Page 62 of Savage Don's Captive

The image of his hands on Gabriella makes my blood boil. If I had my way, those hands would be feeding fish at the bottom of Lake Mead.

“Gentlemen.” All heads turn to the Russo man, whose impatience radiates like heat. “Are we going to fight like children all day?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes—another gesture I’ve noticed in Alessa. I catch myself wondering what she’s doing right now. Has she finished that breakfast? Is she plotting another escape? The thought of her makes something shift inside me, something I can’t afford to examine too closely.

“Raffaele is right,” interjects the hippie, who’s slouched back in his chair with glazed eyes. Is this fucker high at my club? “We came here for updates on the Russo girl.”

“You came all this way and couldn’t be bothered to learn her name?” My jaw tightens.

“What’s the point?” His dismissal cuts through the air. “She’s going to die sooner or later.”

White-hot rage floods my system. I could kill this man right now—cut off his cock and gift-wrap it for Gabriella to send to her father as a souvenir.

“Grimaldi,” Raffaele warns, his voice firm enough to make Emmanuel retreat like a scolded dog. His eyes linger on me, steady and calculating. “Mr. Gianelli, anything insightful to report to the Commission?”

“I might have something.” I’m full of shit and know it. The realization hits hard —I’m walking a dangerous line. I need Alessa to talk. Soon. “But the information is classified. I’m not sharing it with you degenerates. Tell your superiors if they want to know, they can fly here themselves. I’ll welcome them Las Vegas style.”

“What makes you think you’re in a position to make demands, Mr. Gianelli?”

“The same reason you call me ‘Mr. Gianelli’ while I can call you ‘jackass.’ The same reason I’m handling this job while you’re playing secretary.” Every muscle in my body tenses with the effort not to reach across the table and rip out his tongue. “Because I’m better than you, Grimaldi. I could dismantle everything you’ve built in an afternoon and walk away without a scratch.”

“That’s enough!” Raffaele slams his palms against the table, making the hippie jump and Emmanuel seethe. But the Russomaintains his composure, his eyes locked on mine. “Mr. Gianelli, I apologize for him—he’s temperamental. Kids these days. We’re here to check on your progress, and we won’t leave without something to report back. You know howthisworks.”

“I do,” I nod. “Which is why I’m not going to tell you shit. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and tell them I’ll only speak directly to their faces. Now get the fuck out of my club.”

My voice carries the promise of violence—specifically for the Grimaldi bastard. I watch with predatory satisfaction as he rises, muttering curses his limited vocabulary can manage. He and I both know the truth: no matter how hard he climbs, he’ll never reach the top. Not because he’s a bastard, but because he’s an idiot with rocks for brains.

“And Grimaldi,” I call before he reaches the door, the hippie trailing behind him like a lost puppy. “The next time I hear you disrespect me—or Gabriella—I’ll cut your dick off and shove it down your throat. Capisce?”

Emmanuel’s face contorts with rage, more curses spilling from his lips. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, plotting my demise or at least rehearsing the complaints he’ll make to Fabio Giovani. I know stalling will raise suspicions, but I need more time with Alessa. Just a little more time.

The sharp scent of tobacco cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find Raffaele lounging back in his chair like we’re old friends. The ember of his cigarette glows as he takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke with casual disregard.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, sliding a gold tin and a white Zippo across the table.

I ignore the offering. Accepting would imply camaraderie I don’t feel. My eyes flick to the cheap cigarillo balanced on the ashtray’s edge before returning to his face. I decide to give him the benefit of doubt—for now.

A Don knows when to make temporary alliances, when to extend limited trust to potential assets.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Who?”

“Alessandra.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Isabella Russo was my cousin.”

“And Alessa is your...niece?”

“Technically, first cousin once removed. But who cares? She’s family.”

The Russo family tree is sparse these days. Paolo’s six sons all met stupid ends—one even managed to shoot himself while cleaning a gun. Darwin’s theory in action. Those six brothers shouldn’t have been trusted with assignments requiring functional brain cells.

Then there’s Isabella, Bartolomeo’s only child. Both dead now. Which means Raffaele must be Ettore’s son—the youngest brother who died after his wife put a bullet in his head while he slept.

No wonder Paolo worshipped Isabella. She single-handedly salvaged the Russo reputation and gave the name respect. Yet she, too, joined the family tradition of early death. The Russo legacy is written in blood and headstones. I find myself strangely determined that Alessa won’t follow the same path.

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