Page 48 of Claimed By Daddy

“Love it?” Cillian arches an eyebrow. “No. I’ve just developed an impressive level of tolerance and emotional numbness.”

“Therapy would be cheaper,” I jest, taking a sip of wine.

“I’m sure it would,” Nikolai agrees, raising his glass. “But it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as shooting people.” All I can do is shake my head at his statement.

They’re ridiculous, the three of them. There’s something disarming about watching them like this, bantering over chow mein and overpriced alcohol. This is a far cry from the tension-filled rooms just a week ago when Cillian was barely speaking to Enzo and Nikolai was stuck in the middle, refusing to pick a side. And I thought I was going to lose Cian and Enzo.

I can’t help but think of all the years I missed out on this—or something like this. After Mam died, Father might as well have locked me away in a tower. Sure, I left home for school or to go shopping, but I never really had friends—not like this. No one wants to hang out with the girl with two armed men practically attached to their hip.

Part of me is insanely jealous of Cian and this secret brotherhood he hid from me—from everyone—nearly his entire life. He was out here living this rich, full life while I was practically kept under lock and key. I’d resent him for it, but I can’t. Not after learning the type of man our father truly was, and the position that put Cian in. And while he might nothave been a good man, I know that at least some part of my brother is living with the fact that he murdered his own father to keep me safe.And for that, I would forgive him for anything…

Nikolai refills all of our glasses—because apparently we’re testing the limits of the human liver and resigning ourselves to one hell of a hangover tomorrow. He points his chopsticks at Cillian. “You still haven’t admitted I saved your life.”

“That’s because you didn’t,” Cillian refutes, somehow having room to shovel in yet another dumpling. “You tripped and shot a guy by accident.”

“So… you accidentally saved his life?” I muse.

“Still counts,” Nikolai shrugs. “Dead is dead. At the end of the day,Ipulled the trigger andyou’restill here. So, you’re welcome.”

The three of them erupt with laughter as the music from the Bluetooth speaker shifts to something soft and contemporary. I take another sip of wine and glance across the island at the leftovers we won’t finish, enjoying the way the men laugh with full bellies and unguarded mouths.

It’s rare to see them like this. The warmth in how they interact is palpable—teasing each other, not out of malice but years of shared history. Their friendship is deep-rooted, built over years of countless memories. It’s the kind of bond that rivals companionship. The three of them are truly family—brothers.

I glance at Enzo, my heart swelling with something I can’t quite put into words. He’s grinning, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light as he listens to Cillian and Nikolai banter. There’s contentment in his smile, and I wish I could keep him like this—light, happy, and unburdened. Not weighed down by his concerns for my safety or the stress that comes with taking over a city.

His fingers interlace with mine in my lap, and I turn to find a smile splitting his face. It’s not from the ridiculous stories being told at the other end of the island, because every bit of his focus is suddenly on me. He gives my hand a tender squeeze before lifting it to his lips and kissing the back of it. Glancing at me over it, he mouths the words, ‘I love you.’

ABOUT A WEEK LATER

Cillian and I spent the day visiting our businesses and making sure all the strip clubs are still running smoothly with the new mixed-family management. I dropped him at a restaurant down the block to grab takeout for him and Nikolai.

The second I step from my G-Class in the parking garage, I can feel it.Someone is watching. My eyes dart between cars—and occasionally over my shoulder—as I walk toward the elevator bank. I tread past a black Suburban parked in the shadows, and something about it doesn’t feel right. I glanceat the plate and my stomach drops. It’s the same one Hawk noticed circling the building five nights ago.

My gaze rises over the hood, and even in the dimly lit interior, I spot the man in the backseat. He looks up and our eyes meet—both of us immediately realizing we’re fucked. My heart rate skyrockets.

I race toward the driver’s door as he clamors over the center console to get behind the wheel, yanking it open before he can turn over the engine. As I pull him from the driver’s seat by the lapels of his jacket, he throws wild fists. A solid punch lands against my jaw, and I grunt in pain as I throw him to the concrete. He scrambles to get to his feet while reaching for his waistband—for a gun I didn’t notice at first.

Driving at him with the full weight of my body, we hit the side of the Suburban with a loud thud, denting the rear panel as I tackle him against it. The impact causes him to drop his gun, and it clatters against the ground at our feet. With my forearm shoved into his throat, I pin him to the side of the SUV with the full weight of my body and grit, “What the fuck do you want?”

He stares back at me with dark, cold eyes, not a word passing over his lips. I shove into him again—any harder and I’ll likely collapse his windpipe—and pull my gun from the waistband at the back of my pants. He grunts when I jam the muzzle into his gut.

“Who the fuck are working for?” I snarl, painfully grinding the gun into his stomach.

His expression is stoic, and his eyes are full of conviction as he stares back at me, unwaveringly. “Fucking kill me,” he spits, unable to hide the tinge of Armenian accent.

Fuck this…

“By the time I’m done, you’ll be wishing I had,” I snarl, yanking him from the side of the SUV and shoving him forward. Fisting the back of his jacket, I walk him the length of the garage toward the elevator with my gun pressed firmly against the nape of his neck. If he won’t talk here, he will in the basement.Everyone talks in the basement.

The musty dampness and heating oil smells of the basement fill the elevator the second the doors open. Jagger is at the rear wall, his back toward us, his sleeves rolled up and headphones on, cleaning a weapon. He doesn’t flinch when I shove the man out of the cab and drag him deeper into the cool space.

“Sit,” I bark, throwing him onto a metal chair in the middle of the room, causing the legs to screech against the concrete. Jagger spins around at the sound, his hand pulling his sidearm from his hip with Wild West quickdraw speed.

“Jesus. That’s how you get fucking shot!” he exclaims, lowering the pistol and slipping the headphones down until they’re resting around his neck. His eyes roam over the man in the chair between us. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Don’t know yet.” Jagger hands me a few zip ties, and I bind the man’s hands behind the chair and his feet to the legs. “Found him in the garage. Black SUV. Same plates as the one Hawk kept spotting.”

Jagger yanks the headphones off and tosses them with his rag onto the workbench and strides over, his eyes sharp with intrigue. “Anyone with him?”

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