Claimed by the Don

by Brook Wilder

  His height and intimidating stare usually enough, but the sleeves of tattoos curling around his thickly muscled arms were what really stole the show. He’d been told by one of his crazy Italian grandmothers that his aura was black and off-putting. Those were some of the only few lucid words of an old lady slipping into dementia, and Vittoria thought they suited him just fine. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of letting anyone in, and his near-addiction to power was fueling a successful career in managing the fortunes of the Contarini Crime Family. He saw no need to change.

  Such was the life of a Mafia Don. He didn’t make his money in an office; he made it on behind abandoned warehouses reeking of sawdust and dried blood, and cleaned that money up in sticky bar booths under the cover of flashing lights and near-deafening music.

  Chapter 4

  Sharon

  “Because she is blonde, you jackoff,” the shorter driver, who was now sitting in the passenger seat, said.

  “No,” the taller man who snatched Sharon countered from the driver’s seat. “The one I got is blonde. Do you even fuckin’ know what blonde means?”

  Sharon heard the men bicker as she woke up. Still dizzy, she bumped around untethered in the back of the van. There were no seats, no windows, just a rough, cold, dirty floor. She tried to sit up but toppled back to the floor when the van lurched as it hit a pothole. She groaned, the sound muffled behind the tape binding her lips shut. Little bits of gravel dug into the soft skin of her upper arms and her face.

  The van slid smoothly to a stop, red light pouring through the windshield, and Sharon seized her chance. She maneuvered herself back on top of her own legs and sat up, surprised by the sharp stab of pain that cut behind her forehead. Disoriented by the position change, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes until the dizziness steadied and the pain lessened to a dull throb.

  She opened her eyes and she would’ve gasped if her mouth wasn’t taped shut.

  Three other women were crammed into the back of the van with her, all three bound in duct tape just like her.

  One of the woman sobbed hysterically. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths, snot bubbled in and out of her nose. Terrified tears smeared mascara down both her cheeks. Her frantic red eyes darted around wildly as though searching for a way out. She wore a tight tank top, a leather mini skirt and black boots. A silver heart-shaped locket hung around her neck. In her dazed state, Sharon’s thought the girl was probably very pretty if she would only calm down a bit.

  The other two girls sat stoically. They were both model-thin and wore heavy eye makeup. Their hair was teased and tousled, and they wore tight little clubbing dresses and expensive looking heels. They both rocked gently with the van. They didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t shake. Strangely, they just looked mildly irritated.

  Sharon shook her head, still feeling dazed. I am the only blonde, she realized. The crying girl and one of the quiet ones were definite brunettes. The other girl had just a few blonde highlights. So, what did that mean for her? Who was ‘Rocco’ and what did he do with these blondes he supposedly preferred? The more Sharon thought about it, the less she wanted to find out.

  The van made a hard right-turn, and sent Sharon sliding across the rough floor. She toppled into the other girls, grunting as she did so, the rough impact compounded her headache. The crying girl muffled-screamed as loudly as she could behind her tape and flooded her cheeks with a fresh wave of tears.

  “Woah!” The passenger called out. “The fuck you doin’ man? Thought you took the wheel because you were the ‘better driver!’”

  “The fuck you mean?” The driver asked.

  The passenger jerked an angry thumb at the back of the van. “Precious cargo,” the passenger reminded him. “You want NYPD pulling us over and taking a look in the back?”

  The driver glanced back and noticed the pile of bodies in the back. He registered the ugly weeping and groans.

  “Don’t be a pussy, NYPD ain’t gonna do shit.” the driver scoffed. Sarcastically, he called over his shoulder, “Sorry ladies! But I don’t want any of y’all to one-star me on Uber after, you hear?”

  Awkwardly, Sharon maneuvered herself back up to a seated position. The firm tape kept her arm pinned and there was no way she could maneuver her hands. She scooted back using her legs, and dug her heels into the floor to try and prevent herself from being dislodged again. Strands of mussed light-blonde hair fell into her tired blue eyes as the car raced through the busy streets of New York.

  Chapter 5

  Vittorio

  Almost exactly five minutes later, Marcello’s slick silver BMW pulled up in front of the Contarini-owned club. Vittorio had been there for pleasure that night, but the club often doubled as an office. He opened the passenger door of the idling silver car and folded his massive frame into the sleek leather seat and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “So where are the Anfestos holding this little auction of theirs?” Vittorio asked, rolling down the window to flick the smoking butt of his cigarette out the window.

  It soared into the mob of people trying to maneuver through the city streets, and he smiled when he heard a stranger yell in pain and surprise.

  “Brooklyn. That shitty club they own.” Marcello told him. “Tipsy’s or whatever.”

  Vittorio had been there before. It was a seedy little place, almost as seedy as the Anafesto bastard who owned it. The Anafesto and Contarini families had been at war for as long as Vittorio could remember.

  He never remembered his father, the old patriarch of the Contarini, ever having a single positive word to say about them. The old man had passed a year before, which made Vittorio the youngest head of any of the Five Families. His personal beef with the Rocco, the patriarch of the Anafestos had tension brewing between the Five Families and he wasn’t excited at the prospect of running into the old snake.

  He pulled up the address and texted it to one of his trusted guys. Bring a car here and wait outside. May need some help, he added cryptically.

  Which car? The guy texted back.

  Doesn’t matter, Vittorio typed. He had a veritable showroom of luxury cars to choose from, which he loved. Being a thirty-year-old Mafia Don wasn’t easy, but it came with some undeniable perks. Cars, status, and women. Were it not for the fact that the Anafestos wanted to bury him six feet underground, things couldn’t be better.

  Ever since Vittorio’s father passed, the Anafestos had become bolder. They started encroaching on the territories and businesses managed by the other families. And recently, they started crossing some serious fucking lines—including jumping into the sex trade.

  Sex trading wasn’t a new part of the mob game, but those Anafesto bastards were starting to take it to a whole new level. They were targeting the wives, sisters, and daughters of the other crime families. They’d snatch the girls on their way home from school or work, sometimes even taking them right out in daylight. Once sold, there wasn’t much anyone could do to find them. The business didn’t exactly keep a paper trail.

  Vittorio couldn’t have that happen to the Contarini Family. The worst thing for a Don was having his soldiers breathing down his neck about their own families getting hurt in the crossfire. That was how crime families die. So he made sure he was present every time the Anafestos held one of their auctions—to make sure that they weren’t crossing lines.

  Because the moment they do, they’re going to have some real problems, and there’s going to be hell to pay.

  Chapter 6

  Sharon

  She felt more numb than afraid, and for a moment she wondered if it was because of whatever it was that they drugged her with, or if it was because her body had run out of adrenaline. Every tiny bump in the van vibrated up into her skull. She met the eyes of one of the pretty, dressed-up girls, who just gave her an unreadable look.

  She wanted to know where they were going, but the bright flashes of streetlights and stoplights set off new needles of pain behind her eyes when she look
ed up toward the windshield. She had no idea how long she’d been passed out. She hadn’t fully explored enough of New York to recognize the streets by landmarks so she had no way of working out where she might be.

  Lolling her head back against the cool hard wall of the van, she let her eyes close. How did this happen? Sharon thought sadly. What did I do to deserve this? She’d always been kind, always been generous. Now, she had no idea what was going to happen to her.

  I may not even live through the night, she realized grimly. Her eyes welled with tears again.

  The van continued to rumble along. Had it been twenty minutes? An hour? Longer? Sharon had no idea. She thought of her family, wondering if she’d ever see them again. She thought of her unfinished degree, her unmet goals. Hell, she hadn’t even had a real boyfriend yet!

  Eventually, one of the men said, “Take a left right up here.”

  After a slow, careful left turn, the van swerved and bumped up over a curb. The driver parked the van, and then killed the engine.

  “Alright ladies,” the driver turned around. He draped a casual arm over the seat and smiled, revealing his gapped, yellowed teeth. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be, okay? I’ve had a very long night and I swear to God, if you make it longer.” He tightened his hand into a fist.

  Fear began to bubble inside Sharon again. Finally, she was about to come face to face with whatever fate had in store for her. She already knew she wanted to see none of it.

  The crying brunette made a pitiful sound. The defiance in her eyes impressed Sharon. Pissing these guys off didn’t seem like a smart move.

  Snaggletooth dropped the smile and threw his hand up. “Bitch, what did I just say? Stop making that noise right now. You’re starting to piss me the fuck off!”

  She narrowed her hazel eyes even more and muffle-screamed back at him, louder than before.

  “Okay, so that’s the way it’s gonna be.” He sighed, turned…

  … and pulled out a switchblade from his pants. “One last time! Stop. Making. That noise. Or I’ll fuckin’ carve your face up. I don’t give a fuck!”

  She stopped her screaming then, and her defiance dissolved into a look of shock and horror. Sharon fought the overwhelming wave of nausea in her gut. She’d never been as scared as she was now in her entire life.

  The seconds dragged by as both men exited the van and came around to open the back. They pulled the doors wide open. “Everybody out!”

  The guy with the switchblade snatched the crying girl by her ankles and pulled her out of the van. The two oddly indifferent looking girls scooted their way out and Sharon followed closely behind, hoping to avoid being tossed around like the other girl. How could they be so calm with all of this? Sharon wondered. Did they have rich daddies who would pay their ransoms? Had this already happened to them before? She couldn’t believe this was even happening to her, much less imagine having to go through it ever again.

  Switchblade man hoisted the crying girl like a sack of flour, roughly tossing her onto the pavement. She began to weep in a pitiful heap on the ground. He took her by the crook of her elbow, and hauled her—quaking—onto her feet. She continued to whimper and cry, like a beaten animal. He cupped her face in his hand, squeezed her cheeks hard, and brought her eye-to-eye with himself as he waved the knife in front of her face.

  “Bitch, what did I just fucking say?”

  He dropped her face and the girl’s head dropped in shame and sadness. She struggled to maintain her footing but was otherwise silent. He scanned the girls one by one with dark, predatory intensity.

  “Alright, good enough,” he said with a shrug. “Take ’em in.”

  Chapter 7

  Sharon

  The shorter man cocked a pistol he pulled out of his waistband and pointed it at the girls. At the sight of the cold metal body of the gun, Sharon felt any hope she still harbored of escape drain away. Her breath came in uneven waves; she fought to maintain a steady rhythm and avoid panicking.

  Both men corralled the girls down a narrow flight of concrete stairs in a back alley. At the base of the stairs, switchblade man fiddled with the round knob. He carried a roll stacked with dozens of keys but couldn’t seem to find the key he was looking for as he fumbled through them. The man with the gun stood at the top, his arm rigid as he leveled his aim at the girls’ backs.

  The maroon door they stood in front of had seen better days; the paint was chipping off in heavy flakes and it gave a loud, obnoxious squeak when the man finally unlocked it and pushed it open.

  The hallway it led to was narrow, bland and poorly lit. The linoleum floors were curled and stained in the corners, the concrete walls were scribbled with illegible graffiti. The greenish fluorescent lights flickered as the men pushed the taped-up girls along. The hall smelled musty, almost like sawdust. They passed two plain white doors before stopping at another a third with a plastic gold star tacked to it at eye-level.

  “Here,” the man said, fumbling with the knob on the starred door.

  He flicked on a light and revealed a dressing room.

  A long table ran the length of the wall to Sharon’s right, which was almost entirely made of mirror. Along the top of the mirror, there was a neat row of vanity lights with dimming pinkish bulbs, which cast the room in an oddly romantic energy that felt all wrong. Off to her left, there were silver racks stacked with mismatched plastic and metal hangers, some empty, some holding cheap, filmy bits of lingerie.

  Sharon’s lips burned as one of the goons took the edge of the duct tape and tore it off in one quick swipe. The man held her forearms in front of her and worked at the sloppy tape job with a pair of scissors, the tough tape pulling out several of her fine, blonde arm-hairs as he yanked it away.

  Maybe if I can just grab those scissors... Sharon thought. She could maybe stab the guy or at least threaten him into taking her home. She continued to mull it over as he cut loose the other girls from their tape as well. Don’t be stupid. The other guy has a gun. Another voice sounded in her head. So she stayed still—partly from the cool voice of logic but mostly from fear. Fear of the gun, and fear of what the men would do if she did try to fight back, kept her glued in place.

  One of the pretty girls rubbed at the raw skin on the corners of her lips where the man had yanked the tape off, but still said nothing. She kept her gaze just below eye level and this seemed to make the short, angry man happy.

  The taller man loomed by the closed doorway, almost daring one of the girls to try something with his alert, menacing gaze.

  Lastly, the short man tore the tape off the crying girl’s mouth. Immediately, she started screaming, “Take me home! Take me home, you son of a bitch, I want to go home!”

  Without hesitation or even as much as a flinch, the short man smacked her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Sharon winced at the sound as she watched the girl’s face whip sideways.

  The girl seemed shocked, or at least shocked enough to not struggle as he cut off the rest of her bindings.

  Switchblade man stepped forward. “Alright, listen up, bitches,” he said. “We got a lot of men out here ready to buy. So y’all best start looking sexy. Because if you don’t sell tonight, we’ll put you on the streets, where you’re gonna wish that you got bought.”

  With that, he gave them a sick wink, opened the door, and slipped out with the shorter man behind him. There was a muted click as they locked the door from the outside.

  Chapter 8

  Sharon

  “We have to get out of here!” The crying girl insisted.

  “Will you shut up already?” one of the pretty girls said—a redhead—shooting daggers from her perfectly made-up eyes.

  “What?” the crying girl asked, her eyes popping open and mimicking the surprise Sharon felt. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” the redhead girl snapped. “That all you’ve done is bitch this entire time and it’s getting on everybody’s nerves.”

  Crying girl squinte
d at her through her runny eyeliner and clumpy mascara. “Getting on everybody’s nerves? We’ve just been kidnapped by men who intend to sell us. Are you trying to tell me you’re just okay with that?”

  “This is my fourth sell-back,” the girl explained. “You get used to it.”

  Baffled, the crying girl looked to the other coolly composed girl.

  She just gave a little nod. “This is my third. Look, don’t worry. You’re pretty. Somebody is gonna pay for you.”

  “Believe me, you’re wasting your time if you think you’re going to escape,” the redhead added. “You heard what he said, they’ll put you to work on the streets if they catch you. But don’t think they won’t want to break you first. Really, it’s easier to just go with it.”