Page 46 of Savage Don's Captive

“The cameras are non-negotiable,” he says finally. “But I’ll make you a deal.”

I narrow my eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“Come to breakfast tomorrow. Eat with the family.”

“That’s not a deal. That’s an order.”

He turns, his expression softening slightly. “Consider it an olive branch.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then starve.” All softness vanishes. “Your choice.”

The grumble in my stomach answers for me. I haven’t eaten in days, and my body can’t take much more. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll come to breakfast.”

Something like satisfaction crosses his face before he nods to Rocky, who’s now moving the ladder to the other corner.

“Good. Eight o’clock sharp.” He walks toward the door but pauses at the threshold. “And Alessa?”

I look up, hating how my heart jumps when he says my name.

“Try not to run away again. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

The threat hangs in the air as he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. Rocky continues working, the drill’s whine filling the silence.

I sink back into the pillows, exhaustion overtaking me. Tomorrow, I’ll face Dominic’s family. Tomorrow, I’ll try to find a way out of this nightmare.

But tonight? Tonight I’ll dream of freedom while cameras watch my every move.

And somewhere in the darkness of this house, Dominic Gianelli will be watching too.

Chapter thirteen

Dominic

IlockmyphoneasTimmy brings in my steak, Alessa’s grainy surveillance image vanishing from the screen. The meat’s aroma fills the air, but my mind stays fixed on that footage—her pale, hollow-eyed ghost wasting away in that room.

It’s been a fucking century of a day. Since Alessa arrived, nothing’s gone right. Every hour feels like wading through quicksand with the Commission breathing down my neck, waiting for Marco. Time isn’t my friend anymore.

I’ve always been the perfect soldier—the one who gets shit done. I deal with who they want dealt with, kill who needs killing, lie when necessary. Most times, I even enjoy it. It’s therapeutic—channeling rage into something productive.

Then there’s Alessandra Russo. Those full lips and steel spine. Defying me at every turn. Instead of being my ticket to made status, she’s another concrete wall in my path. A thorn I can’t remove because I can’t break her like I’ve broken countless others.

Her words burn in my head—’It’s the only reason you haven’t started torturing me yet.’

She’s right, and I fucking hate it. With anyone else, they’d be screaming in the basement by now, missing teeth and fingernails. Instead, I’ve only killed that security guard, the Russian dumbass, and the piece of shit who put his hands on her. Three bodies—practically restraint for a man with my reputation.

That’s fucking control I never knew I had. Control a Don needs to master. The old Dons—they ruled through fear, but the smart ones, the ones who built dynasties, they knew when to use the knife and when to use something sharper—mercy.

The truth hits like a shotgun blast I’ve gone soft. Not from losing my edge or running out of targets. I’ve gone soft because of her. The admission feels like a goddamn piano lifted off my chest.

The Commission would call it weakness. Why would the heir to the Gianelli name, a pillar of Cosa Nostra, fall for Marco Russo’s daughter? While on a job, no less.

It’s forbidden. Taboo. Marco is Public Enemy Number One. Anyone who takes him out gets a direct ticket to the inner circle. Yet here I am, twisted up over his daughter.

So sue me if I’m pussy-whipped by someone I fucked four years ago. There’s something about her—helpless yet fierce—that makes me want to move mountains. Every word from her mouth is fire and defiance. Christ, it’s hot.

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