All Chapters of CLAIMED BY THE DON: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

ENZO’S POV I stood in front of the mirror and hated how good I looked. Black tuxedo cut close to the body, midnight silk lapels catching the low light. The white shirt stretched across my chest, crisp enough to slice skin. Platinum cufflinks glinted like bullets. I dragged the bow tie into a perfect knot, smoothed a hand over my hair still damp from the shower, and let the corner of my mouth curl. Beautiful. The word didn’t belong to men, but tonight I wore it like armor. Matteo adjusted the holster beneath my jacket—thin ceramic blade, no metal to trip detectors. “Everything’s set, Capo. The target arrives at 9:30, and is expected to be on stage by 11:30. The rooftop team will be in place by 8:30, we will have a clean exit through the service tunnel.” “Good.” I rolled my shoulders. The bandages pulled, stitches itching under the fabric, but pain was an old friend. “When all is over head back with the rest of the crew. Me and Elena will stay back till morning.” Matteo’s eyes fli

ENZO’S POV I knew exactly what I was doing to her. The toy buzzed inside Elena on a cruel, pulsing rhythm—slow drag, sharp spike, slow drag again. Every vibration traveled straight through her body and into mine. She sat beside me in the VIP box, spine rigid, thighs clamped so tight the muscles quivered under that sinful dress. Her hands kept fluttering to her mouth, pressing hard, swallowing the moans I’d planted there. I watched it all. The way her pupils swallowed the green of her eyes. The way her chest heaved like she couldn’t get enough air. The way her hips rolled a fraction, chasing friction she’d never admit to wanting. On stage, the emcee’s voice cracked. “Senator Valentino should be joining us any moment of the keynote—” I smirked. Senator Valentino wouldn’t be joining us ever again in this lifetime. Valentino was bleeding out on marble two floors up, my dagger still warm in his carotid. One more traitor was off the black-list. One more debt paid in blood for Isabella,

ENZO’S POV The phone vibrated against the polished mahogany nightstand at exactly 5:47 a.m., the low, insistent hum cutting through the fragile veil of sleep like a switchblade. I sat up abruptly, the heavy duvet pooling around my waist. I snatched the phone with one hand, thumb swiping to answer as my other reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser. Matteo’s name glowed accusingly on the screen.Beside me, Elena shifted in the tangled sheets, her bare leg sliding over mine with a warmth that still carried the heat of last night’s frenzy. A soft, breathy murmur escaped her parted lips, something incoherent and sweet, but she didn’t wake. Thank fuck. She needed the sleep. “Speak,” I growled into the receiver, my voice gravel-rough from the chain of smokes I’d gone through post-orgasm. “Capo, it’s absolute chaos down here,” Matteo rushed out, his words tumbling over each other in that wired way he got when adrenaline spiked. “Valentino’s body was discovered about an hour ago

ENZO’S POV The iPad propped on the polished mahogany conference table captured every detail of Elena’s face—her eyes narrowing in that fiery mix of irritation and reluctant obedience I couldn’t get enough of. The feed streamed live from the penthouse camera, high-res and unblinking, letting me watch her from halfway across the Mediterranean. She stood in the foyer, ponytail pulled tight, blouse hugging her curves, leggings clinging to thighs I’d bruised just hours ago. “Let your hair down, now,” I commanded, my voice rumbling through the speaker, low and unyielding. Her head snapped up toward the lens hidden in the corner, cheeks blooming red as she realized I saw everything. She hesitated a beat, lips parting in silent protest, then reached back and tugged the elastic free. Auburn waves tumbled down her back, wild and untamed, brushing her shoulders like silk flames. Fuck, it hit me every time. With Isabella, I’d insisted on it pinned up—elegant, exposed neck for my teeth, control

ENZO’S POV The Montague’s Villa clung to the cliff like a memory that refused to die. Inside, the living room glowed amber from the old brass lamps, and the air carried rosemary, red wine, and the faint sweetness of the fig tart Mrs. Montague had pulled from the oven an hour ago. Every surface held Isabella: framed photos on the piano, her university diploma above the fireplace, the little porcelain dancer she’d bought in Portofino at seventeen still spinning on the mantel when the breeze moved the curtains. I sat on the edge of the leather sofa, elbows on my knees, fingers laced so tight the knuckles had gone white. Mr. Montague was telling the story about the summer Isabella decided she wanted to learn to drive the Vespa and nearly took out the entire lemon grove. Mrs. Montague laughed until tears sparkled, then dabbed them away with the corner of her apron. Their laughter was beautiful and unbearable. I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I stood abruptly. “Scusatemi. I nee