Her's To Claim©

Lilly's POV

The marble floor beneath me is ice against my skin, but I don’t move. I can’t. My limbs feel like they belong to a corpse, numb, heavy and foreign. I sit crumpled on the edge of the balcony like discarded trash, my back curled against the wall, staring into the endless stretch of the midnight sky. The stars are gone tonight, swallowed by thick clouds and the promise of another storm, another cold dawn. It’s fitting, really. Hope has no place here.

In my hands, fragile and trembling, I hold the photograph that has been the only fragment of warmth in my otherwise frostbitten existence. My fingers trace over the worn image, three smiles forever captured but forever lost. My mother, beautiful and soft-eyed, holding us close. Timothe beside me, with his gap-toothed grin and a smudge of chocolate near his lip. I was five, Timothe was ten, and we were happy.

And that… that was the last time I ever knew what happiness felt like. Since that day—since the fire stole them both from me in one vicious, choking breath, I’ve been surviving in the aftermath. I wasn’t spared by mercy. No. I was left behind by something crueller than death. Each day since has been like dragging my body naked across broken glass, bleeding, raw and endlessly painful. Every time I wanted to give up, to stop breathing, to disappear...I couldn’t. Not because I was brave. God, no. I’ve never been brave. I am a coward wrapped in skin. A trembling, fragile thing, no one has cared for.

As long as Mom and Timmy were alive, my father wore a mask of tolerance. Not affection, never that, but a cold, distant civility. He endured my presence only because they existed. I was merely an extension of their love, a tolerated shadow. Timmy was the golden boy, the heir to our family’s bloody legacy. I was the afterthought. The spare. And when they died, I dared, foolishly dared to believe that maybe now, now that it was just the two of us, he would reach for me. That maybe he would see me. But he didn’t.

Instead, he spiralled. Fell headfirst into whiskey bottles and between the legs of nameless women. Night after night, I would hear him stumbling through the halls, laughter dripping with sin and smoke. Sometimes he brought his whores in during the day, unashamed. He didn’t look at me, not unless he needed something. And when he did, it was never love. It was never protection.

It was strategy.

I was to be useful. I was to be groomed. So he brought her. Deena.

She wasn’t a nanny. She wasn’t even human. She was a demon in lipstick and linen, handpicked by my father to turn me into a perfect offering. I was six when she arrived, and now I’m twenty-three. Seventeen years of hell in heels.

From the moment she stepped through the door, she tore away every flicker of joy I had left. Her main goal was to prepare me to be a dutiful wife to a mafia boss. I was taught with every slap, every kick, every taunt that all my life was worth was being a quiet, obedient wife who would never meet the eyes of her husband, who would never question how the husband would use her, and never question how many mistresses he has outside of the marriage. She made sure it was engraved in my bones, in my soul, and she succeeded.

And now… now that future is no longer a nightmare. It is a certainty.

Tomorrow, I will marry a man born of blood and cruelty. Adrian Ricci. The Falcon. A name whispered with fear, spat with hatred, soaked in legend and gore. The man whose empire directly opposes my father’s, the man whose blood feud with our Volkova family has soaked cities in crimson. His father, they say, orchestrated the death of my mother and brother. And mine, Victor Volkova, the devil I call father, slaughtered Adrian’s father, Michelle Ricci, in retaliation.

And now I am the peace offering. The sacrifice.

This unholy union was brokered by the Capo himself, Luca Gambino, to stop the escalating war between our houses. The delicate balance of Cosa Nostra hangs on my ability to kneel at the feet of the man I should hate with every fibre of my being. Tomorrow, I will become his wife. His property.

I have heard the stories of the men he’s tortured, of the bodies he’s buried alive, of the way he plucks out tongues from those who dare speak out of turn. He is a phantom with a predator’s eyes. And now, he will own me, body, voice and life.

If my world was hell before, this new one promises to be an abyss far deeper, darker, and lonelier.

Deena nearly wept with joy when she learned who my husband would be. Adrian Ricci, next in line to be Capo. She sees power and prestige. She sees her efforts validated. If I play the part well, if I impress the families with how docile I’ve become, they will reward her. She will become the blueprint for raising mafia wives. Her legacy will be other girls like me—bred for silence, trained for pain and destined for cages.

And I? I will never escape.

There’s no running from this fate. No saviour waiting in the wings. No miracle to undo what’s already set in motion.

My hands tremble as I look down at the photograph once more, vision blurring with the tears I can no longer hold back. They fall silently, splashing onto my mother’s smiling face, onto Timmy’s innocent eyes.

“Oh, Mom… Timmy… I miss you,” I whisper, voice barely more than a ghost. My words are carried off into the night, but I am too afraid to speak louder. My father’s men are everywhere, watching and listening. They would report even my tears if they thought it would earn them a favour.

I wrap my arms around myself, curling tighter, smaller. My body shakes with silent sobs. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop crying. I don’t know if I’ll ever be again. Because starting tomorrow, I won’t even belong to myself.

I will belong to the Falcon.

And he will never let me fly.

I stand still like prey under the watchful eyes of a predator as Deena circles me like I’m her grotesque magnum opus. Her sharp, skeletal fingers prod and press against my ribs, measuring, moulding, fixing. She’s determined to make me into something flawless, something valuable—like a porcelain doll dressed for slaughter. The wedding dress clings to my skin like a second layer of suffocating ivory. Its silk is soft, but everything about this feels like chains designed to choke me with elegance.

Behind me, girls scurry like frightened mice, each one too afraid to make a sound louder than a whisper. One of them is carefully curling my hair, while another fumbles with lipstick, both of them too terrified to look me in the eye, as if acknowledging me might invite Deena’s wrath upon them. And Deena? She’s right behind me, tightening the corset with vicious determination. Her hands tug the laces with so much force that I nearly stumble forward.

Crack. My breath catches, sharp and strained, as the corset digs into my ribs, scraping over already tender skin, pulling tighter and tighter until I feel like my lungs are shrinking, collapsing. My vision blurs for a second. The air in the room feels thinner, heavier.

“Suck that stomach in, brat,” she hisses, her voice thick with scorn as she yanks the final string. The insult cuts just as deep as the fabric biting into my waist. I hear her grunt in approval as my waist is cinched to her satisfaction—unrealistically tiny and unnatural.

She steps around to face me now, her eyes gleaming with sick pride, like an artist admiring her creation. Without warning, her hands shoot forward, pushing at my breasts, adjusting them roughly so they spill just right over the neckline of the dress. The fabric strains, revealing just enough to tempt, just enough to humiliate.

“Good,” she mutters to herself. “He’ll like that.”

He. Adrian Ricci. The man I’m being gifted to. The man whose hands are soaked in blood, who will have the right to touch me, command me, and use me. Deena’s favourite lesson, drilled into my psyche with years of violence, has always been this: seduction is survival. If I can keep him interested, if I can be desirable enough, maybe he’ll return to me after he’s done with his countless mistresses. Maybe he’ll grant me his attention—if not his affection, then at least a few scraps of his time.

The thought makes me sick. It always has. The idea of trying to please the man whose father was responsible for tearing my family apart makes my stomach twist in revulsion. But I’ve long accepted that what I feel doesn’t matter because my wants are irrelevant. My body is a weapon now, trained and sharpened for the pleasure of a man I should hate with every bone in my body.

Deena’s fingers grip my chin, forcing my face upward so she can examine every inch with her signature sneer. Her thumb digs into my cheek, cold and rough.

“She looks pale like a damn corpse,” she snarls, eyes narrowed in disapproval. “Add more blush. I don’t want the groom thinking he’s marrying a ghost.”

The girl holding the makeup brush flinches but obeys instantly, dabbing my cheeks with trembling fingers, adding fake color to dead skin. I don’t even blink. I’m used to being handled like a lifeless object.

My thoughts drift again to the life I could have had. To my mother, to Timmy. How different this day would be if she were alive. She wouldn’t have stopped the wedding because she never disobeyed my father. But her presence would’ve softened the edges, made this hell feel a little less sharp. Maybe she would’ve held my hand, or maybe Timmy would’ve made a dumb joke, made me laugh, just once more. My chest aches at the memory of his laugh, so full of life. God, I miss them.

“Perfect,” Deena breathes, and her voice slices through my daydream like a scalpel. I blink back to reality.

She’s smiling. A triumphant, shrill grin spreads across her face as she studies me from head to toe like she’s won some twisted prize. Then there’s a sharp knock at the door.

Her head jerks toward it like a hound catching a scent. She opens the door with a breathless smile plastered across her lips, her posture straightening, her chest puffed out like she’s about to greet royalty.

And there he is. My father.

Victor Volkova steps into the room like the shadow of death. Tall, composed, and colder than the grave. His eyes sweep over the room before they land on me, but it’s not affection or approval in his gaze. Just calculation. He barely looks at me before turning to Deena, who watches him hungrily, her eyes devouring him, her mouth twitching like a schoolgirl on the verge of giggling.

“She looks good. You’ve done a good job,” he says. His voice is deep, flat, and void of warmth.

Deena nearly preens under his words, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “Thank you, sir. All my hard work has paid off,” she says, pride dripping from every syllable.

He nods once. No smile. No softness. Then his eyes fall on me again, hard as ice, sharp as broken glass. He walks toward me, slow and deliberate, like he’s inspecting a product before handing it off to a client.

“Do not embarrass me,” he says, low and venomous.

His words coil around me like a noose. The anxiety in my stomach spikes, turning sharp, making it harder to breathe. My lungs are already restricted from the corset, but now it feels like my very soul is being suffocated. I nod slowly. Because what else can I do? I’ve never been able to speak in front of him. Not without choking.

He studies me one last time before turning back toward Deena.

“Get her to the church on time. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone. No blessing. No goodbye. Just orders barked like I’m nothing more than a pawn on a chessboard he built from corpses.

Deena straightens her shoulders, adjusts her hair, and watches him leave like she’s watching a god walk away. I close my eyes, trying to slow the spiralling panic in my chest. My thoughts are a frenzied blur, each one more terrifying than the last.

Come on, Lilly. Breathe. Just breathe. You can do this. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe—

But I already know that’s a lie. There’s no hope left.

Only the countdown. And I’m running out of time.

As the car rolls to a stop in front of the church, the weight of the moment crashes over me. My lungs seize up as the reality claws at my insides—this is it. There is no turning back now. Anxiety sinks its jagged claws into the depths of my soul, refusing to let go. My heart hammers like a war drum inside my corset-bound chest, each beat a countdown to the inevitable.

Deena is out of the car before me, barking orders like a deranged director preparing for a performance she’s been obsessing over for years. She and her girls flutter around my gown, adjusting the weighty fabric, smoothing the train. My fingers twitch at my sides as my gaze roams over the grounds. I search desperately and pathetically for any sign of an escape, a back gate, an unlocked door, even a distraction. But hope dies quickly.

Security is suffocating. Men with guns flank every corner of the churchyard like vultures perched, ready to swoop at the first sign of defiance. Their suits are crisp, their eyes are sharp, and every single one of them is on high alert. All the major families of the Cosa Nostra are present, and today isn’t just about vows, it’s about power, politics and bloodlines. No one’s foolish enough to let a bride slip away when alliances are on the line.

“Come now, brat,” Deena scowls, motioning for me to follow her inside. Her sharp, manicured fingers press against the small of my back, shoving me forward like I’m a child being led into detention.

Inside, the air is thick, heavy with incense and expectation. Guests murmur as they take their seats, but I can’t focus on any of it. My body feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong to me. The corset is a vice, crushing my ribs, making every shallow breath a punishment. I can barely hold myself up under the weight of the dress, the fear, the history. Deena adjusts the veil with twitching fingers, and just as I think I might pass out from lack of air, my father appears.

He says nothing as he storms toward me. His face is carved from stone, his eyes as dead as ever. Without hesitation, he yanks my arm into his and grips it tightly. The contact makes me wince. His touch is as cruel as his words, and I brace for the pain. I don’t dare make a sound. I learned the hard way what happens when I do. After we lost Mom and Timmy, I wore the evidence of his grief across my skin in bruises and welts. Memories of belts and kicks claw up my throat, and bile threatens to follow. I swallow it down.

“You’re going to play an important role now,” he growls, his voice low and laced with deadly warning.

“Behave and be a good wife. Do whatever that Ricci bastard says.”

He speaks like he’s reciting orders to a soldier, not giving his daughter away. His eyes remain fixed ahead, never once meeting mine. He won’t even look at me. Not even now, when we’re seconds away from the point of no return. I should have known better than to expect a last-minute change of heart. My father stopped pretending to care the day he lost his heir.

My voice hides somewhere deep inside me, too afraid to come out. So I nod slowly and obediently. He notices from the corner of his eye but refuses to acknowledge it fully, as if the mere act of seeing me would poison him.

“Don’t make him angry,” he adds, his voice darkening. “If you do, that son of a bitch won’t hesitate to kill me. Got it?”

That’s what he cares about. Not me. Not my safety. Just his life. His status. His survival. My role is simple: keep the monster entertained so he doesn’t destroy everything around us. His grip tightens like a vice, bruising me through the fabric of the gown. I nod again, faster this time. Anything to make the pain stop. His grip loosens slightly just enough to allow circulation back into my arm, but then the music begins, and I’m being led down towards my new hell.

My feet move, but I don’t feel them. My chest aches from the lack of oxygen, crushed beneath the unforgiving corset. My fingers twitch against the bouquet of lilies, white, pure and ironic. I can’t breathe. I literally can’t breathe. Everything around me begins to warp, sounds slowing, blending into an overwhelming roar of noise and movement.

I keep my head down. My heart slams against my ribs, threatening to rip free from its prison. My vision tunnels. I focus on one thing: surviving this. Surviving him.

Breathe, Lilly. Breathe.

Suddenly, my father’s grip slips away. I blink in confusion before I realise we’re at the altar. The music slowly fades to silence.

Then something happens. Something strange. His hand rises, slow and unexpected, and lifts my chin. For a split second, the child inside me stirs, hoping. Hoping for kindness or something fatherly. A goodbye. A blessing. Something to soften the blow. That maybe, just maybe, he might offer something kind. A shred of human decency. But instead, he leans in close and hisses in my ear.

“Good riddance,” he whispers, each syllable venomous. “I wish it were you the fire had taken. Not my Timmy.”

The world caves in. His words slice through me like jagged glass, ripping open old wounds that never truly healed. I feel everything and nothing all at once as the truth I always suspected is finally spat into my face. The pain is immediate, sharp, and cruel. My breath falters. My chest burns. My eyes blur with unshed tears.

He steps back, smiling now. Smiling like he’s finally unburdened himself of a truth he’s held in for years. Like he’s proud. And then he turns away and takes his seat beside Deena, leaving me gutted at the altar like roadkill on display.

I remain at the altar, trembling. My hands are slick with sweat as I clutch the bouquet of lilies like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. The priest begins to speak, but his words blur, just like the room, just like the people. I can’t hear. I can’t see.

One, two, three, four. Breathe. One, two, three, four. Breathe.

I chant my mother’s lullabies in my mind like a prayer.

Mom... Timmy... cupcakes... laughing... the bakery... warmth...

Mom... Timmy... please...

Then, a voice, deep, rich, and thunderous, rips through my haze.

“I do.”

It shakes me and shatters my fragile cocoon. I lift my gaze and freeze.

There, in front of me, stands a man like no other. Tall, towering, dangerous and......beautiful.

Adrian Ricci.

He’s impossibly tall, forcing me to crane my neck just to meet his eyes. Those eyes, black as night and twice as cruel, lock onto mine, and my breath catches and my knees threaten to give out.

His hair is slightly tousled, a single strand falling onto his forehead, making him look criminally effortless. His features are sharp, sculpted like they were made to hurt. The line of his jaw is a weapon in itself. Beneath his tailored designer suit worth more than what most people make in a year, I glimpse the faint edges of tattoos, dark ink licking up his throat like demons trying to escape. He is the embodiment of power. Of sin. A monster carved from shadows and temptation.

And God help me, he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. My stomach churns. Heat pools low in my abdomen as my thighs press together instinctively. My body responds like it’s betraying me. Because Adrian Ricci is a beautiful monster. And I am being bound to him forever. Fuck me.

The priest turns to me.

“Do you take Adrian Ricci to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

My heart seizes.

“I—” The word catches in my throat, dry and useless. I try to swallow, but it feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

“I object!”

A voice shrieks through the air like a blade through silence. Gasps sound as all heads turn, and the church seems to freeze.

A woman stands boldly in the centre aisle. She’s dressed in a tight black designer dress that hugs her curves. Her heels click sharply against the marble as she moves forward, her shoulder-length dark curls bouncing with every step. She stands tall, confident, a smirk curling her lips like she’s enjoying this too much.

“Hello, darling,” she purrs at Adrian, her voice laced with wicked amusement. “Miss me?”

The silence stretches as everyone turns to Adrian. And what I see on his face tells me everything.

Hell is about to break loose.