Claimed by My Mafia Stepson

CHAPTER 7

—Dominic—

“There’s a message. From your father,” Marco said as he walked into my office, his footsteps heavy.

I didn't look at him.

I stared out the window at the waves gently lapping the cliff. The island had been my place of isolation; my sanctuary away from the noise of the city and the whims of my father.

I puffed the smoke from my cigar. The evening sun filtered through the cigar smoke, turning the gray clouds into gold.

Marco paused a step behind me. “It's urgent,” he added carefully.

I still didn't look at him.

I extended my hand and he lowered the envelope on it. Exhaling, I slid a finger beneath the flap—and stopped.

A wedding invitation.

Another porcelain doll for the collection. Another girl to satisfy his selfish desires.

My brows creased as I saw the date.

Who sends an invitation on the day of their wedding?

Foul play was written all over this. I knew my father. In his world— nothing happened by chance.

My jaw tightened. A dull, familiar ache that only surfaced whenever I had to clean up one of his messes.

What was he up to this time?

I tossed the envelope on the floor and turned to my cigar again.

“Whose daughter is he ruining this time?”

“You'll want to see this,” Marco said carefully, extending another envelope to me.

I hesitated. Took it and opened it.

Some photos. The first one barely held my attention.

Androa in a grey tuxedo.

The second was a crowded room. Low lights. Bodies pressed too close together.

Just another one of his tasteless celebrations.

I drifted to the next photo and stilled—

A woman.

Not posed. Not performing. Just... standing there.

A glass in her hand. Shoulders relaxed.

Her back was to the camera. Dark hair cascading over her shoulders. An evening dress hugging her frame.

She was different.

Not like the others in the room.

I flipped to the next— and this time, her face was clear enough.

A faint tension locked in my chest.

“Who's this?”

Marco shifted slightly behind me. “Madeline Bennet. The woman he’s marrying today.”

The room felt quieter.

I'd been wrong.

She was not a doll. Not a collection.

A woman.

A woman who had learned to survive disappointment with her head high, without expecting more. Beautiful. Composed.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Which meant—

I drew a deep breath and handed everything back to Marco. Better to drop the thought before it grew into something dangerous.

“What about Elisa?” I let out a smoke. “Had they broken up?”

“They're still very much together.”

My eyes narrowed.

I'd been right to suspect foul play. What could they be planning against her— Madeline?

Why do I have a strong desire to protect her?

Not my business.

I took another drag.

She was Androa's headache. Not mine.

“Prepare the jet.” I tossed the cigar into the ashtray. “We're leaving.”

“Yes, sir.” Marco turned— and paused immediately, his brows creasing. “May I know where we're going?”

“To the wedding,” I said, and headed out.

The flight to the mainland was quiet.

Mid-flight, Marco approached me, his expression grim.

“Sir... the ceremony is over.”

My fingers tightened around the armrest as I stared at the night sky.

Of course.

It was no mistake.

He wanted me to miss it. Afraid I’d see through him before he was ready.

The jet touched down on the private field and I made my way down the stairs.

“To the Morvanti Mansion?” Marco asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “Let's head to the club.”

The music thumped. Neon lights flickered over the sea of bodies as I carved my way to the VIP floor. Marco and the men falling into step behind me.

Her face followed me everywhere.

I sat on the couch— scanned the room and my gaze locked with someone with a striking resemblance.

No, that couldn't be. My father's bride would be with him on their wedding day, not at a club.

Had I started hallucinating?

I watched as a man with a camera pester her until she paid the bartender and left.

Normally, I wouldn't meddle in other people's business at the club— but my feet were already moving.

Marco and the men tried to follow me.

“No. Stay back,” I whispered over the bass, and headed out.

I got her away from the drunk and took her to a hotel suite— the least I could do to remove her from the situation.

It should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

Everything slipped past restraint.

It wasn’t supposed to go that far.

But I let it.

That was the problem.

Then she bolted. Like a little bird afraid of her cage.

I pulled out my phone. “Find out everything about her. Tonight.”

Sleep eluded me.

I remained by the bar— my eyes flicking to the broken glass— a cold constant reminder of her as the morning light cut through the room.

A knock sounded on the door. And for a moment, I thought it was Marco.

“Housekeeping.”

That voice and the second knock confirmed it wasn't him.

The door opened a fraction and her gaze dropped to the broken glass. Then to me.

She froze.

“Out.”

The door shut immediately.

I stepped away from the bar, freshened up in the bathroom, and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

The next knock was him.

“Boss?” Marco's voice cut in as he walked to the bedroom.

I watched him through the mirror as he appeared at the doorway behind me and lowered his gaze, his face grim as yesterday on the flight.

I adjusted my cufflinks. “Spill it.”

Marco swallowed. “She's Madeline Bennett. Mrs. Morvanti.”

The room fell silent.

I froze.

And I never froze for anything. Not even to a gun pointed at my head.

I chuckled, the sound dry and hollow. Maybe I'd misheard.

“Come again. This time... very slowly.”

“She's your father's wife, sir.”

A beat passed.

Then the world turned red.

I grabbed a porcelain vase and hurled it at the wall. Marco flinched, glancing at the shards spraying onto the floor.

I didn’t wait for the sound to die down. I turned on him, my voice rough.

“How did he find her before me? And why was she at the club last night?”

“She was a 911 operator before they met. Sources say they had a fight last night… something that had to do with Elisa.”

Marco took a wary step closer, the shards of the vase crunching under his boot.

“Knowing she’s taken… are you going to let this go?”

“Stealing is bad, Marco,” I said, my voice low and clipped.

“But snatching a good woman from a careless man?”

I approached my right-hand man, my eyes cold enough to freeze the air between us.

“—That’s not stealing. That’s an act of mercy.”

I turned away, already reaching for my coat.

“Prepare my convoy. We’re going to the Morvanti Mansion.”