Claimed By the Mafia Heir (Vegas Vows + Vendettas #5)

Chapter 1

NATALIA

There’s a body on the beach.

My feet stop before my brain catches up, and for one horrible second I’m back in my father’s warehouse, watching his men drag out what used to be a person.

Nope. Not going there now. Move, Natalia.

I’m running toward them before I can talk myself out of it, sand kicking up behind me.

The beach stretches empty in both directions, nothing but gray water and pale sand and the kind of silence that only exists in the off-season.

No one around for miles, which is the whole point of stashing your daughter on a remote barrier island.

No witnesses, no complications, no chance she’ll do something inconvenient like have a thought of her own. Keep the merchandise in good condition until the Colombians are ready for delivery. That’s all I am.

The man is on his back, waves lapping at his legs, and up close the blood is worse than I thought.

A gash on his temple, angry and deep. One wrist swollen and discolored.

Clothes soaked through, covered in sand and seaweed and God knows what else.

Black t-shirt, black jacket, black pants.

Nothing that screams “here’s my identity and how I ended up maybe-dead on your beach. ”

My knees hit the sand. Two fingers to his neck.

Please be alive. Please don’t make me deal with a corpse today. I am so not equipped for that.

The pulse is there. Slow, but there.

His eyelids flutter, and suddenly I’m staring into a pair of dark brown eyes that can’t quite focus. He squints up at me, brow furrowed, and tries to shove himself upright. His movements are sloppy as hell. Drunk-looking. The sound that comes out of his mouth isn’t even close to a word.

“Hey.” I press my hands to his shoulders, keeping him down. “Don’t move. You’re hurt.”

He blinks at me. Like I’m a math problem he can’t solve. Not that he looks like he remembers what math is.

“What...” He looks past me at the sky, then down at the sand, then back to my face. Irritation flickers through the confusion. “Where the hell am I?”

“On the beach. Moratoc Island, North Carolina. The middle of nowhere, basically.” I keep my voice calm.

Like I actually know what I’m doing here instead of just playing doctor with knowledge I scraped together from YouTube and the Bratva’s back-room surgeon.

“You’ve got a nasty head wound. Do you remember what happened? ”

His eyes narrow with effort. Like he’s reaching for something and his fingers keep slipping.

“No.” The word comes out rough and frustrated. “I don’t... everything’s fucking fuzzy.”

“That’s normal with a head injury. It’ll probably clear up.” I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself at this point. “Can you tell me your name?”

I watch him reach for it.

Watch the frustration shift to concentration. His jaw works. His eyes go distant as he digs through whatever’s left inside his skull.

Then his whole face changes. The irritation drains out, replaced by something rawer. His hands ball into fists against the wet sand. His breathing goes shallow and fast.

“I don’t know.” The words come out like they’re being ripped from him. “I can’t... what the fuck? I can’t remember.”

Well. Shit.

“Head injuries can cause temporary memory loss. I’m sure it’ll come back.” My pulse is hammering, but I keep my voice even.

Calm. You’re calm, Natalia. Totally calm. You’ve read about this in textbooks. You’ve watched Dr. Volkov assess dozens of concussions. You’ve just never done it yourself.

“Temporary.” He says it like he’s trying to make himself believe it. But I can see the fear bleeding through the cracks. The bone-deep terror of reaching for your own name and grabbing nothing but air.

I know what I’m looking at. The disorientation, the memory loss, the pupils that aren’t tracking right. Classic concussion. Possibly severe. The kind that needs imaging to rule out a bleed.

He needs a hospital.

And that’s almost funny, because I can’t take him to a hospital.

I can’t take anyone anywhere. I’m supposed to be invisible out here—no paper trails, no official contact, no attention of any kind. My father made the consequences of drawing attention very clear, and I believe him.

Even calling 911 means answering questions. Where do you live, ma’am? How did you find him? Can we get your name for our records?

This man could be anyone. He could be connected to anyone. He could be the kind of problem that gets me killed.

If my father were here, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d leave this guy in the sand and let the tide handle it. Problem solved. Classic Anton Kozlov efficiency.

The man tries to sit up again. Makes it halfway before the color drains from his face and he has to catch himself against the sand.

“Shit.” He presses his palm to his forehead.

I look at him. Soaked, bleeding, terrified in a way he’s clearly trying to hide. And I think about what my father would do. What my brother Nikolai would do. What any of them would do.

If I abandon him here, I don’t get to pretend I’m different than they are.

“Can you walk?” The words are out before I can second-guess them. “I have a place nearby. I can check you out there.”

He looks up at me. The fear’s still swimming beneath the surface, but he’s shoving it down. Fighting for control. Even with his brain scrambled, that instinct is intact.

“Why?” Blunt. Suspicious. “You rescue half-dead strangers often, or am I special?”

“First time, actually.” I hold his gaze. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Dark amusement flickers across his face, cutting through the pain for just a second.

“No promises.”

Great. He’s a smartass. Even with amnesia.

He nods, and I help him the rest of the way up. He sways immediately, and I duck under his arm to steady him.

He’s heavier than I expected, the muscle under his soaked shirt dense and hard. His skin is clammy and cold where it presses against mine, but underneath there’s heat. Life.

“Lean on me,” I manage. “Easy.”

We shuffle up the beach like the world’s worst three-legged race. He stumbles every few steps, and every time I brace for his weight. By the time the beach house comes into view, my shoulder is aching and we’re both breathing hard.

The house looks like it always does. Expensive and empty. The kind of place a real estate listing would call “a coastal retreat” and I’d call “a holding cell with nice countertops.”

I guide him inside, deposit him on the couch, and head to the bathroom for my first aid kit.

When I come back, he’s slumped against the cushions with his eyes closed. Pale under the tan. But he’s watching me through slitted lids as I sit on the coffee table across from him.

Taking my measure. Sizing me up.

Fair enough. I’m doing the same thing.

“This is going to sting,” I warn, and press the disinfectant-soaked gauze to his head wound.

He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch, really. Stubborn. Apparently that part of his personality survived the memory wipe.

I clean the gash carefully, my fingers working around the matted blood in his hair. It’s dark hair. Thick. The kind you could really grab onto if you wanted to—

Focus. Not the time.

The laceration on his temple is about two inches long, and the bleeding has mostly stopped on its own.

I dig through the first aid kit until I find the butterfly strips and close the edges as carefully as I can, the way I’ve seen it done.

It’s not stitches, but it’ll hold. Then I hold his eyelid open and shine my phone’s flashlight into his eye.

He jerks back hard. “Fuck. Warn a guy.”

“Sorry.” Both pupils are reactive, at least, which makes me feel marginally better about the no-hospital situation. Marginally. Like, one percent better.

His wrist is next. I take his hand in mine, and awareness prickles up my arm at the contact. His fingers are long. Calloused. Tattooed on the knuckles. I press gently along the bones and feel him tense when I hit the swollen part.

“Probably sprained,” I say, not looking at his face. “These cuts need cleaning too.”

I work through his injuries one by one. Disinfect. Bandage. Repeat. He watches me the whole time, and I’m way too aware of it. The weight of his attention. The way his dark eyes track my hands like he’s memorizing every movement.

He’s handsome. I noticed it on the beach, but it’s harder to ignore up close. Not pretty-boy handsome. Something rougher. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Cheekbones that catch the light. A mouth that looks like it smirks more than it smiles.

Stop cataloging his face, Natalia. Very unprofessional.

“So.” His voice is dry. “Am I gonna live?”

“Probably. You’ve got a concussion, you’re dehydrated, and you’ve been beaten to hell.” I sit back and survey my work. “But you’ll survive.”

“Beaten to hell.” That almost-smile again. “Feels about right.”

“Do you remember anything? Even pieces?”

He goes quiet. I watch him strain for it, reaching into the dark.

“Water,” he finally says. “I remember water. And... something loud. Then nothing.”

“There was a bad storm last night.” I glance toward the window, where the sky is still bruised and heavy. “You might’ve wrecked a boat in the storm.”

He frowns, like he’s trying to make the pieces fit. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He shakes his head, winces at the movement, and I can see the frustration boiling under his skin. He wants answers. So do I.

But I’m not going to get them right now, and neither is he.

“I have a spare room,” I say. “You need rest. Sleep if you can. I’ll check on you every few hours to make sure you’re okay.”

He studies me for a long moment. Like he’s trying to crack me open and see what’s inside.

“Why are you helping me?”

The question is simple. Stripped of the sarcasm, the defensive edge. Just pure confusion from a man who doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would bother.

I think about my father. About the cold, empty house I grew up in. About all the times I needed someone to give a damn and no one did.

“Because someone should,” I respond quietly. I shrug before he can read into it. “Don’t make it weird.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me with those dark eyes, and something shifts behind them—there and gone before I can name it.

“Okay.” He pushes himself up, swaying. “Lead the way.”

I hold up a hand. “You can’t sleep in wet clothes. You’ll make my guest bed smell like low tide.”

He looks down at himself like he forgot he’s still soaked through and crusted with sand.

“I have dry clothes you can change into.” I nod toward my room. “And there’s a shower if you want to wash the ocean off.”

“Shower later.” He shakes his head slowly, carefully. “Don’t think I can stand that long.”

Fair enough. I grab sweatpants and a t-shirt from my dresser. I like my loungewear big enough to drown in, so hopefully they’ll fit.

“Bathroom’s through there.” I hand him the clothes. “I’ll wait.”

He’s gone for a few minutes. When he comes back, “fit” is generous. The shirt stretches tight across his pecs and the sweats hit a good three inches above his ankles. He looks ridiculous. Also, somehow, unfairly attractive, but I’m going to aggressively ignore that part.

“Fashion icon,” I say.

He glances down at himself. “Runway ready.”

I huff a laugh as I grab a glass of water and some pain relievers from the bathroom. “Drink all of this. And these will help with the headache.”

He takes the pills without question, drains the water in one long swallow. He must be even more dehydrated than I thought.

“Thanks,” he mutters, handing the glass back.

I walk him to the guest room, catching his elbow when he stumbles. He lowers himself onto the bed, and I can see exhaustion dragging him under like a riptide. His eyes are already half-shut when I reach the door.

“Hey.”

I turn back.

He’s looking at me, barely hanging on to consciousness. “What’s your name?”

Names are dangerous in my world. Names get people killed.

But I’m supposed to be free of that world. At least for now.

“Natalia.”

He nods slowly, like he’s filing it away somewhere safe.

“Thanks, Natalia.” The words slur together. “For not leaving me there.”

He’s out before I can respond.

I stand in the doorway too long, watching the steady rhythm of his breath. In sleep, the tension drains from his face. He looks younger. Almost peaceful.

Then my eyes catch on something else.

The too-small shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of stomach. Tanned skin. Defined muscle.

And scars.

A puckered circle on his hip that looks exactly like a bullet wound. A jagged line across his ribs from something sharp. A knife, maybe. Something that wanted to kill him and almost succeeded.

I know those kinds of scars. I grew up in a house full of men who wore them.

I back out slowly. Pull the door shut. My heart is beating too fast, thoughts spinning in tighter and tighter circles.

He could be anyone. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I just let into my house, and in my family, the things you don’t know are the things that kill you.

I cross to the kitchen and pull open the junk drawer. My fingers close around the canister of mace I stashed there my first night here.

I pull it out. Check the seal. Make sure it’s ready.

The beach house settles around me, still except for the waves and the creak of old wood. Somewhere down the hall, a stranger is sleeping in my guest room. A stranger with no name, no memory, and a body that tells a story I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear.

Helping him was the right thing to do.

I believe that.

But I’m not stupid.

And if he gives me a reason to regret this, I’ll be ready.

I really, really hope he doesn’t.