All Chapters of Claimed by havoc : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Dmitry People always assume I'm the idiot, the unserious youngest son of the Kozlov family. The thought alone makes me laugh quietly. What they don't know is that, while they are busy laughing at my jokes, I'm gathering the secrets they spill, the lies they think they hide so well—every plan they think no one knows about. Only my family knows what I'm capable of, and I like it that way because enemies let their guard down when they believe you’re not enough to face them. Now, Tristan has summoned me to his office, and I know this isn't a normal early morning call. I could feel the tension brewing in the house over the past few days, but one thing about me—is I prefer to laze around until the inevitable arises. I knock once before pushing open his door, and the atmosphere inside immediately confirms I was right—this is something serious. Lucian stands by the window with his arms crossed. Nikolai is leaning by the desk, reading several scattered documents on the huge surface.

RoxanaFor the first few seconds after I wake up, I refuse to open my eyes. If I don't, maybe today won't come. Maybe Tristan won't leave. Maybe yesterday was just another strange dream.I let out a sigh before finally forcing my eyes open; the first thing I see is not an empty bed. It’s him.Tristan.My heart nearly drops—Tristan is sitting by the window, one leg crossed over the other, already dressed in a charcoal black suit.The morning sun spills across the room, painting one side of his face in gold while the other remains in shadow.A thick file rests on his lap, a phone lies on the small table beside him, and his gun is holstered beneath his jacket. He looks like a man preparing for a war. Yet somehow, his eyes are fixed on me.“You have been staring at me?” I mumble, my voice still sounding sleepy.“I’ve been waiting.”I blink. “I thought you’d already left.”“I want to take you there myself.”A warm feeling blooms in my chest. “Oh, I see.”He smirks slightly, “Yeah. So get d

Tristan Italy greets us with rain, not a storm—just enough to make the streets slick and the sky steel-gray. The private jet lands shortly after sunrise; no one speaks as we step onto the runway. Viktor walks on my left, Dmitry on my right—both armed, both silent. The convoy waiting outside consists of six armored SUVs, and the men inside already know the rules—no mistakes. I slide into the backseat, and the door shuts. The convoy begins to move. Only when the vehicle disappears does Dmitry finally speak, “The De Luca estate has doubled the security.” I keep my eyes on the tablet in my hand. “Expected.” “They’ve also moved heavy weapons into the perimeter,” Viktor’s voice flat. “They’re preparing an attack,” I say. “Or expecting one.” Silence falls in the car, rain streaks across the window as I revisit Alessandro’s report. Five million euros, in a dead account—Belladonna holdings. A shell company that exists solely to receive the money and then disappear. Too clean

Roxana Silence. I never realized silence could have different sounds. The silence at Tristan’s mansion has always been heavy, almost intimidating, as if the walls themselves hold dangerous secrets. But this silence is different. It’s lonely. Suffocating. I wake up before sunrise and reach across the bed without thinking. My fingers meet the cold sheets. The space beside me is empty. Of course it is. I knew he would leave. He promised he would. Yet, something painful presses against my chest. It actually hurts more than I expected. I stare at the ceiling for several moments before forcing myself to sit up. “No crying,” I whisper. I refuse to become the kind of wife who spends every day crying because her husband left on business. He will come back. He promised. And Tristan Kozlov is not the kind of man who makes promises carelessly. I repeat these words until I almost believe them. After sitting on the bed for a while thinking, I finally force myself to take a shower. Th

Roxana The door handle turns. “Roxana?” Texas’s voice, closer now and concerned. I don't move. For one terrifying second, I stare at the papers scattered around me. Marco Petrov. Twenty million euros. Settlement proposal. Me. The words refuse to fade. They burn into my eyes and into my mind. The knock sounds again, “Roxana.” I finally move, not because I want to, but because instinct takes over before grief can. My body springs into action. Papers scrape across the floor as I gather them tremblingly. They won't stay together. One page slips away, another slides beneath the cabinet. My breathing thunders in my chest. Shit. I reach for the loose page just as another tear splashes onto the paper. The ink blurs beneath the drop, and my chest tightens violently. This can’t be happening. It’s impossible. Tristan… my Tristan. The man I spent the whole night thinking about. The man who looked at my scars and called them beautiful. The promise he made—he promised I’d n