Page 3 of Claimed By Him

It was that no one was good enough.

Call me self-centered, but I knew my value. I was the daughter of the most ruthless mafia man to run the streets of Manhattan. I was the most heavily protected little girl in my school and eventually had to be homeschooled, so I didn’t need to leave the Moretti estate, for fear of me being captured and used against the family. Most considered me the Moretti Princess; it was an unofficial title—and my social media handle. So, there was no way I was going to give this prize to any random fuckboy to walk into the club.

Not to mention, I treated my body like an actual temple. I worked out every morning, I only ate fresh foods—nothing processed. I had a nine-step hair and skin routine before bed every night. I only wore designer brands, and I never left my bedroom looking anything less than utterly chic and stunning.

So, finding the right guy to pop this cleanly waxed, heavily oiled, and moisturized cherry, hadn’t been the easiest task. In fact, I’d found no one good enough. Every time I considered dropping my standards, I reminded myself who the fuck I was.

I ripped my eyes from Tony’s hard, sexy ass, and stood up.

“Girls, I’m going to get that waiter’s number.”

Their mouths gaped slightly, but Mia just chuckled. “Don’t let Antonio catch you.”

“Oh, I won’t,” I said determinedly, then headed toward the kitchen.

2

Tony

“Tony! Nice of you to join us,” my father said, patting my shoulder. Antonio shook my hand, and Huxley jerked his chin toward me. We didn’t like each other very much, but since we were basically colleagues, and he was married to my sister, we kept things civil.

I took the plate from my father’s hand and placed it on the table beside us. To his questioning frown, I replied, “Olivia’s orders.”

He looked behind me and obviously saw the girls watching him because he suddenly smiled and waved, his chuckles dying out when he turned back around. I noticed Huxley struggling to keep his own laughter in, obviously having heard his wife’s concerns about her father’s bad health.

“So boys, now that we’re all here,” Antonio started, sliding his hands together. “We all” referred to himself and my father as dons and me and Huxley as their underbosses. “Tony mentioned there have been issues with your sales.”

Since Huxley married my sister, our families were allied. Antonio liked to know what issues we were having so that he might help if possible. It wasn’t standard practice, but we were practically family. Antonio was also generally the guy to go to—his intelligence was something else when it came to mafia business. I had a lot of respect for the guy as a leader.

My father nodded. “Ever since we dropped the Colombians as our supplier, they’ve been causing trouble for us. Cutting off other suppliers, stealing our clients, and so on. They’re making it difficult for us to get back to full business capacity.”

On our turf, drug sales were organized by us. It was our way of controlling the crime on the streets. We made sure that the suppliers and the dealers were our own people, trustworthy, and accountable for whatever might go wrong. If bad dope got out, we knew who put it there. If children were coming up with drugs, we knew who sold to them, and we dealt with it all accordingly. We felt it was the safest option, as compared to cutting off all sales and possibly sitting with underhanded deals happening without our knowledge, essentially losing all control of the crime.

The Morettis had a no-drug-sale policy on their own territory; they didn’t like the industry stinking up their higher-class dealings. Antonio’s grandfather imposed the rule during his reign, and it had been upheld for decades. It helped that their turf was the upper side of Manhattan. Their partygoers came downtown to have fun anyway.

My father had in recent years begun to take less responsibility when it came to the business on the streets. He handled other business from his office and upheld our relationships with various associates, but the drug scene—that was my responsibility. I was the one out there, sending the messages and giving the beatdowns along with Ace, my own right-hand man. One day he would be my underboss. He was a distant cousin of ours and shared the Romano name.

While our business was being discussed, I noticed Fiona getting up from her chair and striding confidently toward the house, her long chocolate-colored hair flapping behind her.

Goddammit. Did she have to wear such short dresses?

It wasn’t appropriate for a young girl like her. I swore I could see the bottom of her ass cheeks as she bounded up the stairs to the terrace. I knew it annoyed the shit out of Antonio too since he’d basically taken over the role of being her father three years ago while she was still a teenager.

Not many people were even aware that Fiona and I knew each other on a personal level. They all saw that we didn’t get along and left it at that. But our lives had been intertwined ever since we were children.

I watched her grow up, and I was the only one to never be swayed by her big, wide, green eyes or her innocent act whenever she wanted something. She had her father wrapped around her little finger, her brothers duty-bound to do whatever she asked, and her nannies frantic to appease her.

Now that she was grown, and her father wasn’t here to give her everything she wanted, the spoiled princess act wasn’t that cute anymore. Her underhanded commentary toward me pissed me off and needed to be dealt with. She couldn’t just keep on making these snide remarks—she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She didn’t often disrespect her brother like that, did she?

Once we’d agreed on a time and place to meet and discuss our sales issues, I excused myself from the group and walked up to the house. As I did every time I entered a building, I furtively looked over my shoulders to make sure no one was coming in behind me, then entered the kitchen.

The scene I walked in on had me straightening my spine and fisting my hands at my sides. Fiona leaned back against the counter and a young, skinny, little waiter boy in an ill-fitting uniform was standing in front of her. The two were giggling like children, and Fiona dragged her fingernail down his chest while he reached for her hip.

I cleared my throat, and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” I asked him, and he quickly scurried away.

Fiona let her head fall back as she sighed, rolling her eyes. “What is your problem?” she asked, crossing her arms and bending a knee.

Slowly, I approached her. “My problem? Hmm, let’s see.” I looked to the ceiling, rubbing my chin with my thumb and forefinger. “Could it be that you’re acting like a disrespectful young child when you should be a graceful young woman by now?”

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