Page 32 of Claimed By Daddy

His palms resting on the table in front of him, Fitzgerald sneers, “End this? This is just getting started.”

“No.” Cillian shakes his head. “Whatever you all thinkthisis”—he gestures at their little gathering—“it won’t be going any longer than tonight.”

Fitzgerald leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “You think you’re the only ones with power? With connections? We have allies and resources.”

“You don’t.” I laugh smugly. “You know our networks ofallies and resources. Men who would sooner take their own lives than dare cross the three of us.”

The room is ungodly tense, the air thick with eluded threats. I step closer to them, and with my voice low but firm, I warn, “Make no mistake. This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. No one is going to stand in the way of what we’re building.” The silence that follows is deafening, his comrades exchanging glances and weighing their options—some clearly realizing that they don’t have a play here.

“Enz,” Nikolai shouts. My gaze shifts from Fitzgerald to the target Nikolai is aiming his rifle at, just in time to see him—Montano, one of my father’s trusted advisers—pulling the trigger of his pistol. The round hits me before I have a chance to react, knocking me to my ass on the concrete floor. Ignoring the searing pain in my chest, I raise my Glock and fire into the men above me. The loud pops echo around the building when Cillian and Nikolai join me in eliminating our threat.

The reverberations quieting, I lay my gun on the floor beside me and feel nervously at my aching chest. My finger dips into the bullet hole in my jacket. Pressing into it, the still-warm slug is lodged in the vest Cillian insisted I wear. “Thanks,” I painfully exhale to both Cillian for the vest and Nikolai for the warning.

Pushing myself from the cold, hard floor, the metallic stench of blood mixing with the musty mildew in the air is thick enough to coat my tongue. Fitzgerald’s lifeless body is slumped into the folding chair he fell back into. Montano’s is on the floor, blood pooling from beneath his chin andthe unsightly exit wound on the back of his head. Vasiliev and some guy whose name I’ll never know lie crumpled against the nearby wall, each with a clean set of double taps to the chest, leaving no doubt about Nikolai’s marksmanship.

Their bodies are still warm when I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and start snapping pictures. One of Fitzgerald’s face—jaw slack, eyes wide, and blood splatter across his face. One of Montano and the deep crimson pool I plan to leave him in. And a final one of the two men slumped against the wall.

The photos are clear—brutal and sharp—with no ambiguity about what happened here. Resistance to our family merger will not be tolerated. The Kings don’t negotiate—we execute swift judgment, fatally.

Cillian walks past me, wiping blood splatter from his face with a stained rag. “You got what you need?”

“Yeah.” I nod, swiping through the images.

The three of us head toward the exit, stepping over sticky smears on the concrete. “Send them tonight. Make it known.”

Oh, it will be known.

I flip through my contacts, adding a slew of burner numbers—former advisers, guards, and men who willfully bled for our fathers. I add anyone who might think they can exploit the power shift from the change in our family dynamic.

I attach the photos. No text—just the images. I hit send, giving them all a warning straight from hell.

The message will be received: Crossing The Kings is a death sentence.

No hesitation, no second thoughts.

I tuck the phone back into my pocket and step into the cool night air, the briskness cutting through my clothes. Nikolai lights a cigarette beside the G-Class, exhaling slowly as I approach. “They’ll either fall in line,” he pauses to take another long drag, “or it’ll further drive a rebellion.”

“Let them.” I open the door and slide into the passenger seat as Nikolai grinds the unfinished butt of his cigarette into the asphalt with his boot. “We’ll make examples of them, too.”

I scroll through my contacts as we drive back to the apartment. There’s one more warning I still need to send.

I call Vito Bonetti—my father’s former consigliere. The man who taught me how to field strip a Glock years before I learned how to drive a car. The father figure who made sure I knew from a young age that there are only three kinds of men in our world: useful, obedient, and dead.

The phone rings a handful of times before Vito answers. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission.”

“You’ve made quite the mess,” he muses. “And I’m not just talking about tonight.”

“That mess is what happens to men who cross us. You taught me that, Uncle Vito.”

“I did.” He sighs. “And you apparently have the balls to do what your father couldn’t.”

“I’m not my father,” I gruff.

“No, Enzolito. You’re worse.” The phone falls silent for a second, and I’m left uncertain if that’s an insult or a compliment. “So, what is this? A warning?”

“No. It’s a courtesy,” I insist.

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