Page 3 of Claimed by my Stepbrother

My mother has been through a lot in her life.

From my father leaving her when I was just an infant to a string of terrible, abusive boyfriends and a constant struggle to pay the bills. That was before she met an older, very handsome Italian immigrant named Pascal Gallucci. It wasn’t love at first sight, but the way he treated her and me was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life. He is a domineering man but also very loving and generous, and it didn’t take long for her to fall in love and marry him.

All I ever wanted was to get out of high school and travel the world. The stories my stepfather told me about Italy made me certain that his home country would be my first destination.

After graduation, he agreed to pay for my trip, but selling my mother on the idea was difficult. Her hardships made her very protective. She doesn’t want me to ever be in the kinds of positions she was in. It took a while, but eventually, with my domineering stepfather on my side, we talked her into letting me go to Italy for the summer. All that was left was lining up a chaperone to keep me safe and out of trouble.

When my mother told me that I would be staying with my new stepbrother in Italy, it felt a little weird. First, from what I’ve been told, he’s a lot older than me and a very busy businessman. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like good attributes for a tour guide. To make things worse, he didn’t even pick me up when I landed. He sent some massive, balding man who barely speaks English and grunts more than he speaks.

As we drove through the quaint village, with its boutiques and bakery, then up the hillside to my stepbrother's place, I had a spark of hope that things might not be so bad after all. My mother misspoke when she called this a house.

My stepbrother has an actual compound tucked away in the mountains, with glorious views on every side. No Airbnb or five-star hotel could live up to this.

The man shows me to my room, and I swear it’s a mile and a half away from the main house. I expected to go inside and find dusty sheets on top of all the furniture and a lovelorn ghost staring out the window. Thankfully, the room was fresh and clean, but if there had been a ghost, at least, I would have had some company.

On the second day, I asked the man the best way to get to the village, thinking some time away from here might do me some good, but he told me I wasn’t permitted to leave without my stepbrother’s permission. I’m sorry, who? The invisible man who didn’t even bother to introduce himself to me?

I was so angry at this point that I called my mother and asked her to find me a hotel I could move to. When I explained why, she became absolutely livid and promised she’d fix the situation. The only reason she agreed to let me come here was because I wouldn’t be traveling alone, so sending me to a hotel was definitely out of the question.

Today, I decide to tour the house, hoping I might run into my elusive stepbrother. The bald man seems to be following me at a close distance, convincing me even further that this is a hostage situation. I duck into a door and find myself standing in the middle of a grand chef's kitchen.

I open the refrigerator first, then the pantry, and find that it’s fully stocked. As long as I’m here, I might as well cook something and kill some time. The only Italian dish I’ve ever made is spaghetti bolognese, so I check for the ingredients. I find everything but the spaghetti. Great.

I know the bald man is somewhere close, so I open the door and call out to him. He pops his head inside and says, “Si?”

“Where do I find spaghetti?” I ask him.

He walks in and points to a contraption on the counter. I look at him and just shrug.

“What is that?”

He shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath as he rummages around the kitchen, collecting eggs and flour and slamming them down next to the machine. He then fills a measuring cup with water and sets it down as well.

“Spaghetti,” he says, waving his arms over the ingredients before turning to leave.

Refusing to be defeated, I pull out my phone and look up a recipe for homemade pasta, but making homemade pasta is nowhere near as fun and rewarding an activity as the author of this recipe makes it out to be. I’m on my third try and all I’ve managed to make is a colossal mess.

The door swings open behind me, and I turn, expecting to be ridiculed or chastised by my bald companion. Imagine my surprise when the man standing in the doorway looks more like a Roman God. He’s so tall that he has to hunch over to stand in the doorway and so wide that he has to move sideways. His thick black hair is cut short in the back but hangs slightly over his big brown eyes that are staring a hole at me. He must be wondering what’s wrong with me because I’m staring, too. He can’t really blame me because he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Bar none.

I promised myself that when I met him, I was going to give him a piece of my mind, but now that he’s here looking like this, I’ve all but forgotten about it. I can barely remember my own name.

“What are you doing?” he finally speaks and I trip over my own tongue trying to explain that I didn’t set off a bomb in his kitchen. I was just trying to cook.

When he finds out what I’m planning to whip up, the smirk on his face becomes a full-on grin and he lets out a little laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

The smile disappears from his face and he walks toward me. I don’t know if he plans to kiss me or kill me, but I’m a sitting duck either way. My heart is pounding as he looks down at me and scolds me for calling my mother instead of coming to him.

Why would I have come to him? Until now, I didn’t even know him. In an effort to defend myself, I ask if it’s a crime to call my mother. Without batting an eye, he tells me he’s the boss and I need to do as I’m told. He even goes so far as to call me Princess.

The me that I know—the real me—would have bucked back at him, but I’m not myself right now. This new me is more than happy to take orders from this big, ruggedly handsome man. This new me felt a tingle deep inside when he called me Princess.

He puts his hands on me and a rush of fear and excitement flows through me like a tidal wave of mixed emotions. A little voice in my head tells me that he’s a dangerous man. For some reason, I think I like that. All sorts of provocative scenarios play out in my head like a dirty little flipbook. I want him to reach into my head, tear out a page, and reenact every dirty detail on me.

Oh god, Gab. What’s happening to you?

This has to stop. He’s my stepbrother. I know I shouldn’t be thinking this way, but the way my body reacts to him is something I have no experience with. I have absolutely no clue how to turn it off. Or even if I want to.

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