Page 27 of Savage Don's Captive

“That’s not what I mean,” he says through gritted teeth, realizing his mistake.

“Then ask better questions,” I challenge.

He moves fast—too fast. Hands slam down on either side of my chair, trapping me. I go still. He’s right there, so close I can feel his breath ghost across my lips, see every fleck of amber in those dark, unreadable eyes. My heart misfires. I press back, but there’s nowhere to go. The chair is solid. Unforgiving. His scent coils around me, scrambling my thoughts. This isn’t about closeness. It’s about control. A silent reminder of what we are. Predator. Prey.

“You’re cheating Alessa. That’s not how this goes.”

“I answer your questions as long as you answer mine.” I shrug, fighting to maintain my composure. “You asked. I answered.”

He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, patience hanging by a thread. Good.

“How many properties does Marco Russo have in New York and where the fuck could he be hiding?”

I let the silence stretch, watching his jaw tick. He doesn’t correct himself. My lips curl.

“Marco Russo isn’t hiding in any of his properties—because the only thing in his name is a crappy loft in SoHo. The real estate… Those belong to Isabella Russo’s Trust.” I watch him carefully. His brows knit, eyes narrowing to slits, mouth pressing into a hard, unforgiving line. Then it happens—the crack. A dark flush creeps up his neck, rage bleeding through the calm mask he’s barely holding together.

And then the dam breaks.

“Get up.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that hums with danger.

He pushes off the desk, striding toward the door without another glance. My pulse jumps, but I follow.

“You want to fucking play, Alessa? Let’s play.”

He stops three doors down, turns sharply, and swings the door open. A bedroom.

Not just any bedroom. A statement. A massive bed, draped in expensive linens. Gold accents glint, catching the sun streamingthrough tall windows. A chandelier looms overhead, casting shadows. It’s stunning. And soulless.

A cage dressed in luxury.

Plush carpet swallows the sound of my steps as I cross the threshold. The air is thick with unspoken rules.

“Consider this my gesture of kindness,” he sneers. “No one comes in here but you.”

I arch a brow. “You’re here.”

His smirk is razor sharp. “Would you rather sleep in my bed? Or would you prefer a cell with a nice, cold concrete floor?”

My silence is answer enough.

“This is your space while you’re here. You come with me to church on Sundays. Meals are in the dining hall—three times a day. You don’t want to leave this room? Then you starve. I don’t give a fuck.”

The finality in his tone settles like a stone in my stomach.

“You’re taking me to church?” The irony is almost funny—mobsters worshipping on Sundays, right after a week of killing and screwing without a second thought.

“I am. That’s non-negotiable.”

Seriously.

Damn Italian traditions. What’s his angle? Is this part of some twisted game? Love-bomb me until I break, spill whatever he wants to know?

“You do realize that defeats the whole point of keeping me hidden.”

He barely blinks. “You’re in Las Vegas, Alessa. A long way from home. You’re in my city now. If you run, I’ll know. If you hide, I’ll find you. So don’t waste your time thinking about it.”

Too late.

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