Page 92 of Savage Don's Captive

Despite Raffy’s hold on me, Dominic keeps himself firmly positioned between us, his broad frame a shield. The awkward angle strains my arm further, the pain sharp and unforgiving, but Dominic doesn’t waver. His other hand rises, and with lethal precision, he presses the barrel of his gun against Raffy’s forehead.

The look in his eyes chills me to the bone—this isn’t the Dominic who whispered sweet nothings against my skin in the dark, who traced my curves with reverent fingers, who looked at me like I was something precious. This is Dominic the enforcer, the killer, the man who wears death like a second skin. And yet, even in his darkest moment, he’s protecting me. The contradiction makes my head spin.

Raffy’s grip on my arm is ironclad, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising intent. I already know the imprint of his hand will linger long after he lets go—if he lets go, a dark reminder of his audacity.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Raffy, ever the defiant bastard, tightens his grip, twisting my arm with a cruel force that sends a sharp bolt of pain shootingthrough my shoulder. I can’t suppress the wince that escapes me.

The scrape of chairs against stone signals movement, and I see from the corner of my eye that the three men rise from the table, their guns drawn and trained on Raffy. His eyes dart toward them in a calculated side glance before snapping back to Dominic, an unsettling smirk playing at his lips.

Then, as if this chaos wasn’t enough, Raffy whistles.

“Take another step and see what happens,” he challenges.

The men freeze, their eyes darting surveying the area for any sign of danger. But the thick lattice roof covered with white bougainvillea obscures the view above, and the tinted windows of the house offer no glimpse of what might be lurking inside.

My mind races with the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Raffy’s threat isn’t hollow—it’s a loaded gun aimed at all of us. Disobedience feels like walking on thin ice, and beneath it lies an abyss of unfathomable depth, ready to swallow us whole the moment we slip.

I stay as still as possible, my breaths shallow, and Dominic remains a stone wall between Raffy and me. My free hand moves with care, snaking around to press against his back, a silent plea for him to steady himself.

I’m grounding him, reminding him to take a breath, to assess the situation. To think. Because if Dominic, with his anger clouding his judgment, pulls that trigger, there’s no turning back.

“Now, Dominic,” Raffy sings with a smile. “Put the gun down and nobody gets hurt.”

Dominic doesn’t say anything, instead, a metallic click of the hammer being cocked rings through the air like a death knell. It’s a promise, I realize. That if Raffy doesn’t let me go, the only person who’s going to get hurt is Raffy himself.

“You think I’m bluffing?”

On cue, something zips past my ear like a razor slicing through the air at blistering speed before I feel the sharp, searing sensation slicing through thin skin. My breath catches, and my heart lurches as the sniper’s bullet grazes me—an inch of raw pain left in its wake.

My scream escapes involuntarily as the sharp sound of shattering glass follows, the bullet embedding itself into the wineglass with a violent crack, sending shards of crystal scattering. My first instinct is to clutch my now wounded ear, but I can’t. Raffy’s grip on my arm is a vise, so crushingly firm that every pull feels like it might snap my bone.

My mind races, piecing together the trajectory of the bullet even as blood trickles warm and sticky down the side of my neck. The rooftop. The chaos around the patio feels muted like I’m locked in some surreal limbo, but the chill coursing through my veins is real enough. This wasn’t just a warning shot.

The hot wetness of blood trickling down my neck contrasts sharply with the cold fear flooding my system. The coppery smell fills my nostrils, bringing unwanted memories of that night inthe car—my mother’s blood on my hands, on my face, in my hair. The same metallic scent, the same gut-wrenching panic.

Dominic whirls to me, worry painting his features, pain filling his eyes, and undeniable fury oozing from his pores. He reaches a hand on my ear, his lips twist at the sight. His fingers brush the lobe of my ear as he tucks a loose strand of hair, careful not to touch the wound.

“I’m okay,” I whisper under my breath as his eyes meet mine. And despite all the waves of chaos running through his mind, he calms. Something passes between us in that locked gaze—a moment of connection deeper than words could express. In the midst of this madness, we’re each other’s anchor.

But then Dominic’s focus falters, his piercing gaze slipping away from mine, replaced by a haunting stillness. His attention drifts to something behind me. His eyes widen, panic flickering like a storm in their depths, and a raw, unbridled terror etches itself onto his face. Before I can even react, he snaps, turning to Raffy with a guttural, feral snarl, the kind of sound that belongs to a caged predator driven past its breaking point. Desperation seeps from every rigid line of his body as if whatever he’s seen has stripped away all reason, leaving only primal fury in its wake.

That’s when I see it—the faint, ominous glow of red laser beams darting across the brunch table, like deadly fireflies marking their prey. One lands squarely on Fabio’s head, unwavering. Another targets Vincenzo, steady as death. Two settle on Paolo, one centered on his forehead, the other cruelly poised over his chest. My breath hitches as I shift my gaze and spot the unmistakable glow on the back of Dominic’s head. And thoughI can’t see it, the prickle at the base of my skull confirms it—there’s one on me, too.

The red dots transform the elegant brunch setting into something out of a nightmare—proof that death is hanging over all of us, waiting for the signal to strike. My mother’s words echo in my mind—‘Death doesn’t announce itself, Alessa. It waits until you’re looking the other way.’I never fully understood what she meant until now, with those silent red promises hovering over us all.

“If you think I’m bluffing, pull the trigger. I dare you,” Raffy challenges. “I’m not going to ask again. Step aside. Otherwise, you’re going to see her brain splattered on the asphalt.”

Dominic doesn’t move one bit. He’s a wall of protection between me and death itself.

My heart swells with a confusing mixture of emotions—gratitude, fear, admiration, and something deeper I refuse to name. This man—this dangerous, violent man—would die before letting anyone harm me. The realization is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

Raffy points his gun skyward, and without warning, the deafening crack of a gunshot splits the air, shattering the serene morning beneath the patio roof. The sharp report bounces off the stone walls of the courtyard, echoing into the open space like a thunderclap. Plates rattle against the table as Dominic’s shoulders tense, his body instinctively shifting even closer to me, as though bracing for what might come next.

The soft rustle of the bougainvillea’s petals, so peaceful before, is now a stark contrast to the collective inhale of panic that fills the air. A faint wisp of smoke curls from the barrel of Raffy’s gun as he lowers it slowly, his unhinged grin cutting through the rising tension.

My ears ring from the blast, the high-pitched whine drowning out everything but my own thundering heartbeat. For a moment, I’m back in that car with my mother, the world reduced to crashing glass and screaming metal as we careened off the road. I blink hard, forcing myself back to the present. I can’t afford to lose myself in memories now.

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