Page 24 of Savage Don's Captive

I’ve heard gunshots before in my shooting classes, but this is different. This was real. This was death, delivered with precision. No hesitation. No remorse.

Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic, as I stare at Cardo’s lifeless body.

The moment loops in my mind like a sick film—the way his body crumpled to the floor, the bullet hole perfectly centered between his brows. And the blood—God, there’s so much of it. On the floor. On the wall.

On my face.

My breath hitches as my eyes remain locked on the corpse sprawled across the blood-stained concrete.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me now, but I do know I can’t afford to get on Dominic’s bad side. He’s frustrated, empty-handed, with nothing to report to whoever pulls his strings. His calm exterior is just a mask, hiding the fury simmering beneath, which makes him dangerous.

The humor in his voice and the playful smirks are gone, replaced by a tired, almost dead look in his eyes. But there’s also a flicker of pride in them, as if he’s been itching to use that gun on someone. If it isn’t me, it’s always going to be someone else.

Unfortunately for Cardo, it’s him.

Next time, I may not be so lucky.

You need to stay alive, Alessa. I tell myself.

Survive.

Just long enough to get the fuck out of this hellhole—wherever this is.

My father’s voice echoes in my head. I see him clearly — six years old and I’m sobbing in our backyard after falling. The gash on my knee, deep, and the blood terrifies me. “Crying is for the weak, Alessandra,” he sneered while the other kids watched. “The daughter of Isabella Russo doesn’t shed tears over a scratch.” He circled me like a predator as I forced myself up, small body trembling to appear strong.

“You need to keep training. Your mother took a bullet once and still finished what she had to do. Don’t let her see you like this.”

I learned then to swallow pain whole. This is just another scratch. I’m going to make it through this.

My eyes lock with Dominic’s dark ones. Four years ago, I fell into his bed willingly, drawn to the danger, mystery and charm that radiated from him.

I just can’t believe it…I never would’ve thought I’d end up kidnapped by the same kind of asshole I built my career exposing, yet here I am—bound, locked up, and living the damn nightmare instead of writing it.

He barks an order, and a pair of hands work the knots loose. My wrists fall limp to my sides, stiff and burning. Angry red welts mark where the ropes chewed into my skin. I just stare at them, hollow and dazed—like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m free.

Then it hits—thousands of tiny needles stabbing into my flesh as circulation returns. My wrists are raw from hours of struggling. My fingers feel foreign, swollen, and useless as I try to flex them.

A hand yanks me up by my arm, pain shooting through my shoulder as my body jerks upward. The chair crashes to the floor behind me.

Dominic turns without a word and limps toward the exit. I can’t help the small swell of pride in my chest. He’s hurt. He bleeds. I did that with my stray bullet. Next time, I won’t miss.

A mountain of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a tattoo crawling up his hand drags me toward the stairs. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into my flesh. My legs feel like they might give out any second.

We climb the stairs, and as we reach the door, I’m blinded by sudden light. My head swims. I’m nauseous, dizzy from whatever drugs are still lingering in my system. My throat feels like sandpaper, each swallow torture.

The transition from basement to hallway assaults my senses. The stench of blood and sweat gives way to fresh-cut flowers with a hint of citrus—it smells like luxury. The bright light stabs my eyes like daggers after hours in dim darkness. The damp chill evaporates, replaced by warmth that makes my clammy skin prickle. Every sound intensifies—shoes clicking on marble, air conditioning humming, a clock ticking somewhere down the hall, my drugged brain struggles to process it all.

This is a safe house? I take in the niche paintings decorating the walls, the gleaming marble floors beneath my feet. Soft lighting and not a speck of dust mars the surfaces. Yet beneath the beauty, the oppressive silence hints at this place’s true purpose.

The brute jerks me forward, and I stumble. “Careful,” I bite out, yanking my arm back. Pain shoots through my shoulder. I meet his eyes, pouring every ounce of hatred into my glare. Dominic walks several paces ahead, not bothering to glance back.

Asshole.

“The last person who hurt me is dead on the basement floor.”

He snarls as Dominic opens a door to our right. We follow him into a classic-style office. Several warm light sources illuminate the space—a table lamp, wall sconces. Green plants occupy the corners, and I wonder if they’re fake.

No living thing could thrive in an office this oppressive.

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