Claimed By The Five Mafia Brothers

Aria POV I don’t remember the night. I remember the music first. It was too loud. Bass vibrating up through the floor of Club Vesper and into my bones until I couldn’t tell if my heart was beating or if it was just the speakers. I remember Mia’s hand in mine, her nails painted chipped red, dragging me past the bouncers and toward the VIP section. _"Come on, Aria. It’s your birthday. One drink. Then we go home, I promise."_ I remember laughing. God, I remember laughing. Twenty-one. Finally legal. Finally free for one night in Chicago. And I remember him. A man in a black suit at the bar. Not dancing. Not drinking. Just watching. His eyes were cold, even from across the room. They followed me when I moved. When Mia pulled me onto the dance floor, he was still watching. When we ordered shots, he was still watching. I should have left then. But I didn’t. And then there was nothing. Just black. A cut. Like someone took scissors to my memory and threw the rest away. I wake up on cold tile. My cheek is pressed against something wet and sticky. It takes me a second to realize I’m on the ground. The next second, I realize what the wet is. Copper. Metallic. Blood. I scramble back so fast my head hits the brick wall behind me and pain shoots down my spine. My hands are shaking. There’s blood on my palms, under my fingernails, smeared across the front of my dress. It’s dark in the alley but the neon sign from Vesper flickers and I can see it. Too much of it. Not mine. I don’t think it’s mine. There’s no pain anywhere except the back of my head where a tender bump is already forming. Where am I? The alley behind the club. Dumpsters. Graffiti. That same neon sign buzzing above me: _Vesper_. South Loop. Where is Mia? The last thing I remember is her laugh. Then the man’s eyes. Then nothing. I touch my face. My dress. And I feel it. My underwear feels wrong. Torn. The realization hits me like ice water and I gag, doubling over and dry-heaving onto the pavement because there’s nothing in my stomach. My phone is gone. My purse is gone. My head is pounding and I can’t breathe and something happened here. Something bad. And I don’t remember any of it. I run. I don’t stop running until I’m inside my apartment in Logan Square with the door triple-locked and the chain on and a chair shoved under the knob. The shower is scalding. I scrub until my skin is raw and red and the water runs clear. I scrub until I’m convinced the feeling of someone else’s hands is gone. I tell myself it was a nightmare. That I drank too much. That I fell. For nine weeks, I try to believe that. Nine weeks of pretending I’m fine at the coffee shop. Nine weeks of waking up at 3AM with my heart hammering and no reason why. Nine weeks of headaches and bruises on my thighs I can’t explain and a hollow feeling in my chest every time I pass Vesper on the L. Then week ten happens on a Tuesday. I’m in the bathroom at work. The stall door doesn’t lock right and I have to hold it shut with my foot. I’m late. Again. Two weeks late. My breasts hurt. I’m nauseous every morning. I tell myself it’s stress. It’s the flu. It’s anything but the thing I’m terrified it is. The test is in my bag. I bought it at 2AM at Walgreens when I couldn’t sleep, when the silence in my apartment was too loud. Two lines. I stare at it until my eyes burn. Then I take another test. Two lines. At the clinic on Western Ave, the nurse is kind. She doesn’t ask questions when I cry. She just hands me the ultrasound printout and points. TWINS. Two little flickers on the screen. Two heartbeats. Fast and strong. Due date: 28 weeks from now. Which puts conception date at October 14th. The night of my birthday. The night of the blackout. I throw up in the clinic trash can and the nurse holds my hair back and doesn’t say anything. I don’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? Mia stopped answering my calls after that night. Her number is disconnected now. My parents are dead. Car accident on I-90 three years ago. I have $340 in my bank account and a job that barely pays rent and a body that is suddenly not mine anymore. I’m going to be a mother. And I have no idea who the father is. The thought makes me sick all over again. Three days later, they find me. It’s 7PM. I’m locking up the coffee shop on Milwaukee Ave, flipping the sign to CLOSED. The street is empty. Chicago gets quiet fast after dark in October. A black SUV pulls up to the curb. Tinted windows. No license plate I can see. Two men get out. Suits. Earpieces. They don’t look like cops. Cops don’t move like that. Cops don’t look at you like you’re already dead. One of them opens the passenger door. And he steps out. Tall. Black suit tailored to his shoulders like it was made for him. Dark hair cut sharp. He’s maybe thirty. Maybe older. It’s hard to tell because his face doesn’t give anything away. Eyes that don’t blink. I’ve seen him before. In the club. At the bar that night. Watching me. "Miss Wells," he says. His voice is low. Controlled. The kind of voice that people obey without thinking about it. "Aria Wells." I take a step back, keys cutting into my palm. "Who are you?" "Luca Moretti." He says it like I should know what that means. And I do. Everyone in this city knows the Moretti name. They own the docks on Lake Michigan. They own the aldermen. They own the judges downtown. "What do you want?" My voice shakes. His eyes drop. Just for a second. To my stomach. To the loose hoodie I’m wearing that doesn’t hide the small bump anymore. "We need to talk," he says. "Now." "I don’t—" "You do." Two more SUVs pull up. Doors open. Four more men. And then three more men get out of the first car. They all look like him. Same dark hair. Same dangerous stillness. Like predators waiting. But different. One with scars cutting down the side of his neck, disappearing under his collar. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me like I’m made of glass and might shatter. One grinning, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Dark and sharp and wrong. One with glasses and a tablet, already typing, not even looking up at me. And the youngest. He can’t be older than twenty-two. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world. Like he’s been looking for me. Five of them. Surrounding me on the sidewalk. Luca steps closer. He doesn’t touch me. "Miss Wells," he says again. "You witnessed something you shouldn’t have three months ago. And you’re carrying something that belongs to us." My blood goes cold. "Get away from me," I whisper. The scarred one moves first. Not to grab me. He just steps between me and the street. Between me and the road. Like he’s shielding me from something. Luca sighs. Like this is all very inconvenient for him. "You have two choices," he says. "Come with us willingly. Or we put you in the car and you still come with us. But the first way, you get to keep your dignity." I look around. No one on the street. No one coming to help. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Why?" I ask. My voice barely works. "Why me?" "Because of what you saw," Luca says. "And because of who you’re pregnant with." The words knock the air out of me. "How did you—" "We know everything, Aria." He opens the car door. The inside smells like leather and gun oil. "From now on, you’re ours." And that’s when I realize. Running isn’t an option. Screaming won’t help. The night I can’t remember just caught up to me. And it brought five mafia brothers with it. My hands are shaking as I get in the car.