Claimed By The Don

I used to be someone else.

Once, my name held power-whispered in courtrooms, traced on lips, wrapped in silk and danger.

I changed my name. My life. My body.

But I never stopped looking over my shoulder.

Munich was supposed to be freedom. Clean streets. New passport. Fresh start. But for me, it's just a prettier kind of cage-with neutral colors and decent coffee.

Here, I'm Elena Myers. English tutor. Quiet. Distant. Forgettable.

That was the plan.

Then today happened.

The moment I saw the package, I knew something was wrong. No return address. No delivery slip. Just brown paper folded with surgical precision, sitting on my doorstep like it had always belonged there.

I carried it inside like it was a bomb.

Inside: a single white lily.

My knees buckled.

The scent hit first-clean, cold, intoxicating. Then the memory.

Venice. His penthouse. Dominic Russo slid that flower between my thighs as he whispered all the ways he planned to own me. He said I looked pure with one in my mouth.

My legs buckled.

I tried to breathe.

Failed.

I knew that flower.

I staggered to the kitchen and gripped the counter, breathing through the nausea.

No one else knew about the lilies.

No one.

But deep down, I knew.

Five years. Five goddamn years since I testified against him. Five years of running. Hiding. Changing names like outfits. Hoping I disappeared well enough.

But he found me.

I reach into the box again, praying it's not his handwriting.

It is.

Elegant, slanted, devastatingly familiar.

Soon, Lena.

My fingers trembled.

My stomach turned.

It's him. It's always been him.

I didn't sleep that night.

I sat curled on my sofa, clutching a knife I wasn't sure I'd be able to use.

The lily sat on the kitchen table, glowing white in the dark like it was mocking me. I couldn't throw it out.

It didn't feel like a threat.

It felt like a promise.

In the morning, I convinced myself it could've been a coincidence. Someone else. A lookalike. A prank.

But the second I stepped outside, I knew I was lying.

There's a weight in the air I haven't felt in years. The sensation of being watched-subtle, heavy, familiar. A shadow clinging to my every step.

The kind of presence that used to follow me home after Dominic kissed my bruises goodnight.

I take the tram across town, pretending to be normal. Coffee in hand. Sunglasses on. Smile painted.

I've perfected invisibility. Learned how to become background noise.

But now?

I feel exposed.

Raw.

Every reflection I pass feels wrong. Every man with dark hair and an expensive coat makes my chest tighten.

He's out there. Somewhere.

Or worse-closer than I think.

I go to work, teach grammar to bored teenagers, and correct essays I barely read. Smile when I'm supposed to.

Inside, I'm unraveling.

By the time I get home, the sun is gone.

My apartment is silent. Sterile. Everything where I left it.

Except now, the air smells different.

Like cedarwood. Like him.

I stand frozen in the doorway, heart pounding, keys clenched tight.

I inch toward the kitchen, half-expecting to see him there, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, mouth smirking.

But the room is empty.

Only the lily remains-now placed in a glass of water I didn't pour.

I run to the door and check the locks.

Still bolted.

The windows?

Still latched.

But I know what this is.

A message.

He doesn't need to break in.

He already owns me.

That night, I dream of him.

Not as the monster I tried to paint in court.

But as the man who ruined me beautifully.

Dominic Russo, shirtless, leaning over me. His voice was low. His eyes were dark. His fingers leave trails of fire across my skin.

He calls me his dove. His sin. His salvation.

He makes me come so hard I sob.

And I let him.

Even in sleep-I still want him.

I wake gasping.

Sweat clings to my skin. My sheets twisted tight around my legs. My thighs ache.

I try to forget.

But it can't.

Because I know what's coming.

Not revenge.

Possession.

He once told me, "If I wanted you dead, I'd have made you watch it happen."

Dominic doesn't kill what belongs to him.

He keeps it.

Break it.

Mark it.

I left everything behind when I testified.

The life. The luxury. The man who made me feel like power and surrender were the same thing.

But he never left me.

The next morning, I found another note.

This time, slid beneath my front door.

Not folded.

Just words written in deep black ink:

"I hope you've been dreaming of me. I never stopped."