All Chapters of CLAIMED BY THE DEVIL DON.: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The agony in my body was a burning cage, locking me in place, yet I couldn't tear my eyes away from the grotesque spectacle unfolding in the doorway. The final remnants of the library’s gloom clung to Vladimir, transforming him into a creature of myth—a blood-soaked shadow emerging from the darkness.Damon Salvatore was a pathetic contrast. He was no longer the immaculate Don; he was a wounded animal, dragging his broken, bleeding leg across the cold floor toward the open door, his face a mask of terror and spite. He had lost his duel, but he had reached the exit. Vladimir followed, his breath rasping like metal on stone, his heavy footsteps shaking the dust from the empty shelves. He didn’t raise his knife again; he simply pursued, relying on the certainty of his vengeance.Then, Damon saw him. He saw the cold, determined silhouette of Giovanni Romano standing guard in the doorway, his own wound ignored, his antique pistol raised and pointed steadily at Damon’s head. Damon was trappe

When my hands closed around Damon Salvatore’s throat, the final payment was due. The raw, primal noise in my head drowned out the agonizing sounds of the hallway—Domenico’s grief-stricken cry, Isabella’s sharp scream, and the terrible silence that followed her collapse. Damon was pinned beneath me, the source of the rot, the monster responsible for every tragedy in my life, and my cold, pure fury focused on the sound of his last, useless struggles.I pressed down, harder than any human pressure, harder than necessary, leveraging the immense weight of my failures and my absolute, final, necessary vengeance.“Irina,” I grated, the name a painful, broken memory in my throat. “She died because of your greed. Alone. Afraid.”He is paying the debt. Every muscle in my body is dedicated to this one, singular purpose. I should have done this the day he inherited his father’s title. I should have ended him before he ever came near Russia, before he ever touched my life, before the consequences

The sterile white of the private medical facility felt like a trap designed to mock my power. I stood in the hallway outside the primary surgical suite, the red light above the double doors burning a silent, steady accusation.Domenico had forced me to let the medical team work over my own grazed rib wound, stitching it up quickly, but the physical pain was a distant, annoying hum compared to the hollow, icy dread consuming my chest. Enzo and Rocco were securing the perimeter.I hadn't cried. I couldn't. I was too busy standing guard over my own mind, terrified that if I allowed one sliver of the grief—for Giovanni, for Irina, for my wife’s terrifying stillness—to surface, I would shatter.She fought the war, and she won. She survived the kidnapping, the torture, the betrayal of her own blood, and the final, crushing grief of watching her father die. But she couldn't survive the peace. I watch this red light, and I know that in that room, the life I destroyed is trying to give birth t

The vigil was a cold, hard test of endurance. I had finally surrendered the two boys back to the NICU, clinging to the memory of their warmth. Now, I sat alone beside Isabella, the faint scent of antiseptic and her skin the only constants in my shattered reality. Domenico and Enzo had been handling the necessary cleanup—transporting Giovanni’s body back to Italy, dealing with the political fallout of Damon’s death, and ensuring absolute security on the compound.The atmosphere of the hospital wing was one of hushed, tense expectation. It felt like the eye of a hurricane—the violence had passed, leaving behind a profound and agonizing stillness.I hadn't slept, but my mind was clearer now. The animal rage was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow well of grief for Giovanni, the man who had despised me but died protecting the woman I loved. I owed him a debt I could never repay, a paradox that burned hotter than any bullet wound.The door to the wing opened quietly, and I rose instinctively,

The second day blurred into the third without change. The monitor beside Isabella continued its relentless, maddening rhythm. I moved only between her bedside and the NICU, ignoring the stack of reports Domenico kept trying to leave on the visitor’s table—reports concerning the swift, brutal elimination of Damon’s remaining assets and the necessary shoring up of our own position. The empire could crumble; I didn't care.I was feeding Ivan, the elder twin, a bottle of formula in the soft glow of the recovery room, sitting beside Isabella’s bed. Ivan was doing well, latching fiercely onto the rubber nipple, his inherited fire evident even in his hunger. I held him awkwardly, my large, brutal hands trying to mimic the careful cradling the nurse had taught me.The door opened, and Viktor entered. He looked haggard, his usually impeccable suit rumpled, his eyes betraying deep exhaustion, but his posture was military, refusing to bend under the pressure.He didn't speak immediately. He just