Page 10 of Savage Don's Captive

But sentiment doesn’t pay debts. Marco Russo’s RICO case threatens everything—my shot at being made, at having real power. And his daughter is the key to breaking him.

My grip leaves sweat marks on Alessa’s photo. Isabella might’ve seen something in me worth cultivating, but she also taught me that power only respects power. Her blood running through Alessa’s veins just means I know exactly which buttons to push, which threats will land.

My blood pounds thinking about having her at my mercy. This time there’ll be no masks, no pretending. Just pure, raw dominance. I’ll use her to destroy her father, claim my seat at the table, and maybe—if she’s as smart as her mother—she’ll understand that sometimes brutality is a gift.

My fingers trace the edge of her photo, already mapping out exactly how this will play. One clean grab. One terrified daughter. One broken father. My ticket to the table Isabella always said I deserved.

That gun, though—the weight of it a reminder of everything I earned that night—Alessa had no fucking right. Four years I’ve been tracking that piece, following dead-end whispers and cold leads. Now fate drops her in my fucking lap like a gift.

I light another cigarillo, letting the smoke curl around my tongue before I exhale, as I imagine Alessa’s face when she realizes who’s coming for her—worth it.

By the time I’m done, she’ll learn exactly what it means to steal from a Gianelli.

I flick the ash into the crystal tray, my polished shoes planted firm on the marble floor. This table, this room, all this bullshit—they think it’s theirs. They think I’m just here to listen, to take orders, to nod along.

Let them think.

When Marco’s done bleeding out, they’ll understand. La Falciante knew what she saw in me. Hunger. Ruthlessness. A future they’re too blind to stop.

One day, this whole damn table will be mine.

And they’ll be lucky if I leave them a seat.

Chapter two

Alessa

Mymorningritual,five-milerun, overpriced coffee, and scanning reflections in store windows for faces that linger too long behind me. Some things just get wired into you. You don’t grow up Russo without developing a sixth sense for when you’re being watched.

“Thanks, Carmen!” I slide ten dollars in the tip jar, watching the barista-in-training beam as she hands me my steaming coffee.

Her smile’s genuine, uncomplicated—nothing in my world ever is.

“I’m leaving tomorrow and I’m afraid we need to put that docu-series on hold until further notice,” Jennifer, my managingeditor, pants through my AirPods. She’s clearly mid-pilates in that basement gym she won’t shut up about. “I’ll bring your work with me so I can read it, okay?”

Of course she’s leaving. Again. Her fourth “emergency vacation” this year while my work gathers digital dust. The perks of having daddy as an executive editor—the rest of us just bend our schedules around her whims.

“That’s fine.” The lie settles heavy in my chest, another small betrayal of myself. Nothing’s fine about watching weeks of research languish while she perfects her tan on some private beach. But I swallow my frustration like I always do. At least my name sells. My last exposé is still riding the bestseller lists and my inbox’s flooded with publishers hungry for the next one. Not that it matters—I still need Jennifer’s stamp of approval.

I push through the café door into the morning chill. New York at 6 AM is already a predator’s playground—suits with hidden agendas, service workers with secrets, everyone wearing their public faces. My black sports crop and biker shorts make me look like just another fitness-obsessed New Yorker, which is exactly the point. Camouflage works in the concrete jungle too.

“You’re such a great friend, Alessa,” Jennifer gushes, oblivious to the irony. “I’ll email you once I’m done.”

“Okay.” The professional mask slips into place—the one that pays my bills and keeps me employed. My father would be proud of how easily I lie these days. “Have fun on your trip.”

I end the call and take a slow sip of coffee, letting its warmth chase away my irritation. Despite Jennifer’s sabotage, I remind myself that each paycheck is one step closer to never needing my father’s money or his protection—the invisible leash he thinks I don’t see. I refuse to be another pawn in his world. After what happened to my mother, the accident, and to me... I can’t even look at him without wondering what else he might be hiding. Someday I’ll have enough to disappear completely, scrub the Russo name from my skin like a stain. Just the thought of it loosens something in my chest that’s been tight since I was twelve.

The Steinway Tower looms ahead, my reflection fragmenting across its glass facade. Inside, luxury wraps around me like an expensive cocoon—high ceilings, marble floors, that soft chandelier glow that whispers old money. The concierge nods with practiced deference as I glide toward the elevator, its brass fixtures gleaming with quiet opulence.

My penthouse—the 6-million-dollar gift my mother left behind with the caveat I couldn’t touch it until my twenty-sixth birthday. Three months living here and I still get lost in the hallways…still flinch when I glimpse my silhouette against the cityscape at night. I try not to think about how many bodies Isabella Russo stepped over to afford these views. La Falciante. The Slicer. They called her aim laser-precise, her hand never wavering. That woman feels like a stranger to me. The mother I remember sang made-up lullabies, braided my hair for church, and read for hours in her green velvet chaise. I was only twelve when she died, too young to reconcile these conflicting versions of the same woman.

The elevator pings softly as it reaches my floor. The doors slide open to reveal my sanctuary—dark hardwood floors bathed in morning light, minimalist furniture arranged with precision, modern art from auctions carefully selected. My laptop sits abandoned on the kitchen’s marble counter beside last night’s golden milk.

I freeze in the foyer, every muscle suddenly rigid.

Something feels wrong. Not a thing is out of place, yet the air feels... disturbed. Like someone’s exhaled where they shouldn’t be.

I’m not alone.

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