Page 17 of Savage Don's Captive

Now I have her daughter, the final move in a game that ends with me on top. Maybe that’s why she’s under my skin. Inanother life, she wouldn’t be my captive—she’d be my queen. But in this world…she’s just collateral.

And this time, I won’t let her slip away.

Chapter four

Alessa

Iblinkawaketoaworld that refuses to come into focus. The ceiling above me swims in and out of clarity, brightness stabbing into my eyes. I try to grab onto a coherent thought, but my mind feels hollowed out, scraped clean of recent memories. Have I been out for minutes? Hours? Days? The thought alone makes my stomach turn.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as the world tilts and sways. Every muscle in my body screams in protest as I force myself to move. The pounding in my skull matches the vibration beneath me—a shadow shifts in the corner. Broad shoulders. Ruby ring glinting on a tattooed hand. The predator who once whispered filthy promises against my skin now watches me with cold calculation.

The Russo survival handbook, drilled into me since childhood—Never stay still when you wake somewhere unexpected.‘Women who freeze end up incaskets,’ she’d say while making me practice escapes.The memory of Mom’s voice cuts through the drug haze like cold water splashed across my face. The soft hum beneath me vibrates through the mattress—an engine. My heart kicks against my ribs as the fog in my brain begins to clear.

I’m moving. And not in a car.

Jet engines.

I force myself upright, immediately regretting it as nausea rolls through me. The room tilts and spins—a small, rounded space, with elegant wood panels and a single window with the shade pulled tight.

A private plane. Not my father’s. Not any Russo aircraft I recognize.

The brutal truth slams into me— I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a captive. And the man responsible sits across from me, dark eyes tracking my every movement like I’m prey he already owns.

Memories flood back, sharp as broken glass—my bedroom, papers scattered across my bed, dark eyes watching me from my chair. Dominic Gianelli. The chloroform. The gun.

Bile rises in my throat as the reality crystallizes.

“I prefer it if you don’t throw up.”

The voice slices through the silence from a dark corner of the cabin. I whip my head toward it, instantly regretting the movement as pain lances through my skull. “But there’s a bucket on the floor if you need to.”

Dominic Gianelli sits in a leather chair, looking like he just stepped out of a luxury ad rather than a kidnapping. His black t-shirt stretches across shoulders I once dug my nails into. His hands are clasped before him, a silver ring with a ruby-red face catching the light—the Gianelli crest with its crescent moon proclaiming his loyalty to the very world I’ve been running from.

I always knew my mother’s world would come for me eventually. I just never expected it would arrive in the form of Dominic Gianelli.

“Where am I?” My voice emerges as a rasp.

My throat tightens as hatred surges through me—pure, unfiltered loathing that burns hotter than any fear. This man has torn through everything I’ve built. My freedom. My safety. The careful distance I’ve kept from my mother’s world.

“You won’t get away with this,” I snap, my voice scratchy against the dryness in my throat.

That infuriating smirk pulls at his mouth—the same one I remember from the Crimson Gala. God, how could I have been so stupid? How could I have let those hands touch me? Those lips claim mine?

I remember the way his mouth felt on my skin. The way he made me feel seen. Wanted.

All of it a lie.

“I already have, piccola,” he says, voice smooth, intoxicating—and I hate the way my body reacts to it, the way my skin prickles, traitorous and warm.

“Don’t call me that,” I bite out, curling my fingers into fists to stop them from shaking. “You don’t know me.”

“I know more than you think.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, close enough to steal the air from my lungs without even touching me. “I know you’ve spent years running from who you are, from what’s in your blood. I know you wake up checking the exits first, scanning for threats. I know the gun in your nightstand has never been fired.”

My jaw locks so tight it feels like my teeth might crack. Every word lands like a blow, tearing through the facade I’ve worked so hard to build.

“You’re just a monster in a tailored suit,” I say, watching his eyes darken. Good. Let him get mad. Let him break first. “And I’d rather die than help you.”

Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of respect—quick, sharp—before it’s buried under that cold, calculating stare. “We’ll see about that, Alessandra.” The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine I can’t control. “Everyone breaks eventually.”

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