Hellbound To The Don: Claimed by the Devil

Welcome Note

Dear Reader,

Welcome to this dark, dangerous, and addictive world of secrets, power, betrayal, and forbidden love.

Thank you for choosing to read my story and for giving these characters a chance to steal a little piece of your heart.

A little caution before you begin: This book contains dark romance themes, mature situations, violence, crime, and emotionally intense content. Please read with that in mind.

And now… the real question is:

How far would you go for love when everything around you tells you to run?

So settle in, turn the page, and let the story pull you in. Keep reading—it only gets better.

And if a chapter makes you gasp, scream, or desperately need the next one, comment, like, and let me know! Your support means more than you know.

Welcome to the story.

Now, let’s begin…

Fina’s POV

A wedding dress was meant to symbolize purity.

But standing in front of the ornate mirror in the Cathedral’s holding room, I didn’t see purity. I saw a shroud.

The white lace choked my throat, the satin weighed down my limbs, and the veil pinning my hair back felt like a net trapping a dying bird.

My wedding was scheduled for noon and it was only three minutes till my death sentence.

“You look breathtaking, Fina,” my mother whispered from behind me, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the pearl buttons on my back.

Her voice was thin and laced with the quiet terror that had defined our family’s existence for as long as I could remember. “Don Mario will be pleased.”

Don Mario.

I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. Mario Moretti was fifty-two years old, a sadistic underboss in the Chicago syndicate, and a man who took pleasure in breaking things. And by things, I mean women.

Women were things to him: commodities, perfectly helpless subjects for his shameless desires. My father had sold me to him six months ago to settle a gambling debt.

I pressed my hand flat against my stomach. Beneath the rigid boning of the corset, my flesh was very still. Nobody knew. Not my mother, not my father, and certainly not Mario.

If Mario found out that I was carrying a secret—a fragile heartbeat that wasn't his—he wouldn't just cancel the wedding. He would slaughter me where I stood, and throw my body into the Chicago lake.

“Will Matteo be present mother?” I asked, doing my best to keep a neutral expression with a tight smile.

“Why should he be?” she asked, her eyebrows lifted together, confusion flickering across her face.

Because he's the father of my baby. The words were just on the tip of my tongue.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, dismissing the question.

Just make it through the ceremony, I said to myself, staring at my pale reflection. Just survive tonight. Find a way to run tomorrow.

Mother's eyes softened and she was about to say something else when the doors of the bridal suite burst open.

My father rushed in, his face flushed, sweat dripping down his temple into his graying beard. He looked back over his shoulder as if the devil himself were chasing him down the hallway.

“It’s time,” my father rasped, grabbing my elbow. “Do not embarrass me today Seraphina. Smile for Mario.”

As if I'd ever had the guts to embarrass him before. Before this child.

“Father, please I can't—” I began, my voice cracking.

“Shut up!” he hissed, shaking me once. I knew he would have slapped me if I wasn't getting married today. “You do what you’re told. You owe this family your life.”

He pulled me out into the grand arched hallway leading to the back of the cathedral. The organ music was already booming through the thick wooden doors—an ominous melody that sounded more like a funeral march than a celebration.

My father gripped my hand, placing it stiffly onto his arm. The doors swung open.

I swallowed and straightened, fighting back the tears.

The cathedral was packed with hundreds of figures in black tailored suits.

The elite of the underworld.

Diamond necklaces glittered in the crowd and the air smelled of copper, gunpowder, and expensive cologne. At the end of the red carpet stood Mario Moretti, a sick, possessive sneer plastered across his face as he watched me walk toward him.

I kept my head bowed to avoid his eyes, my breath hitching in my chest.

One step. Two steps. Just breathe Fina.

We reached the altar and my knees nearly buckled. My father handed my wrist over to Mario and nudged me forward.

Mario's grip was firm as he squeezed my fingers so tightly, his ring cut into my skin.

“You look precious, little bird,” He purred under his breath, his dark eyes greedily drinking in the sight of my pale face. “Can’t wait to claim your virgin body tonight.”

I shivered, unable to look him in the eye. I wasn't a virgin. There was nothing virgin about a pregnant woman.

The priest stepped forward, his leather-bound Bible trembling slightly in his hands. He cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak the sacred Latin opening vows.

He didn't get to finish the first word.

BANG!

The massive, iron-reinforced main doors of the cathedral blew completely off their hinges, crashing onto the floor with a sound like thunder.

The organ music cut out instantly. Screams echoed through the pews as women ducked and men instinctively reached under their tuxedos for concealed weapons. A cloud of dust and smoke billowed through the grand entrance.

I remained frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. This was a heavily guarded mafia wedding. Who could have dared to do this?

Through the haze, heavy black boots clicked against the floors. Slow. Deliberate. Terrifyingly calm.

A collective gasp rippled through the pews.

“Dio mio...” my father whimpered beside me, dropping to his knees on the altar step.

My heart slammed even harder into my ribs. I lifted my veil with a shaking hand, peering through the smoke.

A tall, towering figure stepped into the light of the stained-glass windows. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, a dark tie, and leather gloves. His jet-black hair was swept back, highlighting sharp, high cheekbones and a jawline set in stone. But it was his eyes that stopped my breathing—cold, cruel silver eyes that held zero humanity.

Lorenzo Genovese.

The capo of the East Coast. The man the syndicates whispered about in dark rooms. The Devil himself.

Behind him stood about twenty men dressed in tactical gear, suppressors attached to their rifles, blocking every single exit.

I gasped, my eyes flying wide open. He was back for me.

“Genovese!” Mario snarled, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket and pointing it straight at Lorenzo’s chest. “What the hell is the meaning of this? You’re trespassing on Moretti territory! This is a sacred wedding!”

Lorenzo didn't stop walking. He didn't even draw a gun. He simply strolled down the aisle, slipping one hand casually into his trouser’s pocket as if he were taking a Sunday stroll through a park.

“A wedding?” Lorenzo’s voice echoed through the cathedral. It was a deep, smooth baritone that sent a shudder straight down my spine. “Odd. I don't remember giving you permission to marry what belongs to me, Mario.”

Mario’s jaw twitched. “She is a Rossi! Her father sold her to me! The contract was signed three months ago!”

Lorenzo stopped at the base of the altar steps. He looked up.

He ignored Mario completely. He ignored the guns pointed at his head. He ignored the screaming guests scrambling into the shadows. About a hundred men were pointing at him but none dared to pull the trigger.

No one dared to shoot at the devil.

His piercing silver eyes locked directly onto mine.

After ten years, I was looking at the young man who had saved my life in an alleyway when I was twelve years old. But he wasn't a young man anymore. He was a monster built of muscle, power, and ruthless violence.

A dangerous smirk touched the corner of Lorenzo's lips.

“Ten years ago today, Seraphina,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice cutting through the silence of the church. “Your father signed a blood oath in exchange for his life. He promised me your hand on your twenty-third birthday.”

Lorenzo tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the trembling white dress clinging to my waist. I stiffened, my fingers clenching into a fist in fear.

“Today is your twenty-third birthday,” he continued, taking one step up the altar. “And the Devil always collects his debts.”