Page 7 of Claimed By Daddy

“Yes,” he answers without a second of hesitation. “I wouldn’t leave if I had even a sliver of doubt about them. I trust them with my life. And I know that they would give theirs to protect you. You have absolutely nothing to fear with either of them.”

I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. I’ve never thought about anyone—even my bodyguards—being willing to die for me… Or that anything could happen where that scenario would be a reality.

“I’ll be back soon,” Cillian promises. The door clicks shut behind him, and then it’s just me. Andthem.Stepping back from the door, I tentatively walk back into the living room.I glance toward Enzo and catch him watching me. His head is tilted slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. I quickly look away and settle into the corner of the couch.

“That’s game,” Enzo boasts and racks his pool cue before stretching, which pulls his shirt tight over his chest. “I’m gonna head upstairs and take a shower,” he announces, walking past me. “Try to behave for Nikolai.” I try not to look too relieved—or maybe it’s disappointed. I actually can’t figure out what I feel around him, and I fucking hate it.

Enzo heads up the spiral staircase two steps at a time, disappearing from view. And I’m left with Nikolai. He’s leaning against the kitchen island now, so stoic that he’s practically part of the furniture—sharp, cold, and completely unreadable. Without moving, he asks, “You plan to be this sassy the whole time you’re here?”

I blink, his question catching me off-guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He pushes from the counter with a smirk—the first actual emotion I’ve seen from him since I got here. “It hasn’t been a day, and I’m pretty sure Enzo is ready to throttle you.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry. Am I supposed to be grateful to be locked in a penthouse with two mafia killers I’ve known for a collective five minutes? Forgive me for not parading around the apartment singing Kumbaya.”

Nikolai snorts—actually snorts—the smirk at the corner of his mouth spreading into a full smile. “Got it. Sassy as fuck the whole time.”

If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well enjoy myself. “Probably,” I brat, leaving him in the kitchen and heading upstairs. My hand on the knob for Cillian’s room, something catches my eye, and I glance down the hall.Oh…The door toEnzo’s room is open, and he’s standing in view with his back turned to me.

Still wet from his shower, water trickles from his hair and runs down his spine. His back is all muscle—every inch of him taut and carved like a Roman statue. A white towel hangs low on his hips—really low—and as he turns slightly, my mouth gapes open at the sight before me. My eyes follow the deep V running along his hips and beneath his towel—a gasp escaping my lips before I can stop it.

He turns—ungodly slowly—to face me.Shit!Did he hear me?Our eyes meet, and I freeze, the burn of being caught gawking slowly creeping over my neck and face. He stares at me with that damn smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “See something you like, princess?”

Yes.

My mouth opens, and I struggle to say something.Anything.“Uh… I… Um…” Nope. No words. Just complete mortifying embarrassment.

Turning the knob still in my hand, I dart into Cillian’s room and slam the door behind me. My heart pounds against my ribcage as I press my back against the door. “Shit,” I mutter to myself, covering my burning face with both hands.

Why is he so… infuriating? So smug. So… unbelievably hot.

Shoving myself from the door and flopping onto Cillian’s bed, I bury my face in the sheets. I try to shake the image of him from my mind, but the harder I push it away, the tighter it clings. That smirk. His perfect body.The way helookedatme, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He probably did.Hell, he probably enjoyed it.

I hate how his constant flirting makes me feel—like a giddy schoolgirl again.Nearly as much as I hate how my body reacts to seeing him—the heated flush on my face he can see and the flutters in my stomach he can’t. And how I can’t stop myself from enjoying either. If this is an act to get a rise out of me, it’s fucking working.Better than he could’ve planned…Pulling the pillow tight to my face, I scream my frustrations into it.

“Enzo Roseti,” I mutter to myself, pulling my face off the pillow. “Why the hell are you even thinking about this, Eavan?”About him…

When I finally gather enough mental strength to get off the bed, I slip into the bathroom to shower. The water is hot, but not hot enough to cleanse me of the inappropriate thoughts running through my mind. I wash my hair, not twice but three times, trying to scrub Enzo from my brain. Yet, when I step under the steamy spray and close my eyes, all I can see is that smug fucking grin and his chocolate-brown eyes staring back at me.

God help me.Living here—with him—is going to be a challenge.

The alert flashes across my phone, and I quickly lift it from the island. After swiping it open, I read the headline again and skim through the article before sayinganything.

It’s out. It barely took two days for the world to learn our fathers and that bastard Armenian are dead. My heart thumps, a deep thud behind my ribs. Not from fear—that weak shit left me a long time ago—but from the finality of this part of our plan. We did it. We actually fucking did it. Our new empire starts now.

“It’s out,” I announce, lifting my phone to alert the others. Cillian and Nikolai stop whatever ridiculous argument they’re having about the Knicks, and Eavan glances up from the couch, where she’s been doing her best to keep her face buried in a book, pretending to ignore me since her Peeping Tom moment earlier.

All of them are talking as they walk into the kitchen, so much chatter that I can’t make out what any of them are saying. “Everyone shut up,” I bark, laying my phone on the island. My thumb hovers over the play button as I wait for them to gather around it. “We all need to see this.”

The newscaster’s voice spills from the speaker and fills the kitchen the moment I press play.“In what authorities are calling the hit of the century, four high-profile organized crime figureheads were found dead last night in an abandoned warehouse in Chelsea.”Images flash across the screen—out-of-focus shots of the crime scene from outside the police caution tape, the red and blue flashing lights of police cars, and then photos of the dead. Tazio Roseti. Rurik Romanov. Rian O’Brien. Andranik Sargsyan. Our fathers and the abhorrent excuse of a man who would’ve ruined Cian’s sister.“Police are asking anyone with information regarding this crime to contact the NYPD Organized Crime Division.”

I glance at the others. Nik is virtually unmoved, his face its usual unreadable mask. Cillian’s jaw is tight, and the muscle in his cheek ticks as he continues to watch the broadcast on my phone. But it’s Eavan’s gaze that has my attention. Her wide green eyes—laced with panic—are flicking from the screen to each of us. She’s gripping Cillian’s arm as though it’s a life preserver keeping her afloat. Her hold on him tightens, and she stares up at him. “Cian… Does this mean you’re all in danger now? AmIin danger?”

“You’re safe in here,” he promises. “Nothing will happen to you inside these walls.” She knew this moment was coming—we all told her. For a moment, evenIwant to comfort her. But right now, we have to stick to the plan.

“Call him.” I lift my phone from the granite countertop and shove it into Cillian’s hand. “Call him before he sees the news or hears it from anyone else.”

His fingers move quickly, dialing the number from memory. He paces at the other end of the kitchen, waiting for the call to be answered. “Davit Sargsyan? It’s Cillian O’Brien. Rian’s son.” There’s a pause—all of us listening in silence—and Cillian’s voice softens. “I’m sorry for the late call… And to be the one to tell you… I just saw the news. My father had mentioned him a few times, and I wanted to offer my condolences for Andranik.”

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