Page 23 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

So busy that she has time to sit in crystal circles every night, chanting at the moon. Her apartment in the Village is full of dreamcatchers and random earrings. Aunt Viv is one of the most interesting people I have ever met, excluding Salvatore Moretti, and yet I feel like I hardly know her.

I suppose our different outlooks on life has something to do with that.

Her and my mother grew up in New Jersey to working class parents. I never knew my grandparents, but they were very ordinary, according to my mother, earning just enough money to get by. Aunt Viv, three years older than my mother, spent hours in her room panting, and my mother went to college studying medicine, making more of an income at the hospital than Viv.

That was until her gallery took off.

“You think my boss was involved in the Crows?”

“If he has a tattoo on his chest, yes,” says Aunt Viv, taking a seat behind her desk, shuffling paperwork around. “Those young boys had a lot of steam to let off. Giving each other tattoos was how they entertained themselves… that was when they weren’t busy daring each other to steal cleaning products from the store.”

“Why bleach?”

Aunt Viv shrugs. “Not sure. I heard on the grapevine they were playing around with bleach.” The wooden chair creaks as she sits back into it. “The cops eventually heard about the group and broke them up,” she says, trailing her finger over the wooden desk, deep in thought.

“What about their parents?”

Aunt Viv shrugs, looking at me with a defeated look. “Who knows. Some families don’t know how to look after their children.” Lines appear between her pencil brows as she watches me. “If I’m right in saying, Salvatore Moretti is one of the city’s biggest billionaires."

Ah, so Aunt Viv does actually switch on the news from time to time.

“Yeah,” I answer, seeing where she’s going with this.

“Him being part of the Crows when he was younger won’t be a good look for him if people find out.”

“The Crows,” I repeat. “This is what the group was called?”

“Yes,” says Aunt Viv. “And for your sake, I would keep this sketch to yourself. Store it someplace safe in your apartment, yeah?”

“But the Crows are in the past?”

“Yes,” says Viv. “But if your boss caught you looking at his chest and later finds this sketch, you could lose your job. And I know how much you value your career. Be careful, yeah?” says Aunt Viv, staring at me with the intensity of someone who’s warning me to be careful for several reasons. “Don’t ask your boss any questions about the Crows and keep your distance.”

“If this was in the past, why would my mother warn me about the Crows two years ago before her death?”

Aunt Viv shrugs her shoulders, finishing sorting paperwork. “I wish I knew. Maybe they were rebuilding back then? It’s hard to know for sure.” She grabs my hand, squeezing, glancing down at my watch. “What time does your lunch break end, dear?”

“1p.m. Why?”

“You have five minutes,” cringes Aunt Viv. “Here,” she says, rushing back over to her desk. “I’ll call a taxi.”

I walk through the lobby out of breath, four whole minutes late.

The taxi arrived seconds later after Aunt Viv booked it for me, reminding me just how much money she has.

Being loaded in a city like New York is one of life’s greatest blessings. Nothing’s impossible. Aunt Viv and Mr. Moretti are evidence that hard work pays off, no matter where you come from.

“Sorry I’m late,” is the first thing I say when I enter the glass meeting room.

All fourteen attendees turn my way, flashing me tense glances as I set up at the table, flicking through pages in my notepad until I reach a clean page.

“You’re over here, Miss Bennett,” says Salvatore, his deep voice booming through the room.

I look up, seeing him pull out the empty chair for me—the one next to him.

I focus on keeping a neutral expression. On the inside, I’m screaming. What the fuck is this bastard playing at, hiding our private affair in plain sight, playing games right under people’s noses? If this is my punishment for being late, he can get fucked. I’d rather have a broken nose.

“Sure,” I squeak, heels clopping as I make my way over in silence, people watching my every move.