Page 25 of Savage Don's Captive

“Thank you, TJ. You can leave,” Dominic says as he moves deeper into the room. TJ practically throws me inside before retreating.

I scan, noting the bookshelves lining one wall. Even from here, I can tell they’re first editions and limited collector’s items—what the fuck… A killer with refined taste in literature. It messes with my head. I mean, nothing like a bloodstained first edition to set the mood.

Dominic strides to the desk but doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans against the edge, crossing his arms over his chest as he studies me. Under the good lighting, I see him clearly for the first time since my blindfold came off. All black—sweater and slacks that hint at the muscles beneath. Damn him. Even now, standing here like he owns the world—like he owns me—he’s still as brutally handsome as I remember. But I refuse to let that night, that mistake, hold any power over me. Not when he’s the one who just ripped me out of my life.

“Take a seat, Alessa,” he demands, nudging the chair with his foot. His shoes are black John Lobb Oxfords, probably worth more than most people’s monthly rent.

I sink into the chair, wincing as my body protests every movement. The leather feels absurdly soft against my aching body. I look up at him, trying to read his expression, but his face gives nothing. I note the gun tucked into his waistband—a silent reminder of who holds the power.

This isn’t an interview I can talk my way out of with press credentials and a clever question.

His jaw tightens as his gaze travels from my eyes down to my neck. The wound. Now that the adrenaline is fading, I feel it sting—a sharp, persistent burn.

“Well?” his voice unnervingly calm.

Don’t do anything stupid, Alessa.

What’s he thinking right now? And why hasn’t he shot me yet for resisting?

Maybe he’s planning a more painful way to get info from me. The thought of pliers tearing out my fingernails makes me shudder.

“I want water.” The words escape my parched lips before I can think. Dominic turns toward the desk and presses an intercom button.

“Timmy,” he says.

“Sir?”

“Bring in water for my guest? And the kit, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to kill me?” I force the question past the lump in my throat.

“If you cooperate, I don’t see why I’d have to,”

“And if I don’t?”

“It’s not an option, Alessa. You’re the only one who knows where Marco is.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“Because you’re his daughter. And regardless of your daddy issues, you still care enough about him to know where he could be hiding.”

He steps closer, deliberately invading my space. His presence looms over me, radiating heat and danger. Every instinct screams retreat, but I force myself to stay still. He’s using his height advantage on purpose—making me feel smaller. It’s Intimidation 101, and knowing the tactic doesn’t make it less effective. My pulse races—my throat tightens, but I keep my breathing steady.

“Well, if you know that I care about him, why the hell would you think I’ll tell you where he is?”

“Cosa Nostra doesn’t give a shit about who your mother is, or that you and Marco aren’t on speaking terms. They want to stop that RICO case from being finalized, and they’ll take out anyone and anything in their way.”

“ I don’t care who gives a shit about what…I’m not gonna let you kill my father.”

“No one has to die, Alessa,” he purrs my name, the sound sending an unwanted shiver down my spine. He leans down, bringing his face inches from mine. “Ask Julia Moretti if you ever get the chance,” he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek. “Oh wait, you can’t. She thought she could protect her brother, too. Wouldn’t tell me where he was hiding.” He pauses. “Last I heard, they found pieces of her washing up on Brighton Beach for weeks.”

He straightens his expression as if he’d just commented on the weather. “Not my handiwork, of course. The Commission has their own... specialists for that shit.”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Dominic?”

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