Claimed By The Ruthless Don

Aria's POV The gallery closed at six, but I stayed late to finish cataloging the new collection. By the time I locked up and caught the subway home, it was already past eight. I was exhausted. My feet ached in my worn shoes, and my stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped lunch again. All I wanted was to get home, heat up some leftover pasta, and collapse into bed. The walk from the subway to my apartment building was only three blocks. My apartment was on the third floor of an old building in a decent neighborhood. Nothing fancy, but it was mine. I climbed the stairs slowly, my legs heavy with exhaustion. When I reached my floor, everything was quiet. Too quiet. I approached my door and froze. It was slightly open. Just a c***k, but enough to make my heart start racing. I always locked my door. Always. My hand trembled as I pushed the door open wider. The sight that greeted me made my breath catch in my throat. My apartment had been destroyed. The small sofa I'd bought secondhand was flipped over, cushions torn and scattered across the floor. My bookshelf was knocked over, books and photo frames everywhere. The coffee table was shattered, glass covering the carpet. My TV was smashed, the screen cracked like a spider web. Everything I owned was either broken or thrown around like garbage. I stepped inside slowly, my whole body shaking. My mind screamed at me to run, to get out, to call the police. But I couldn't move. "No," I whispered. "No, no, no." I walked through the apartment in a daze. The kitchen cabinets were all open, dishes smashed on the floor. The bathroom mirror was cracked. My bedroom was the worst. The mattress was slashed open, stuffing pulled out everywhere. My clothes were thrown all over the floor, some of them ripped. My jewelry box was empty. But it was the wall that made my blood run cold. Spray-painted across my bedroom wall in bright red letters were two words: FIVE DAYS I backed away from the wall, my hand covering my mouth. Terror flooded through my body, making my legs weak. Five days. Five days until what? I needed to call someone. The police. My father. Anyone. I ran back to the living room, searching frantically through the mess for my purse. I found it near the overturned sofa, its contents spilled across the floor. My phone screen was cracked, but it still worked. My hands shook so badly I could barely unlock it. I called my father first. He needed to know what happened. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. No answer. I tried again. Still nothing. Panic clawed at my chest. Where was he? Why wasn't he answering? I called five more times. Each time, it went to voicemail. I left a message, my voice high and shaky. "Dad, please call me back. Something happened. Someone broke into my apartment. I'm scared. Please, Dad, please call me." I hung up and stared at my phone, willing it to ring. It didn't. I called the police next. My voice trembled as I reported the break-in. They said they'd send someone over, but it might take a while. I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. I couldn't stay here. Whoever did this could come back. But I had nowhere else to go. The only person I had was my father. And he wasn't answering. Hours passed. The police finally came around ten PM. Two officers, both looking tired and annoyed. They walked through my apartment, taking notes, asking questions I didn't have answers to. No, I didn't have any enemies. No, I didn't know who would do this. No, nothing valuable was taken except some cheap jewelry. They took pictures of the spray-painted message but didn't seem particularly concerned. One of them suggested it might be kids playing a prank. Then they left. I was alone again. I tried calling my father again. And again. And again. Nothing. By eleven thirty, I was frantic. Where was he? Why wasn't he answering? Was he hurt? Had whoever broke into my apartment gone after him too? I paced back and forth through the wreckage of my home, my mind spinning with terrible possibilities. Then, at exactly midnight, my phone rang. I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it. "Dad!" I practically screamed into the phone. "Dad, where have you been? I've been calling you for hours! Someone broke into my apartment and—" "Aria." His voice cut through my panic. I stopped talking. Something in his tone made my stomach drop. "Dad?" I said quietly. "What's wrong?" "I'm sorry." His voice was shaking. "I'm so sorry, baby girl." "Dad, you're scaring me. What's going on?" I heard him take a shaky breath. Then another. He was crying. "I messed up," he whispered. "I messed up so bad, Aria. I'm so sorry." "What are you talking about?" Fear made my voice sharp. "Dad, talk to me. What happened?" "The money," he said. "The loans. It wasn't just the casinos. It wasn't just the loan sharks." My chest tightened. "What do you mean?" "I borrowed money from people I shouldn't have." His voice cracked. "Dangerous people. I thought I could win it back. I thought I could fix it before you found out. But I couldn't. I lost it all." "How much?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Silence. "Dad. How much do you owe?" "Half a billion dollars." The number hit me like a physical blow. I actually stumbled backward, catching myself against the wall. "What?" I whispered. "That's not possible. How could you—" "The Caruso family," he said quietly. The name meant nothing to me. "Who?" "They're... they're not loan sharks, Aria. They're mafia." The room spun. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor again. "Mafia," I repeated numbly. "I borrowed money from them six months ago. I kept thinking the next game would be the one. That I'd win big and pay them back. But I kept losing." "And now they want their money," I said flatly. "They gave me a deadline. Five days, Aria. They said if I don't pay them back in five days, they'll—" He couldn't finish the sentence. "They're going to kill you," I whispered. "Not just me." His voice was barely audible now. "They said they'll come after everyone I love. They want me to feel pain for wasting their money." My blood turned to ice. "They broke into my apartment," I said slowly. "They spray-painted 'five days' on my wall." My father's sob echoed through the phone. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. This is all my fault." I wanted to scream at him. To tell him he was right, this was his fault. That his addiction had finally destroyed everything. But I couldn't. Because beneath the anger was pure, paralyzing terror. "What do we do?" I asked. "We have to go to the police. We have to—" "No!" he said sharply. "No police. The Caruso family has people everywhere. If we go to the police, they'll know. And they'll kill us immediately." "Then what?" My voice rose with panic. "How do we get half a billion dollars in five days?" "I don't know!" he shouted. Then quieter, broken: "I don't know, Aria." I pressed my free hand against my mouth, trying to hold back a sob. "I'm so sorry," my father whispered. "I've ruined everything." "Don't say that," I said, but my voice had no conviction. "You should run," he said suddenly. "Take whatever money you have and leave the city. Maybe they won't find you." "I'm not leaving you," I said immediately. "Aria—" "No! I'm not abandoning you. We'll figure this out." But even as I said it, I knew there wasn't a way. Five days to get half a billion dollars. It was impossible. "I love you, baby girl," my father said. "I'm sorry I was never the father you deserved." "Dad—" The line went dead. "Dad!" I shouted into the phone. "Dad, don't hang up!" I tried calling back immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. He'd turned his phone off. I sat there on the floor of my destroyed apartment, surrounded by broken furniture and shattered glass, staring at my phone. Five days. In five days, if we didn't come up with half a billion dollars, the Caruso family would kill us. And I had absolutely no idea how to stop it.