Claiming What's Mine Read online

  Claiming What’s Mine

  Jennifer

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Sucevic

  Copyright 2018 by Jennifer Sucevic

  Kindle Edition

  All Rights Reserved. This book is licensed for your enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover by The Reading Ruth

  Edited by Allison Walker Schorr

  Also by Jennifer Sucevic

  Confessions of a Heartbreaker

  Don’t Leave

  Friend Zoned

  If You Were Mine

  King of Campus

  One Night Stand

  Protecting What’s Mine

  Stay

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Protecting What’s Mine

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Roman

  Present

  I’m beginning to lose myself.

  I feel it happening more with the passing of each day, and it scares the shit out of me. During rare moments of self-reflection, doubt creeps in, and I question objectives that should be irrefutable.

  For a man like me, this is a precarious situation.

  Over the last three years, I’ve done everything in my power to keep her at a distance. I’ve been a bastard. I’ve been rude. I’ve tried ignoring her. I’ve withheld my friendship. Most days, I’m barely civil to her, because I know all hell will break loose once the floodgates open.

  None of my tactics douse the spark that flares to life when we’re in the same room. I’m a moth dancing too close to the twisting flames.

  One of these days, I’m going to get burned.

  Or end up with a bullet in my head.

  A solitary image of her flickering through my brain is enough to make me grow unbearably hard.

  I’ve found myself on the verge of reaching out to slide my fingers through the glossy strands of her dark hair too many times to count.

  Because I’m a sick and twisted fuck, I often fantasize about wrapping the thick, rope-like length around my palm and pulling it taut. I want her lush, naked body bowing like a supple tree branch and bending to my will. I want her rendered incapable of doing anything other than submitting to my dominance.

  The thought of her on bent knees, ass high in the air, cheek and chest pressed against the mattress as I hold her pinned, puts me on the brink of blowing my wad.

  Sofia can’t figure out why I act like such a bastard. I see the silent questions lingering in her eyes. If I were a lesser man, I’d fall to my knees and beg for absolution. But that’s an impossibility.

  I know the truth, even if she doesn’t.

  You’d think she would grow to despise me because of my churlish behavior. But she hasn’t. Not yet. She may have learned to stay away from me, but she doesn’t always abide by what she knows is best for her.

  Sofia doesn’t understand the feelings I stoke to life inside her. Nor does she understand the attraction vibrating in the air between us. But I do. I recognize it all too well. She wears her emotions across her heart-shaped face. And she doesn’t realize that I feast upon them like a starved monster lurking in the darkness.

  They’re much too tempting for me to resist.

  Something primitive inside me enjoys the way her body reacts to mine. Without meaning to, she displays her sexual desire for me. She flushes when our eyes meet. Her nipples harden under clothing. Her breath hitches, causing the pulse in her neck to beat erratically like the wings of a trapped bird.

  I want nothing more than to claim her and make her mine.

  But that will never happen.

  Sofia Valentini will never belong to me.

  I can’t get her out of my head. I’ve tried losing myself in dozens of other women over the years. It isn’t difficult to find a willing woman in this city. Not when you work for the Valentinis. Our reputation precedes us wherever we go.

  And the pussy flows freely in response.

  It makes no difference how high or low you rank in the organization. Name recognition is more than enough to get you whatever you want. These women want to live vicariously through you. Money, drugs, blood, and violence are powerful aphrodisiacs.

  It’s surprising how drawn some of these women are to a dangerous lifestyle. They want to singe their wings without getting burned. They want to dance close to the fire without getting torched.

  But Sofia is different.

  She’s a princess who was born into this lifestyle, and now that she’s free to make her own choices, she wants nothing to do with the Valentini empire. She would prefer to come from average, middle-class parents. Not one of the most well-known crime families in the United States, whose power and corruption dates back generations. And not one that resides in a multi-million-dollar compound on twenty sprawling acres of prime real estate along the shore of Lake Michigan.

  Sofia Valentini is an exotic bird trapped in a gilded cage.

  I’ve tried fucking women with the same olive-toned flesh. Big-breasted, generously-hipped, angelic-faced women I pretend with in dark rooms as I empty myself into their welcoming bodies.

  But it’s no use. No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget that these women are nothing more than a poor substitute for the one I really want.

  I’ve gone the other route, too, and screwed females who look nothing like her. Blondes. Redheads. Brunettes. Ones who are slim as reeds, with no tits to speak of. And ones who are tight and athletic and limber as hell.

  You’d think a woman who strokes and plays with my balls as I slam into her from behind would be enough to make me forget Sofia.

  It’s not.

  When Sofia should be the last thing occupying my mind, she pushes her way inside. Then I ejaculate in a blind outrage with a roar of frustration. Instead of providing relief, the release fuels the fury and lust boiling within me.

  It also forces me to acknowledge and accept that I have no fucking control over my own
thoughts, feelings, or body where Sofia is concerned, which pisses me off more than anything else. I take pride in being able to turn my emotions off as if they were a light switch. I couldn’t do my job if I didn’t have that kind of self-control.

  But that capability is rendered useless with Sofia.

  She’s my weakness

  While I might not be able to possess her, I’ll be damned if another man lays claim to what’s mine.

  Chapter One

  Sofia

  Three years ago

  “Well, hello there, handsome.” My sister cranes her neck. “Who do we have here?”

  At twenty-five, Francesca is already married and living in Philadelphia with her husband. I don’t get to spend as much time with her as I’d like. Since we’re two years apart, and she’s my only sister out of four siblings, we’re thick as thieves. I’m always excited when she comes home for a visit.

  Our mother has arranged a shopping excursion on Michigan Avenue, along with two dinner parties with friends and family while Frankie’s here. If there’s time, we’ll head up north to spend the weekend at our cottage in Door County, Wisconsin. Escaping the frenetic energy of the city is always a welcome change. I could spend days wandering around the quaint little towns dotting Lake Michigan’s eastern shores. Like the family compound which lies north of Chicago, the cottage has been in our family for generations.

  I don’t bother glancing in the direction where Frankie’s eyes are focused. I already know what—or who—has captured her attention. My skin prickled with awareness as soon as he stepped outside.

  “That’s Roman. He works for Papa,” I tell her, ignoring the nerves dancing at the bottom of my belly.

  Frankie snorts. “Of course, he does.” Still staring at him, she states the obvious. “Damn, but he’s hot.”

  The appreciative tone of her voice makes the edges of my lips curl into a smile. Clearing my throat, I admonish, “Have you forgotten that you’re a married woman?”

  Francesca and Dante have enjoyed marital bliss for two years, and Frankie is the happiest I’ve ever seen her. They were high school sweethearts and have known each other since they were children. I can’t imagine my sister with anyone other than Dante, who has mastered the art of reining her in when necessary while allowing her to spread her wings and soar. Not an easy feat for any man. Frankie can be a handful. There’s no doubt in my mind that the two of them were made for one another.

  “Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I can appreciate a good-looking male when I see one.”

  “Uh-huh,” I tease, recalling how she threatens her husband with bodily harm whenever she catches him looking at other women. “Can Dante appreciate a good-looking female when he sees one as well?”

  “Not if he enjoys having balls.”

  I burst into laughter. Francesca has nothing to worry about. Dante loves her beyond reason and would do anything for her.

  How can I not envy them?

  It’s difficult to imagine having a relationship like theirs since my past is riddled with courtships that fizzled out around the six-month mark. Of course, being hung up on a man who wants nothing to do with me doesn’t help my love life either.

  Those thoughts viciously circle through my brain as my gaze settles on Roman. Looking deliciously sweaty, he makes his way into the yard from the basement gym where my father’s men work out. I’ve unintentionally memorized his schedule. Every day like clockwork, Roman spends an hour lifting weights before taking a four-mile run along the trails bordering the wooded property.

  I like watching him when he’s unaware of my presence. Then I can look at him as much as I want without the fear of getting a glare in return.

  I don’t know why he doesn’t like me.

  But he doesn’t. You’d have to be blind not to notice his disgust. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

  I sensed his disdain the first time we met. Each subsequent encounter has only intensified those feelings. I’m not sure what I did to cause this reaction in him, nor do I know how to alter his perception.

  What I have learned in the time I’ve been acquainted with Roman is to give him a wide berth. And yet, knowing his feelings, I still gravitate to this spot at the same time every morning. I just can’t help myself.

  I must be a glutton for punishment, because I live for these fleeting glimpses of him. I file them away in the back of my mind to take out when I’m alone in my room.

  Roman is one of my father’s men. His disposition toward me shouldn’t matter. But it does. I’ve racked my brain to come up with a rational explanation for his behavior, but can’t find one. As much as it troubles me, I refuse to confront him and ask about it.

  That would indicate I give a damn and that his opinion matters.

  Which isn’t the case.

  All right, maybe it is.

  I can pretend all I want to the outside world, but I can’t lie to myself. I have a sick obsession with the man. I have no idea why he fascinates me.

  No one would ever accuse Roman of having a sparkling personality. The man is surly to the extreme. At least toward me, he is. Every time he glowers at me, my breath catches, and my pulse runs rampant. My panties dampen whenever I imagine his big, rough hands stroking my naked body.

  I’m not under any illusions that Roman would be a tender lover.

  There doesn’t seem to be a gentle bone in his body.

  He’s the strong, silent type, with eyes that constantly assess his surroundings to look for threats. I’ve never seen him kick back and relax. I’m not even sure if he knows how to smile.

  His complexion is dark and swarthy. My guess is that he’s of Italian descent. His body is hard. Strong. Honed for violence. A thin veneer of civility masks the explosive personality I sense lurking beneath the surface.

  My sister and I silently watch as Roman moves through a series of stretches. I’m held prisoner by the sight of his muscles contracting and lengthening. Since he hasn’t glanced in our direction, I assume he’s unaware of us ogling him from the screened-in porch as we enjoy steaming mugs of coffee.

  Roman’s dark head angles toward us. His gaze collides with mine, and I realize that he’s been aware of us the entire time. Our interest has not gone unnoticed.

  The hairs on my arms rise as he stares at me.

  “Well, well, well,” Francesca murmurs, her voice full of amusement. “What do we have here?”

  I try to look away, but can’t. I’m transfixed by the sight of him. Other than the long black athletic shorts sitting loosely around lean hips, his sun-kissed skin is gloriously bare. His muscular chest glistens with perspiration in the early morning sunlight. His cheeks are flushed from his exertion in the gym. Dark stubble covers both chin and jawline.

  This man is the epitome of tall, dark, and sinfully sexy. I’m not alone in my appreciation. I’ve seen the way other women watch him. He may not want it, but he attracts female attention without even trying.

  My sister elbows me in the ribs. “Have you been holding out on me? Is there some kind of illicit flirtation going on between you and one of Papa’s henchmen?”

  Without acknowledging our presence, Roman severs eye contact and releases me from the captivity of his stare. Air rushes from my lungs, and my legs turn to jelly as he takes off at a fast clip toward the dense woods bordering the side of the property. I track him until he passes through the tree line.

  I shake my head to clear it of the random thoughts that have accumulated. “Of course not. There’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Are you sure about that?” she sing-songs teasingly, letting me know that I’m not fooling her for a minute.

  Now that Roman has disappeared into the forest that comprises three-fourths of the property, my heart rate returns to normal and coherent thought floods through my brain.

  “He can barely tolerate the sight of me, Frankie.” The bitter truth of the words rings harshly in my ears and tastes bitter on my tongue.

  Her brows pinch together.
“Why do you say that?”

  I shrug and murmur under my breath, “You saw the way he stared at me, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I glance at my sister. Our gazes catch and hold. We’ve always been adept at silently communicating with one another. It’s a childhood trick that came in handy when we were trapped in a roomful of adults.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t want that mental connection with Frankie. If she looks too closely, she might see the feelings I have for Roman. And I’m not comfortable with owning up to something that scares and confuses me so much.

  I casually wave a hand in the air. “He always looks at me that way. It’s like he’s angry that I’m breathing the same air as him.”

  “Hmm.” She presses her lips together in a thoughtful manner. “Interesting.”

  None of my father’s men have ever made me feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in my own home. But Roman does.

  I console myself with the fact that school begins again in less than a month. I’ll return to my apartment in the city, where I can immerse myself in classes and forget all about Roman Santori.

  For a while.

  I’m in my second year of a master’s program in Educational Psychology. Most of the people I know who are my age don’t spend their summer breaks living at home with their parents, but Mama and Papa are overprotective. They worry about my safety. We have an understanding. I stay at the compound during breaks in exchange for freedom during the academic year.

  I really don’t mind spending time at home.

  Let me rephrase that—I never minded before Roman began working for my father.

  I’ve been uneasy in his presence from the get-go. I’ve tried being polite and friendly. Not overly so, but enough to pass one another in the hallway or kitchen with a cordial greeting.

  My attempts at civility were repeatedly met with cold, emotionless looks and a handful of muttered words that barely passed for conversation. I now go to great lengths to stay out of parts of the house I know he’ll be in to avoid any more forced interaction.