All Chapters of CLAIMED BY THE DON: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

ELENA’S POV I woke up to the wrong kind of quiet. The kind that presses against your eardrums like water, thick and unnatural. No birds yet, no hum of the sea far below the cliffs, no distant clatter of Maria starting coffee in the kitchen. Just my own pulse thudding in my ears and the faint, antiseptic smell of fresh laundry.The sheets were clean… too clean. They smelled like lemon detergent and something clinical, as though someone had tried to bleach the night out of them. I shifted and my body answered with a scream I refused to let past my lips. Every muscle felt flayed. Between my legs throbbed with a dull, relentless ache; my ass burned like it had been dipped in fire. The skin on my throat felt tight, swollen, tender in five distinct points where his fingers had lived for what felt like hours.I turned my head, the pillow beside mine was smooth, untouched, and cold.He was gone and he had been gone for hours.The realization landed heavier than any bruise. After everything

ELENA’S POV Everything hurts. A deep, throbbing burn clawed through my abdomen. My left shoulder felt like someone had driven a spike through it and left it there. My head pounded so hard I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and wet, smelling of rust and concrete and something sour.Voices floated above me, muffled, like I was underwater.Laughter. Male voices. Cruel.“…finally got the stubborn little princess.”Another laugh, closer. “Moretti’s gonna break her real slowly.”I tried to move but my arms wouldn’t budge. Cold metal bit into my wrists—it felt like heavy chains—they were real. I was on my knees, slumped forward, my forehead resting on damp concrete. My ankles were shackled too, spread just wide enough that I couldn’t close my legs.Someone slapped my cheek—light and then harder.“Elena.” That wasn’t Enzo’s voice.The slap came again, this time it stung. “Wake up, sweetheart. Rise and shine.” And just then ice water

ELENA’S POV I woke up to warmth for the first time in days and the first thing I felt was Enzo’s arm heavy across my waist and his breath steady against the back of my neck. I stayed still and listened to his heart thump slow and sure against my spine and told myself this was real. I was home and I was alive. I didn’t want to move and break the spell so I just lay there and counted every breath he took until sunlight started sneaking through the curtains and painting soft gold across the sheets. When I finally turned my head the space beside me was empty and the sheets were now cool. My stomach dropped hard as realization tugged at me—he left again, after everything he still left. I sat up too fast as pain flared through my shoulder, ribs, and my stomach like someone had lit matches under my skin. I swung my legs over the side of the bed swallowing hard the little cry that threatened to slip out. My bare feet hit the floor and the shock of the cold tile helped me focus. I stood u

ENZO’S POV The elevator doors slid open and the air in the penthouse turned to glass, sharp, brittle, ready to cut. Giovanni was sprawled across my couch like a king on a stolen throne. His ankles were crossed as he had my twenty-five-year-old Pappy Van Winkle in his hand, four of his soldiers fanned out behind him in cheap suits that screamed Naples dockyard. My own men lined the walls, their palms already resting on holsters, their eyes flat and murderous. Elena’s fingers tightened around mine until I felt her pulse hammering against my skin. Giovanni unfolded himself slowly, that crocodile smile stretching across his face. “Fratello mio!” He opened his arms like we were about to embrace at Christmas mass. “Finally, the groom-to-be arrives.” I let go of Elena’s hand and walked forward. The marble was cold under my shoes, every step echoed like a countdown. My men moved with me; Giovanni’s men mirrored them. Twelves safeties clicked off in perfect, hateful harmony. I stopped t

ENZO’S POV I sat at the head of the polished mahogany table in the private room at La Perla, the kind of place where deals worth hundreds of millions got sealed over plates of osso buco and bottles of Barolo that cost more than most men’s cars. The air hung thick with cigar smoke and the low rumble of voices—five capos from the old families, two Albanian suppliers, and my own lieutenants flanking me like bookends. We were carving up the new port routes of Naples, rerouting shipments after the last raid cost us two containers and three good men. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled, letting Marco handle the numbers. My mind wasn’t on the percentages of the bribes to the harbor master. It was thirty-three floors up, in a penthouse where a stubborn woman with fire in her veins was probably waking up and plotting exactly how to defy me. I’d left before dawn, slipped out while she still slept tangled in sheets that smelled like us. Cowardly? Maybe. But if I’d stayed, if I’d seen