Page 61 of Savage Don's Captive

“What?”

“Think about it.” The weight of those three words settles over me like a shroud.

Without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with a feast I can no longer stomach and questions that might destroy everything I’ve ever believed.

Chapter seventeen

Dominic

“You’relate,Mr.Gianelli.”

My jaw locks as I take a step forward. One more word—just one—and I swear to God, if my gun were in reach, he’d be choking on his own blood before he even finished the sentence.

One of these bastards messaged me an hour ago, demanding a meeting on behalf of the Commission. I redirected them to my favorite Luna Rossa location—the crown jewel in my Vegas empire. My territory. My rules.

I take my time entering the dimly lit, empty club, each footstep echoing like a countdown to violence. The sharp tap of Italian leather against hardwood announces my arrival better than any words could. At the far end, three shadows in expensive suitsmaterialize around a poker table, their faces slowly coming into focus under the amber lights. The air reeks of expensive cologne, cigarettes, and the unmistakable stench of unearned arrogance.

“I squeezed this into my packed schedule today. Don’t complain,” I snap, cutting through the silence. The interruption from what had been a fascinating morning with Alessa still burns in my gut. Her green eyes flash in my memory, that defiant tilt of her chin when I’d pushed her too far. “Next time, make an appointment ahead of time.”

Someone scoffs, and my fists clench reflexively. The brass knuckles in my desk drawer call to me, promising the satisfying crack of bone beneath metal.

I take in the men before me, recognizing the first immediately despite his changed appearance. That platinum blonde hair—dyed to hide the dirty brown he inherited from his unremarkable parents. The Grimaldi bastard.

He has his father’s punchable smile—yellow teeth behind lips that perpetually curl with undeserved confidence. His suit strains against a body that’s clearly spent more time at buffets than in the gym. The scent of cheap cologne mixed with cigarettes and sweat creates an aura of desperation around him.

“What’s your name?” I ask, though I know exactly who he is. My doctor has cursed his existence countless times. My brother begged—on his knees—to be the one to separate this prick’s head from his shoulders.

“Emmanuel Grimaldi,” he answers, chest puffing like a peacock. “Fabio Giovani’s consigliere.” His voice carries the weight of borrowed importance. “This is Stefano Marchesi, for Vincenzo Cappone—“ He gestures to a hippie-looking motherfucker in a pink suit. “And that’s Raffaele Russo, on behalf of Paolo Russo—” He points to the only presentable one of the three, whose eyes mirror Alessa’s so perfectly it makes something twist in my chest.

“The Commission can’t even come to this meeting themselves, so they sent their cagnolini instead?” I drop into a chair across from them, the urge for a cigarillo clawing at my throat. I should have downed some whiskey before this—liquor and violence always did make for better negotiations.

“Watch your mouth, Gianelli. We may not be at the top yet, but we have influence.” Emmanuel’s voice strains with the effort of sounding threatening.

I raise an eyebrow slowly—the same way Alessa does when she’s calling bullshit. Now I understand the satisfaction she takes in that small gesture. The power in it.

“I suggest you be careful with your taunts, Emmanuel. You keep forgetting—I am the Commission.” My voice drops to ice.

“I’ll believe it when you take your oath. Until then, you’re as disposable as we are. Lower, even.”

I make a silent vow that the moment I’m made, Emmanuel Grimaldi’s blood will paint someone’s lawn a vibrant crimson.

“Grimaldi, you said?” I tap my fingers against the table in mock concentration. “Why does that name sound familiar? Right—aren’t you Giulia Grimaldi’s bastard son?”

“Allegedly,” he smirks, revealing teeth that would make a dentist weep. The other two men exchange glances, clearly wondering what game he’s playing. They know whose territory they’re in. They know who runs this city.

“The same bastard who’s promised to Gabriella Giovani?” I let the question hang. “How does it feel when the woman you’re supposed to marry doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

His smile evaporates, replaced by raw hatred. There it is—his soft underbelly. This isn’t about Gabriella herself. It’s his wounded pride at being rejected. He could be engaged to a corpse and still be furious if it refused him. His ego is as fragile as wet paper.

Emmanuel slams his fists onto the table. The other two flinch. I lean back, savoring his unraveling. If only Gabriella could see him now, spiraling like a child denied a toy.

She’s supposed to marry this piece of shit—the result of a bet her father lost to the Grimaldis. Poor Gabriella, barely an infant when the deal was made, her life bartered away as collateral.

Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon in Cosa Nostra. Call it tradition, call it a kink, call it keeping money in the family—it works more often than not. Almost ninety percent success rate.

But Gabriella would rather carve out her own eyes with a scalpel than be shackled to this disgrace of a man. Defying her father’s promise to the Grimaldis is just a bonus to avoiding her personal vision of hell.

“She can’t fucking run from her responsibilities forever, Mr. Gianelli,” Emmanuel growls, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “One way or another, I’m going to have her. When I do, I’ll make sure she regrets ever working for you.”

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