Page 76 of Savage Don's Captive

Before I can pull myself up, a second explosion rips through the air. Heat. Pressure. Silence. The last thing I feel is Dominic yanking me against his chest before darkness swallows me whole.

Chapter twenty-two

Dominic

Thetextonmyphone doesn’t just confuse me—it pisses me the fuck off. Nobody in my world calls me “friend.” That shit is for civilians and politicians. In my line of work, pleasantries are just pretty wrapping paper on a box full of bullets.

I hope you like my little surprise, friend.

I stare at the message, reading it over and over. It doesn’t make sense because whoever wrote it needs a crash course in how men in the Cosa Nostra communicate. We don’t do warm and fuzzy. We do blood and broken bones.

I know a thousand people in this country, and I own this goddamn city. Nobody—not one single person—has ever calledme their friend. Associate, maybe. Colleague, if they’re feeling formal. But friend? Fuck no. Even my own brothers wouldn’t claim that title.

Which is how I know exactly who sent it—Alessa’s uncle. Isabella’s cousin. Raffaele fucking Russo. Some would-be hotshot looking to replace Paolo. Desperate move from a desperate man.

I didn’t even know this prick existed before that meeting. Paolo never mentioned him, and I couldn’t get a read on him or his endgame—whether he’ll help or hinder my path to becoming a made man. The Russos are turning into a fucking nightmare. First, Isabella was tight with my mother. Then Alessa became my final ticket to getting made. Now there’s this Raffaele asshole.

I leave Alessa inside the church to chat with the reverend. I don’t trust her not to try something stupid, but I know she’ll stay put to hear what the priest has to say about her mother. Besides, I’ve got men at every exit. Even if she wanted to run, she wouldn’t make it ten feet.

After a moment’s hesitation, I dial the number, a string of curses slipping through my teeth. The bastard picks up before the first ring completes.

“What the fuck, Raffaele?” I snarl before he can open his mouth. My eyes scan the perimeter, landing on TJ as he strides toward me, speaking into his earpiece. His sharp gaze meets mine—a silent question. I give him a firm nod, which he returns beforepositioning himself nearby. Close enough to take a bullet for me, far enough to let me handle my business.

“Hello, Mr. Gianelli,” Raffaele purrs, his tone dripping with amusement.

“I’m not here for your fucking games,” I snap.

“Is that the way to greet a friend? And please, I told you, it’s Raffy.”

“Cut the shit. What do you want?” My patience is hanging by a thread. My plate’s already piled high with bodies and blood debts. The last thing I need is another problem to solve—or another grave to dig.

“I see you still go to church,” he chuckles. “For someone with your body count, it’s pretty fucking rich to sit in the front row with my niece. Nice tie, by the way.”

A chill slides up my spine as I scan the area again, refusing to let any sign of unease show. Threats are nothing new—I eat them for breakfast. But Raffy is an unknown variable, and in my business, unknowns get you fitted for a coffin.

The parking lot is crawling with people—all of them likely gossiping about the mysterious woman on Dominic Gianelli’s arm. Families pile into their cars while others stroll toward the gate under the morning sun, oblivious to the predators walking among them.

Raffy’s low whistle hums through the phone, like the sound a snake makes before it strikes.

“Over here, Dominic.” My first name on his lips makes my trigger finger itch. This man is nothing to me. No rank. No history. No power in the Commission. He sure as fuck isn’t Isabella’s caliber—last name be damned.

Something tugs at my attention, and my head turns instinctively. There he is—leaning against a post across the street, grinning like he’s already won something.

The prick is wearing a dark gray wool overcoat over a hound's tooth vest, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud that vanishes above his head. I scowl at the coat—it’s fucking 75 degrees out. The man looks like a reject from Peaky Blinders, playing dress-up in his daddy’s clothes.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.

“What’s it look like? It’s Sunday. Got church obligations too.” He flicks ash onto the sidewalk like he owns it.

“And your little surprise?”

“Oh, that.” He laughs, grinding his cigarette butt under his shoe. “You’ll see in about three... two...”

A deafening boom cuts through the air, shattering our conversation.

Screams tear through the air like souls being ripped from bodies. Women clutch their children with white-knuckled terror. Men throw themselves over their families as if flesh could stop what’s coming. It’s not chaos—it’s a preview of judgment day.

The blast slams into me with physical force, like taking a shotgun blast to the sternum. The concussion wave crushes my lungs, making each breath feel like swallowing broken glass. My ears pop and fill with a high-pitched whine as the ground bucks and rolls beneath my feet. The church—MY fucking church—convulses like a dying animal. Those massive oak doors don’t just break—they disintegrate, becoming a storm of wooden daggers that slice through anything soft. Flesh. Eyes. Throats. Blood mists the air. The stained-glass windows—the ones my grandfather commissioned with blood money—explode into kaleidoscope shrapnel, each jagged piece catching sunlight as it slices through the faithful below. The sound batters my eardrums—glass shards tearing flesh, bones snapping like wet kindling, and the raw animal noises people make when death is reaching for them.

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