Page 16 of Claimed By the Don

Chapter SEVEN

Ginetta

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Cold. It seeps into my bones, a chill that has nothing to do with the damp concrete floor beneath me or the icy metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists. No, this is a cold that comes from within. From the sickening cocktail of fear and despair turning my insides to frost.

I don't know how long I've been here, shivering in a dark corner of this decrepit warehouse. Minutes feel like hours, days. Time loses all meaning in the oppressive gloom, punctuated only by the scurrying of rats in the walls and the distant slosh of water beyond the grimy windows.

I'm trying so hard to be brave, to hold onto hope. But with every passing second, the sharp claws of hopelessness dig in deeper, insidious whispers swirling in my mind like poisoned smoke.

What if no one is coming for me? What if Dante doesn't even know I'm gone, or worse...what if he doesn't care?

The thought sends a jagged blade of pain lancing through my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting of tears, refusing to give my captors the satisfaction. But in the darkness behind my lids, all I can see is his face. Those piercing espresso eyes, searing me with their intensity. The wicked slant of his mouth as he brought me to shattering ecstasy again and again.

God, Dante. Even now, with terror a living thing clawing at my throat, I ache for him. For his touch, his scent, the rumbling purr of his voice in my ear. I'd give anything to be back in his arms, even for a moment. To feel cherished and protected and alive again.

But I ruined it, didn't I? Let my stupid pride and insecurities get the better of me, drive me away from the best thing that's ever happened to me. And for what? A few catty remarks from small-minded people who could never understand the blaze of feeling between us?

I should have fought for him. For us. Should have marched right up to him at that fucking gala and demanded the truth instead of running like a coward. Maybe then we could have cleared the air. Maybe then I wouldn't have spent the last week a weeping, hollowed-out wreck, mourning the loss of his warmth, his wicked laugh, his big hands caressing my skin.

Maybe then I wouldn't be in this dank hellhole, waiting for a death that feels more inevitable with every ragged breath.

A sudden bang shatters the ominous silence and I jolt, my heart slamming into my ribs. Footsteps echo across the cavernous space, heralding the approaching form of one of my captors. He's a mountain of a man with a thick beard and cold, dead eyes. The eyes of a killer.

Oh God. Oh God. This is it. They're going to kill me now, leave my body in some shallow grave where no one will ever find me. I'll just be one more nameless casualty in their brutal turf war, forgotten in an unmarked plot. I'm going to die here, alone and terrified, and the only man I've ever loved will never know what happened to me.

Panic claws at my chest but I shove it down viciously. No. Not like this. If these fuckers are going to kill me, I'm going down fighting. I won't give them the satisfaction of my fear, my pleas. I'm the daughter of a cop, for fuck's sake. I've been handling myself against men twice my size since puberty.

I can do this. I have to do this.

Summoning every scrap of defiant courage, I lift my chin and glare at my captor through the dirty tangles of my hair. My bound hands are numb, my legs half-asleep from the cold. But I refuse to cower before this waste of oxygen.

"What's the matter, asshole?" I rasp, my voice like rusted nails. "Kidnapping innocent women the only way you can get your micropenis wet?"

The backhand cracks across my face like a whip, snapping my head to the side. I taste blood, feel it trickle down my chin. But I just bare my teeth in a feral grin, meeting his murderous stare head-on.

"Fuck you," I spit, relishing his enraged snarl. If I'm going down, I'm taking a piece of this bastard with me.

But before he can retaliate, all hell breaks loose.

The door to the warehouse explodes inward, metal shrieking as it's wrenched off its hinges. Shouts and gunfire erupt, a deafening cacophony that has me cowering instinctively. I can't make out anything in the chaos, just a swirl of dark figures and muzzle flashes painting the space in staccato bursts of light.

And then a familiar roar cuts through the pandemonium, a single word that sends my heart soaring and plummeting all at once.

"Ginetta!"

Oh God. Dante. He came for me. He's here, an avenging angel cutting a swath of destruction through the melee. I catch glimpses of him through the smoke and shadows, his huge form a blur of lethal motion. He's a force of nature, all rippling muscle and implacable fury as he tears through my captors like tissue paper.

It's over in a matter of minutes. The last gunshot fades away, leaving only ragged breathing and the crunch of broken glass underfoot. I'm shaking violently, my teeth chattering, barely daring to believe it's real. That I'm not still trapped in some horrible dream.

And then he's there, falling to his knees before me. His hands tremble as they skim over my face, my arms, checking for wounds even as his eyes devour me. The cold rage etched into every line of his harsh features melts away, replaced by a raw, aching tenderness that steals my breath.

"Ginetta," he rasps, and the break in his voice shatters me. "Jesus fucking Christ, baby. Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"

I shake my head numbly, too overwhelmed to form words. But I lean into his touch like a flower to the sun, desperate for the scorching heat of his skin on mine.

Dante makes a wounded noise and then I'm in his arms, crushed to his chest as he rocks me gently. I bury my face in his neck and just breathe him in, the familiar scent of spice and smoke and man filling my lungs like the sweetest perfume.

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