Page 7 of Claimed
I really fucking did it.
The darkness around me felt comforting, like an embrace, and my thoughts drifted back to my childhood when the world hadn’t made sense, when everything was a jumble of uncertainty and fear.
My mother’s face flashed before my eyes—her dark brown skin, that big curly afro, her soft smile, the way her hands always seemed to know how to soothe my every hurt, every worry.
She had been my everything, the one person who made me feel safe and loved unconditionally.
I was only seven when she died, but the memories of her warmth and love had lingered, guiding me through the darkest times in my life.
After she passed, there was no one left to anchor me.
I’d never known my real father—he was just a shadow, a ghost in the stories my mother had shared. He’d been a Black Creole man from New Orleans. My mom told me he left when she was pregnant, that he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a child.
Even though I was so young, those words had stung, though I hadn’t fully understood their weight until much later.
Mom clearly didn’t have the best taste in men because when I turned three, she fell in love and married an Italian mob boss named, Maximo Giordano.
They called him,La Serpe Nera.
The Black Serpent.
I’d learned that he’d been orphaned at a young age and raised by his uncle, a notorious hitman, who taught him the deadly skills needed to survive their underworld. By eighteen, Maximo had avenged his parents' deaths, earning his nickname for his lethal precision and cold-blooded tactics. He quickly rose to power, consolidating control over Obsidian Bay’s criminal syndicates.
Maximo was ruthless.
Cold.
Cunning and calculating.
But when my mother was around, he was a soft teddy bear.
I was the flower girl in their wedding.
A year later, they’d had a son and named him, Vito.
And Maximo loved me as much as he could.
He really did.
But I always knew, deep down, that his heart truly belonged to his son.
I was an outsider—a reminder of the responsibility he hadn’t chosen but had accepted out of his duty to my mother.
After my mother’s death, that feeling only intensified.
During my childhood, I worked hard to earn my place in his house. I never complained, never asked for more than what was given. I did my best to anticipate his needs, cleaning stuff, ironing his suits, learning how to cook his favorite dishes.
I think I was nervous that he would give me up, so I believed that I had to be asirreplaceableas possible.
The sort of kid that would be missed, if gone.
I became the best I could be, the good girl who never stepped out of line, because in my mind, I had to earn my right to stay.
To belong.
And then, ballet came into my life. It was like a lifeline, something that belongedsolelyto me. Something no one could take away.
Ballet became my escape.
