The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)

[Claire's POV]

I wake up to my head throbbing with an intensity that feels like someone's taking a jackhammer to my skull. The sheets are a tangled mess around my legs, damp with sweat and smelling of alcohol and something else I can't quite place. Sunlight streams through the partially open curtains of the casino hotel room, each beam feeling like a laser directly into my retinas.

I groan, trying to piece together what happened after that miraculous win at the roulette table. There are only fragments, ordering champagne, betting more, winning more, drinking more. The cycle repeating itself in an increasingly blurry loop until...nothing. Just darkness.

As I shift to escape the brutal sunlight, I become aware of a weight across my waist. An arm. A distinctly man-like arm. My stomach lurches with something that has nothing to do with my hangover.

Slowly, carefully, I push myself up and turn to look at the source of that arm. A man sleeps beside me, his face relaxed in slumber. He's handsome, objectively, undeniably handsome, with strong features and thick dark hair that falls across his forehead in a way that seems almost deliberately tousled.

I stare at him, my brain struggling to place him in any context that makes sense. I know with absolute certainty that I've never seen this man before in my life.

As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes flutter open. They're a warm brown, almost amber, in the morning light. He smiles at me, casual and comfortable, like waking up next to me is the most natural thing in the world.

"Hi," he says simply, his voice deep and slightly raspy with sleep.

The single syllable sends a wave of panic crashing through me. I scramble backward, nearly falling off the edge of the bed in my haste to put distance between us.

"Who the fuck are you?" I demand, my voice coming out harsher than I intended, scraped raw by whatever I drank last night.

His eyebrows lift slightly, more in surprise than offense. He sits up, the sheet falling to reveal a muscled chest. "I'm Keith," he says calmly. "Ahh, that's right, you told me I'm supposed to be someone named Adam, right? That's what you kept calling me last night while we ‘made love.’"

The smile he gives me is warm, almost affectionate, and it makes my skin crawl. The name hits me like a physical blow. Adam. My husband. The one I sold to a mob boss to save my own skin. The one with a black eye in Lara's photo.

"You kept saying how much you missed him," Keith continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "How you wanted one more night with him."

My stomach lurches violently as the implications slam into me like a freight train. The room spins, a kaleidoscope of expensive hotel furnishings and rumpled sheets. Fragmented memories flash through my mind, stumbling through the casino floor with my winnings, approaching a handsome man at the bar, the way his eyes had lit up when I'd waved a stack of hundred-dollar bills in his face.

"You're a...a..." I can't even finish the sentence before the first wave hits me.

I barely have time to turn my head before I'm vomiting spectacularly all over the Egyptian cotton sheets. The expensive champagne I'd been drinking comes up along with whatever food I'd consumed, creating a putrid, acidic puddle that spreads across the pristine white bedding.

"Oh my God!" Keith exclaims, jumping back but not quite fast enough to avoid the splash zone. "Are you alright?"

He recovers quickly and professionally, I realize with growing horror and moves toward me, hands outstretched to offer comfort or support. His naked body, which I now recognize as the polished product of someone who makes their living from physical appearance, approaches like a nightmare-made flesh.

I scramble backward, slipping in my own vomit, my hand leaving a grotesque trail across the sheets. "Don't touch me!"

Keith pauses, confusion evident on his perfect face. "Hey, it's okay. People get sick sometimes. It happens."

He reaches for my shoulders, his movements gentle but determined. The thought of his hands on me, hands that I paid to touch me, to pretend I was with my husband, sends another violent wave of nausea through me.

I shove him away with surprising force, my palm connecting with his bare chest. "Get the fuck out!"

"Huh?" His brow furrows in genuine confusion. "You paid for two days already, though. The full weekend package, remember? Premium rate."

The words "premium rate" echo in my head like a death knell. I paid for this man. I bought him like merchandise. Just like I sold Adam.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" I scream, my voice tearing from my throat with such violence that Keith actually flinches.

He holds his hands up in surrender, backing toward where his clothes are draped over a chair. "Alright, alright. Jesus."

I watch, trembling, as he pulls on his underwear and pants with efficient movements. He doesn't bother buttoning his shirt, just drapes it over his shoulders. At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with an expression that hovers somewhere between concern and business calculation.

"Your receipt's on the nightstand," he says. "If you change your mind, the agency has my number. No refunds, though."

As the door closes behind him, I sprint to the bathroom, my bare feet slipping on the smooth tiles. I barely make it to the toilet before another violent wave of nausea overtakes me. I heave until there's nothing left but bile, my stomach muscles clenching painfully with each convulsion. The cold porcelain rim presses against my forehead as I cling to the toilet bowl like it's the only solid thing in a world that's suddenly spinning out of control.

‘Who am I?’

When the retching finally subsides, I remain kneeling on the bathroom floor, my body trembling with exhaustion and shame. The tears come without warning, hot and relentless, streaming down my face and dripping into the toilet water below. My reflection stares back at me from the rippling surface, eyes bloodshot, hair matted with sweat, and God knows what else.

"I don't want to be like this anymore," I whisper, my voice echoing hollowly against the bathroom tiles. The words feel torn from somewhere deep inside me, from a place I've been desperately trying to ignore. "I don't want to be like this anymore!"

My voice rises to a scream that breaks into sobs. I pound my fist against the tile floor, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm. It's nothing compared to what Adam must be feeling. Adam with his blackened eye. Adam who trusted me to protect him, to love him.

"I don't want to live," I gasp between heaving sobs. "I can't live like this."

Lara's casual suggestion, "You should kill yourself," echoes in my mind. Not as a taunt now but as a solution. An escape from the monster I've become.

I think about what Adam's going through because of me. Sold to a violent woman who's already hurt him. Abandoned by the person who was supposed to love him most in the world. Now I’ve even cheated on him. I’ve betrayed in every possible way.

"I'm sorry, Adam," I sob into the toilet, my tears mixing with the water below. "I'm so sorry."

The words are inadequate, pathetically small against the magnitude of what I've done. But I repeat them anyway, a broken litany of remorse that fills the bathroom with its desperate rhythm.

"I'm sorry, Adam. I'm so, so sorry."

My fingers grip the edge of the toilet bowl so tightly they turn white as if I'm afraid I might float away on a tide of my own self-loathing if I let go. My body shudders with each sob, wracked by a grief that feels too big to contain, too heavy to carry.

I don't know how long I stayed there, crying into the toilet in a strange hotel room, naked and filthy and utterly alone. Time loses meaning in the face of such complete despair. But eventually, the tears slow, my breathing steadies, and a strange, hollow calm settles over me.

I pull myself up from the bathroom floor, my limbs heavy and uncooperative, like I'm moving through molasses. The tile is cold against my bare feet as I shuffle to the sink, avoiding my reflection in the mirror above it. I'm not ready to face myself yet.

Water splatters against the porcelain as I turn the faucet to full blast. I cup my hands beneath the stream, bringing the cool liquid to my face again and again, scrubbing at my skin as if I could wash away more than just the physical evidence of last night's debauchery.

With trembling hands, I reach for one of the plush hotel towels, pressing it against my face.

Wrapped in the oversized towel, I force myself to return to the bedroom. The rumpled sheets with their disgusting stains seem to mock me, physical evidence of my complete moral collapse. I give the bed a wide berth, moving instead toward the window. With a sharp tug, I yank the curtains fully open, flooding the room with merciless daylight.

The Boston skyline sprawls before me, all gleaming glass and steel, indifferent to my personal apocalypse.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, the word hanging in the air like a promise. "Okay."

I turn back to face the room, forcing myself to take stock of the situation with as much clinical detachment as I can muster. My clothes are scattered across the floor, a trail leading from the door to the bed like breadcrumbs marking my descent into new depths of self-destruction. My wallet lies overturned on the dresser, its contents spilled across the polished wood surface.

And there, amid the chaos, I spot something that makes my heart skip a beat. A bag full of cash. Stacks and stacks of it, bound with paper bands bearing the casino's logo. Some of the bills have broken free from their restraints, floating to the floor like rectangular confetti celebrating my moral bankruptcy.

I approach slowly as if the money might disappear if I move too quickly. My fingers tremble as I reach for the first stack, the crisp edges of the hundred-dollar bills sharp against my skin. I count mechanically, my lips moving silently as the numbers climb higher and higher.

Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. Fifty thousand…

After counting all the cash twice more, I stare at the stacks of bills spread across the dresser. One hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars, to be exact. The amount is so absurd I almost laugh. A broken, hysterical sound that dies in my throat.

"Holy fuck," I whisper, running my fingers over the crisp bills. "I really was on a streak last night."

The money sits there, mocking me with its presence. One hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars. Not even half of what I owe to get Adam back, but more than enough to... keep gambling.

The thought slithers into my mind like a poisonous snake, familiar and deadly. Just one more game. Double it. Triple it. Win enough to buy Adam back from Caterina.

My fingers twitch toward the stacks, already calculating odds and bets, imagining the smooth feel of chips in my palm, the rush of the wheel spinning, the ball dancing across the numbers.

"No," I say aloud, jerking my hand back as if burned. "No more."

I back away from the money, my legs trembling beneath me. The distance between me and those stacks of cash feels important somehow like I'm physically removing myself from temptation.

My phone lies on the nightstand, partially hidden beneath a room service menu. I lunge for it, clutching it like a lifeline. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating only briefly before pulling up my contacts.

I scroll past Adam's name, my heart clenching painfully at the sight of it. Not him. Not yet. I can't face him, not like this, not until I've fixed something, anything.

Instead, I find Madison's contact. Maddy. Caterina's right hand. The woman who might be my only hope of reaching Adam, of making some tiny amends for the immeasurable wrong I've done him.

I type quickly before I can change my mind:

"Maddy, I need to see you. I'm in room 1842. It's important. About Adam."

My thumb hovers over the send button, doubt gnawing at my resolve. What if she ignores me? What if she tells Caterina? What if this makes everything worse?

But what could possibly be worse than this?

I hit send, watching the message bubble whoosh away into the digital ether. Done. No taking it back now.

I drop the phone onto the bed and stagger to the bathroom, stripping off the towel as I go. The shower beckons, promising to wash away at least the physical evidence of my shame, if not the emotional stain that feels permanently embedded in my soul.

[Meanwhile in another plane of existence]

[This is unironically Canon.]