Page 8 of Savage Don's Captive

Dom shifts in his sleep, one tattooed arm flung across the space I’ve just vacated.

I tuck the gun into my clutch. My mind races through bits of distant memories—my mother’s secretive phone calls, the nights she’d disappear, her warnings about men with power.

I glance at him one last time before heading out the door. He almost looks innocent, but the truth is an icy whisper against my skin.

No city is big enough to hide from the devil once he knows your name.

And I just gave him mine.

Chapter one

Dominic

“Thatfuckercouldneverbe trusted,” Vincenzo Cappone growls, crushing his cigarette with the same force I used on that bankrupt sack of shit an hour ago. The ruby inlays catch the morning light, reminding me of another red stain I plan to make soon. Some people just don’t understand what ‘final notice’ really means.

The boss of the Cappone clan is already on his fifth whiskey. Nine in the fucking morning, and the bottle’s half empty.

“I knew Issy shouldn’t have married that piece of shit.” Vincenzo tosses back another whiskey. “He had more excuses than cash, and not enough of either.”

I light my second cigarillo, watching the smoke curl against the backdrop of the Hudson River. The cathedral ceilings and panoramic views remind me how far I still have to climb. Every family represented today means this isn’t just another monthly brunch. This is power shifting, alliances being tested.

The projector casts its harsh light on the wall, illuminating a face I’ve memorized from a dozen surveillance photos. Marco Russo—mid-forties, distinguished silver threading through his dark hair, NYPD badge gleaming on his chest like a fuck you to everything we stand for.

“Careful,” Paolo Russo interjects, adjusting his light blue button-down with practiced casualness. The boss of the Russo clan runs his legitimate car dealerships with the same precision he uses to launder our money. “That’s my niece you’re talking about, Vince.”

“Ha Ragione, Paolo.“ Fabio Giovani’s massive belly shifts as he leans back, fingers interlaced like a bishop at confession. “He’s right, Paolo.” The old bastard hates me, but his network of restaurant fronts and bootleg liquor operations makes him untouchable. His youngest daughter’s rejection of the family business is an open wound he covers with violence.

They’re the big three of the four Cosa Nostra families in New York—the Commission. I’m the first, the oldest not yet made but already running the Gianelli family. My protection comes from these men, their assets extended to me like a leash they can yank any time. The money’s decent, but nothing compared to what awaits once I’m officially part of the hierarchy.

I stare at the three men who hold New York’s underworld in their palms, wondering which seat I’ll claim when my time comes. Not today, not tomorrow—but it will fucking come. My father’s voice echoes in my head: “Patience is just delayed violence, figlio. When you strike, make it count.” He taught me to play the long game, to earn my button first, then set my sights higher. A man without vision ends up with a bullet in his skull or taking orders until he dies. I’m not built for either fate.

“Issy was a smart girl,” Paolo continues, his tone carrying that reverence we all use for the dead. “And we do not speak ill of Isabella Russo.”

Isabella Russo. La Falciante. The Slicer. Even sixteen years after her “car accident,” her legend echoes through our world. Every weapon they handed her became an extension of her will, every target a guaranteed mark. The mundane nature of her death never sat right with any of us. People like her don’t just die in accidents—they’re removed.

“She should’ve married someone from the family,” Vince spits, pouring another whiskey. “The thought of that outsider taking our name.” Even his disapproval carries respect for La Falciante. “Marrying that Marco—a fucking nobody—was a mistake. I should’ve put him down back then.”

I take a slow drag, let the smoke fill my lungs as I calculate my next move. “Why is he backing this RICO case?” The ash falls precisely into the crystal tray, a small display of control. “Seems like a man with a death wish.”

“He’s never been one of us, Dominic,” Fabio explains, but his eyes say there’s more. There’s always more. “It was only a matter of time before he showed his true colors.”

I let out a cold laugh. “Since when did Marco Russo become a threat?” The words carry the right amount of dismissal, but my mind’s already mapping out kill scenarios. My father taught me to solve problems before they’re problems.

The story of Marco and Isabella reads like a bad romance novel. The princess who fell for a commoner, the family who tried to civilize him by giving him the Russo name and making him Chief of Police. All that work for a mole in the NYPD, and now he’s trying to bury us all.

“He has no loyal bone in his body,” Vince declares. As Isabella’s uncle and Marco’s technical boss, his word carries weight. A RICO case against the families is unprecedented. That a nobody might bring us down burns worse than my cigarillo.

I flex my fingers, feeling the phantom weight of my brass knuckles. “Then let’s go find him. I’ll make him wish he never learned to write his own name.” The thought of introducing him to my particular brand of persuasion sends a pleasant chill down my spine.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Dominic.” Vince’s grin is all teeth. “But after word got out about his little project, he vanished into a safe house. We can’t track him. Yet.”

The three bosses exchange looks that say they’ve already had this conversation without me. My jaw tightens, but I keep myface neutral. Not their equal—not yet. But my patience has limits, and they’re testing them.

“Time is of the essence,” Fabio states, his gaze boring into me. His children—the senators, lawyers, and doctors who make our complications disappear—are his pride. “We need to find him before he can cause more damage.”

“I get it. You need me to fix this?” The words come out measured, controlled. Inside, my blood sings with anticipation.

“Uomo intelligente,“ Paolo murmurs. Intelligent man.

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