Claimed By The Ruthless Dark Mafia Don

Giada POV Over the next two days, I didn't just read Ellen's psychological profile; I breathed it in. Sitting in the dim corner of the Moreno drawing room, I practiced stripping the warmth from my eyes, replacing it with the cold, isolated aura that had once captivated the devil. Across the room, Kelsey eagerly swallowed the black-market fertility pills with a glass of champagne. "Are you sure about this, Kelsey?" Blanca fretted, wringing her hands. "Dante Blackwell is notoriously paranoid. If he suspects you are trying to trap him—" "He won't," Kelsey interrupted, her eyes gleaming with the arrogant certainty of a woman who thought she had cheated death. "Don Booker and his Bratva are pushing the borders. The Underboss is already questioning Dante's lack of an heir. He needs a son to solidify his reign." Kelsey glanced at me. For a split second, raw jealousy flashed in her eyes as she took in my face. The subtle shifts in my posture and the chilling emptiness in my gaze had only amplified my natural beauty, giving me a fatal, untouchable allure. But then she patted her flat stomach and smirked. In her mind, a womb was worth more than a crown. By dawn on the day of our departure, the Blackwell Family's bulletproof Rolls-Royce Phantom idled outside our mansion. "I will be his Queen," Kelsey promised Aurelio and Blanca, her voice trembling with raw ambition. Sitting in the leather interior of the Phantom, inhaling the faint, metallic scent of gunpowder, I let a cold smile touch my lips. *Never.* When we arrived at the Blackwell Estate, the gothic architecture loomed through the morning mist like a fortress of nightmares. Instead of the Main Iron Gates, the convoy veered toward the heavily guarded Service Entrance. It was a degrading reminder: we were not guests; we were Collateral. Kelsey stared hungrily at the towering iron bars of the main entrance. "One day, my son will open those gates for me," she whispered. I said nothing, silently following the guards into the East Wing. The guest room assigned to me was luxurious but suffocatingly cold. Before the night's selection, every new Collateral was required to submit a Security Dossier Photo for the Don's review. Sitting at the vanity, I took a sponge and deliberately smeared pale, ashen foundation over my cheeks. I dulled the natural glow of my skin and pulled my dark hair into a messy, pathetic tangle, carefully obscuring the striking features that mirrored his dead fiancée. Siena, the Associate assigned as my maid, lowered the Polaroid camera, her brow furrowed in deep confusion. "Signorina... Kelsey is down the hall drenching herself in Ellen's favorite perfume. Why are you making yourself look so ruined?" "Because Dante Blackwell is a paranoid predator," I murmured, staring at the lifeless, unthreatening girl in the mirror. "A perfect imitation of his ghost won't seduce him; it will trigger his killer instinct. To survive a monster, you must first look like harmless prey." I handed her the photo. It was a calculated flaw. Suppress first, elevate later. Hours bled into the night. The tension in the East Wing was thick enough to choke on. I knew Kelsey was pacing her room, waiting for her golden ticket. Then, heavy, authoritative footsteps echoed against the marble floor. A Capo appeared in my doorway, his face carved from stone. "The Don commands your presence in the Penthouse," he announced, his voice carrying the absolute weight of the Don's Command. From the hallway, I heard Kelsey gasp, a sharp sound of pure, venomous shock. I stood up slowly, my heart hammering a dangerous rhythm against my ribs. Dante hadn't chosen me for my looks—my photo was intentionally pathetic. He chose me because of the medical file attached to that dossier. Someone had manipulated the psychological evaluation to pique the Dark Don's twisted interest. Someone who knew exactly what was written about my "purity" and mental state. Dr. Julian Weaver. The old acquaintance had rigged the board. Smoothing the skirt of my simple dress, I stepped out of the room, walking straight toward the devil's private sanctuary.