Page 42 of Savage Don's Captive

For someone who’s been running from the mob her whole life, she has the grit of a seasonedsoldato. A spine of steel, holding out this long without breaking. She’s got the mouth for it, the determination, the fire. With training, she’d fit right in. She is, after all, her mother’s daughter.

There’s something about her I almost pity. We’re opposites in the same world—while I’ve spent my life fighting to be a made man, she’s been desperate to escape it. It’s not her fault Marco dragged her into this mess. She’s just the bait in a game she never asked to play while I’ve been hustling for a seat at the table.

“I don’t want to be here, Dominic.” Her voice is a whisper, raw with exhaustion. It hits me like a bullet to the chest—the first genuine thing she’s said to me. Not a smart remark or a sarcastic comeback. A confession. “Why am I the collateral? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s not your fault your mother’s the one who died in that car crash and not Marco.”

Dio mio. I could’ve said it better, something that doesn’t sound like kicking someone already down, but the words spill out before I can stop them.

Alessa stares at me, jaw dropping, like she can’t believe what I just said. Neither can I, but I’m not about to apologize. It’s the truth—she’s better off without her father. If Isabella was still alive, Alessa wouldn’t be caught in this mess. Her life would bedifferent, safer. She wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder every second.

Without another word, I start the engine and pull away, ignoring the conscience I didn’t know I had clawing at the back of my mind.

Scalding water beats down on my skin, each drop searing away the day’s filth. I watch as the water turns crimson, blood swirling over white tiles before disappearing down the drain.

I grip my cock, hard and aching in my hand, as my mind conjures her. I imagine Alessa walking into my shower, footsteps soft against wet tiles, that defiant energy filling the space. She’s naked, curves on full display—just like I remember from that night four years ago. Delicate yet strong. All for me.

Up and down. My hand moves in steady rhythm over the head, precum glistening as I ignore the blistering water pounding my back. The heat barely registers, nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. It’s fucked up—stroking myself just minutes after watching Alessa vomit in the rain, hours after being covered in some Russian fuck’s blood. Just an hour ago, I was on a rampage, and now...this.

But I need release. Something to untangle the knot that’s been building since I woke to find her gone. Something to drown out the adrenaline still surging through my veins like poison. I need to let it out somehow… even if it fucks with my head after.

With Alessa so close, flaunting those legs, wearing nothing but my clothes with that perfect ass peeking through—my imagination runs wild. It’s not the first time I’ve fantasized about her while jerking off, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.

In my head, she steps behind me under the spray, reaching around to find my cock. She wraps her delicate fingers around it, struggling to contain its girth. Her grip is firm, setting me on fire as she strokes, twisting her wrist just right. So deliciously slow.

But my hand moves faster, harsh grunts echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Fuck,” I growl, mind betraying me as it paints Alessa on her knees before me. She’s completely bare, skin flushed, eyes locked with mine. Those full breasts heave with each breath, nipples hard and begging for my mouth. Heat radiates off her body, wrapping around me like a vice as I lose myself in the fantasy.

I stroke harder, grip tightening as tension coils in my gut like a spring wound too tight. My head falls back, water cascading down my body, barely registering anymore. All I feel is a desperate need for release, the day’s violence and frustration gnawing at me like hunger.

The softness of her skin, those full lips parted as she kneels before me—it’s enough to drive me insane. I can almost hear her breathing, feel her warmth against me. My chest tightens, every muscle tensing as the need to explode becomes unbearable.

There’s something primal about this, something twisted in how anger, lust, and control blur together. But I can’t stop. Each stroke drags me deeper into the fantasy, pressure building until I’m teetering on the edge, the fury and guilt and want all about to erupt into something I can’t control.

In my mind, she’s looking up at me with those defiant eyes—challenging me even as she gives herself over. Just like in the club today. Just like when I first had her. The memory of her beneath me, fighting pleasure until she shattered, sends me over the edge.

I come with a roar, spilling onto the shower wall in thick white ropes, her name a curse on my lips.

As the evidence washes away, shame creeps in—But the water can’t wash the ambition burning in my veins.

I wipe steam from the mirror, staring at my reflection. My father always said a man is measured by the scope of his vision, not just his willingness to pull a trigger. “Soldiers die forgotten, Dons live forever.” The old man never made it past capo, but he planted seeds of something greater.

Every move I make—even handling Alessa—is calculated to strengthen my position. The Commission thinks this is about loyalty and earning my button, but I’m playing a deeper game.Generations of Gianellis have served other families, but I’ll be the one to change that. I’ll be the one they all answer to, eventually. Don Gianelli. It’s got a ring to it that keeps me going through all this shit.

But I shouldn’t want her. Not the daughter of La Falciante. Not my captive— the key to my future. Not the woman who could burn everything I’ve built to the ground.

But I do. God help me, I do.

And that might be the most dangerous game I’m playing.

Chapter twelve

Alessa

Inthesuffocatingdarkof my room, my stomach gnaws at itself like a feral animal. You’d think after the absolute hell I’ve been through today—blood, bile, and trauma all swirled together in a lovely little cocktail—I wouldn’t be thinking about food. But all I can focus on is that rubbery pile of scrambled eggs Harold made me.

I should’ve eaten slower. Savored every tasteless bite. Because now, I’d kill for those damn eggs.

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