Page 52 of Savage Don's Captive

“Who else would want her dead?” I challenge. “She was a woman thriving in a man’s world. Even you admit she was better than most of the Cosa Nostra’s men. You think no one was jealous enough to take her out and make it look like an accident?”

Dominic watches me for a long moment, then takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine. My skin prickles.

“Think back,” he says. “Was anything off before she died? Did she seem paranoid? Like someone was following her?”

I exhale sharply. “I didn’t even know she was La Falciante until the night she died.” I dig through old memories, searching for anything strange in the days leading up to the crash. But my mother? She was just my mother.

She made me breakfast. She came to my school recitals. She tucked me in at night, her voice soft as she hummed lullabies.

“You never questioned why you were training?”

“I knew my family had ties to the mob, but my father was a cop—so I never realized just how deep she was in the Commission. And besides, my training ended when she died.”

Why am I telling him all this? Why am I giving him pieces of myself like this? But the words keep flowing, unchecked, unfiltered.

“My mother trained me early just to survive—to recognize danger, to defend myself, to never be a victim—but it was my father who kept pushing. Every lesson, every drill—was never enough. He was relentless.”

Looking back, I was so friggin young—I still don’t know what he was driving at, but it seemed he wanted me to be just like her. Then it all just stopped. He suddenly wanted me as far away from the Commission as possible.

Maybe losing her made him realize—he’d been forcing me down the same path that took her away.

Dominic leans back, studying me. “Wow, he was the one pushing?”

“Yeah. They argued about it all the time. I only went along with it to keep the peace—pretended to enjoy it so my mother wouldn’t worry.”

“You know you didn’t have to do it.”

I scoff. “I’m glad I did. Maybe if I’d trained longer, I’d be good enough to kill you and get the hell out of here.”

Something shifts in his expression, his dark eyes pulling me in, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s piecing together. Up close, he’s lethal. That sharp jawline, the shadow of stubble, and that dark hair falling just enough to frame his face. He looks effortlessly put together—like a predator who’s always in control.

I force myself not to look at his lips. One wrong look—one wrong move—and this will spiral into something very bad.

“If you’d kept training,” he murmurs, “you wouldn’t just be good enough to kill people. You’d be as good as your mother. Better.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. You’re smart. With a little training, you’d fit right in.”

I huff a laugh. “The Commission hates me.”

“The Commission doesn’t hate you.” His eyes flick over me, dark and knowing. “And me? Christ, Alessa, I fuckin’ love your ass.”

Heat floods my face. Damn him. My body reacts before I can stop it. I grip my glass tighter, watching the ice melt, pretending like he doesn’t get under my skin.

“The Commission isn’t a place for a woman, Dominic,” I say, voice low. “Killing someone isn’t something I want on my conscience.”

“The Commission needs a woman’s touch. Testosterone’s too high. One wrong word and we’d all kill each other.” He leans in slightly. “And as for killing? You wouldn’t have to do it yourself.”

I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking… my mother earned her respect, not by being a woman, but by doing exactly what they wanted—killing when told, bribing when needed, cheating when necessary… she was complicit.

Did I ever even know her?

To me, she was warmth. Laughter. The scent of whatever she was cooking. But to them? She was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

“I’m a journalist,” I say, proud. “A servant to the public. I can’t preach about public welfare while secretly ordering hits.”

Dominic laughs softly. “You know what your problem is? Too much of a conscience. And for what? Your clean conscience is why I showed up at your door. You’re so desperate to escape the Commission, but you forget—they’re like dogs. Run, and they chase. They hunt. And they don’t stop until they tear you apart.”

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