Claimed by My Mafia Stepson

CHAPTER 3

The air in the back of the taxi reeked of stale tobacco and cheap pine.

I huddled against the cold vinyl of the door.

My mascara smudged.

Face pale.

A shameful reminder of the bride I’d been minutes ago.

I was the steady voice on the other end of the line. I was the one who told people to breathe when life was crumbling.

But as the taxi lurched through the streets of the city, there was no one on the other end of my line to comfort me.

No voice.

No reassurance.

No backup coming.

My father sold me—and my husband finished the job.

“Where exactly are you going?” the driver asked.

When I first got into the car, I’d simpIy told him to drive.

But the truth was, I had no idea. I just wanted to get as far away from those two monsters as possible.

“Stop!” I blurted as I spotted a club.

The people entering and leaving looked carefree and happy—exactly what I needed right now.

“Here.” I handed the driver a couple of bills and alighted from the taxi. My slippers, once airy and soft, were now clumped with grime.

I took a deep breath and approached the club, eyes fixed on the two hefty bouncers at the entrance.

A group of laughing strangers brushed past me, the scent of perfume and alcohol hanging in the air.

For a moment, I hesitated.

What else could go wrong tonight?

I squared my shoulders and walked inside.

The club was a sea of bodies vigorously swaying to loud music.

The music thumped. Lights flickered. The air smelled like sin.

The DJ shouted something that had the crowd screaming. Everyone was lost in their world.

I made a beeline to the bar and slid onto the only empty stool.

The bartender leaned across the polished wood, his eyes scanning my ruined face.

“What can I get you?”

I swallowed hard. “The strongest thing you have.”

He nodded and pulled a bottle of dark amber bourbon from the shelf, poured a double measure and slid it to me.

I picked up the glass.

The smell of oak and alcohol hit me before the liquid even touched my lips. I took a swallow, and the burn moved from my tongue down to my chest, hot enough to make my eyes water.

I emptied the glass and asked for another.

Then another.

And the fourth one.

My vision swarmed.

I downed the fifth glass and suddenly was back at the altar. Androa's kiss had been a lie.

It hadn't been the kiss of a man in love; it was scripted to fool me.

His hands had been firm on my waist during our dance while he kept looking over my shoulder at Elisa.

Tears distorted my vision.

My eyes landed on the four-carat diamond ring on my finger. Sulking, I removed it and tossed it inside my purse.

The girls beside me gasped.

“He’s back tonight.”

“God… look at him.”

I followed their gaze to the VIP balcony as a tall man in aviator glasses and a leather jacket walked in.

People stepped back to create a clear path for him.

Girls straightened their backs and smoothed their dresses. One tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and another crossed her legs.

But he paid them no attention as he walked past.

Who was he that he could command so much attention?

I watched with rapt attention as he sat on a couch. Scanned the room... until his gaze locked on mine.

My breath caught.

A jolt of electricity shot through me.

I turned to the bar again.

My heart pounding.

I looked over my shoulder, and he was still staring at me.

He didn't blink. Didn't smile. He just watched me from the couch, his eyes raking over me slowly. Almost predatory.

Heat pooled in my belly.

I lifted my glass to my lips and downed the rest of the bourbon—the burn, a distraction from the fire of his gaze.

“Another glass,” I said to the bartender.

He slid another across the counter.

Just as I lifted my glass to drink, a voice broke in.

“Who do we have here?”

I spun and saw him. A man in a rumpled suit, holding a cheap camera.

“Aren't you Madeline Morvanti? The new bride?”

My stomach knotted.

This wasn't just press—it was a drunk one.

“I—no. I…” I stammered.

“What? Too much alcohol already?”

My fist clenched.

I had endured enough humiliation tonight to suffer another one.

Lowering my glass, I shoved a few extra bills at the bartender and headed out.

The cold air hit me.

I wrapped my arms around myself and regretted not grabbing a jacket from the house. Footsteps echoed behind me. I glanced behind—the drunk reporter.

“Care to tell me why you're outside without your husband, huh?”

“Please… just go away.”

“Leaving already?”

I hissed under my breath and walked faster.

He jogged forward and grabbed my arm. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me something. Just one comment.”

“Let me be.”

I jerked backward, but his grip tightened.

“Get your hands off her,” a deep voice said behind me.