, but the closeness of the weapon makes me tremble, my heart thundering in my chest.

  Every instinct I have screams at me to get away, but I can’t.

  The metal bindings bitting into my ankles and wrists.

  “I’m one smart motherfucker,” he growls. “I saw a weakness in the government. I saw there were ways to exploit it. And I used that weakness to build myself an army, an empire. I created the name Peacekeepers, but it’s just me. I’m the army. I’m everything. Little lady, you should speak to me with some respect, because you’re speaking to a fucking god.”

  I cringe away from him as much as I can, but he just casually moves the gun, always keeping the barrel pointed at me.

  The revelation swims hotly around my mind.

  A rogue FBI agent who created a criminal empire.

  It would make quite the story.

  But he wouldn’t have told us if he thought we were going to be alive to tell it.

  Suddenly, he stands up, throwing his head back and laughing. It sounds unhinged, as though he’s on more than steroids.

  Laced with an undercurrent of rage, an eerie energy permeates the room, like violence, like any second he could erupt.

  “I guess we can make this easy,” the man says, strolling over to Arturo. He points the gun at his head. “Give me the coordinates of all your secret warehouses. I know you’ve got them.”

  Arturo didn’t say anything when the man – Marty – had the gun to my head. I catch his eye now, and then I realize why.

  We scream at each other silently.

  If he shows this man that he cares about me, he’ll use me as a tool to extract information from Arturo.

  He’ll torture me.

  My man always protecting me.

  “You’re a fool,” Arturo sighs, a dead calm falling over him.

  It’s like all the fire inside of him has suddenly cooled to knife-sharp ice.

  “A fool?” Marty cackles. “Want me to get the taser again? You sounded pretty damn foolish when you were croaking and flopping around, pal.”

  “A fool,” Arturo repeats. “You think I’ll tell you about my business. You think I’ll let you hurt my friend. You think I’ll let you hurt my woman.”

  Arturo stares at me, eyes hard, brimming with meaning, as though he’s roaring at me that everything’s going to be okay.

  All I have to do is trust him.

  All I have to do is love him.

  And I do—both of them.

  I love you, I scream with my eyes, hoping he understands what I’m saying, hoping he feels the same.

  The man turns to glance at me, a cruel smirk of realization touching his lips—

  And then Arturo strikes, slipping out of the binds on his hand.

  He must’ve wriggled his hands out of them at some point, and now he’s been holding himself up.

  He smashes him across the jaw as he falls – his feet still tied – and then lands atop him.

  He elbows him violently and snatches his gun, and then turns and brings the gun to the metal bolt tying his ankles.

  The gunshot rings through the room, the flare blinding me.

  I close my eyes, the ringing moving through my head.

  I try to lift my hands to cover my ears and kill some of the sound, but the bindings won’t let me.

  Spots of yellow flicker across my vision.

  Finally, it clears, the ringing dies down.

  I let out a scream when I realize what’s happening.

  All the faceless men have surrounded Arturo, their fists flying, knives going hiss in the air.

  I can’t even see Arturo, the wall of men is so thick, all of them clambering to get close to him and have their chance to hurt him.

  Marty is slowly climbing to his feet, blinking as though he doesn’t know where he is.

  He stumbles and then rights himself, slowly turning to the mass of violence just a few feet away from him.

  I feel so helpless.

  I scream.

  I rage.

  But there’s nothing I can do.

  Then two of the masked men grunt and wrestle each other to the ground.

  I watch them, wondering why they turned on each other, but then I realize that they haven’t.

  Arturo has thrown them into each other.

  Arturo spins out of the group, blood-flecked and near-naked, and then launches into a savage series of strikes that are so fast it’s difficult to believe they’re real.

  He smashes the masked men with his fists, the crunch of their bones breaking filling the room.

  They cry and scream and throw themselves at him, whistling their knives through the air.

  Arturo is always just out of their reach, dancing around their attacks.

  One man pulls a gun.

  Marty roars, “No, we need him alive.”

  But this man isn’t listening.

  He levels the gun at Arturo—and then roars when Arturo grabs it and wrenches it from his hand, smashing it across his mouth and causing him to make choking, gagging noises as he collapses into a pit of his own blood.

  Soon there are more masked men on the floor than standing, and Arturo doesn’t even look tired.

  He just throws himself forward, a whirlwind of violence, grabbing a man’s head and bringing it down to kiss his knee with a brutal snap of bone-on-bone contact.

  He spins out of the exchange, catching an advancing man with a wild-looking spinning elbow.

  Finally, he scoops the gun up from the ground and leaps over to Marty, cracking him in the neck wi
th it and then spinning around, using Marty’s body as a human shield as he brings the gun to his head.

  “Enough,” Arturo growls at the battered-and-bruised men, his voice firm, that of my protector.

  I feel my womb give a swelling sizzle of victory.

  I try to tell her to calm down – this isn’t over yet – but she isn’t in the mood to listen.

  “Throw your weapons on the floor, all of you,” Arturo snaps.

  When they hesitate, he digs his fist into Marty’s side, causing the man to wriggle and let out a whiny prey noise of pain.

  “Do it,” he whines. “Do it now.”

  Slowly, the men start to toss their weapons down, a sea of guns and knives and knuckle dusters landing on the floor with a clang-clang-clang like metal rain.

  “In the corner, on the floor,” Arturo snaps, aiming the gun at the men, keeping his other hand around Marty’s arm so the man can’t try anything. He’s wincing just from the touch alone.

  The masked men do as he says, and then Arturo pats down Marty’s pockets and comes out with a cell phone.

  He shoves Marty roughly forward. He falls and lands on top of his men. A couple of them catch him and then he slides to the floor, looking defeated, and pathetic.

  Arturo keeps the gun trained on them, everything in him focused as he makes the call.

  “It’s me,” he says. “I need backup. I don’t know where I am. Track this cell phone.”

  He kneels down slowly, placing the phone on the floor, and then just stares at the men, solidly, predatorily.

  I sense that he won’t turn to me or Dad until he knows that we’re all safe and are going to get out of here alive.

  “Track the cellphone?” Marty groans, trying for a joking tone. But the effect is ruined by the pain quivering in his voice. “Pretty fancy for the Mob.”

  “That wasn’t the Family,” Arturo snarls. “That was my contact with the FBI. I don’t think he’s going to be too happy when he finds out what you’ve been up to, Marty. No, I think you’re going away for a damn long time.”

  Pride swells in my chest.

  Arturo could kill this man.

  But he’s doing the right thing.

  Marty swallows and opens his bloody mouth as if to speak, but then he closes it just as quickly as if he realizes he has nothing worth saying.