Page 18 of Savage Don's Captive

I force myself to hold his gaze, unblinking. “Try me.”

The challenge sizzles in the air between us, dangerous and thick with tension. And despite everything—despite the fury twisting in my chest, the fear clawing at my ribs—something deep in me warms, low and unwelcome. That same heat from the gala. That same stupid ache.

I remember how he looked at me that night. Like I was the only woman in the world. Like he already owned me.

I vowed, right then, to bury that feeling so deep it never sees the light of day again. Because this man isn’t the stranger from that night anymore.

He’s my enemy.

And I’ll never forget it.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” I try to push myself straighter, but my arms tremble with the effort. My head swims, the drugs still clouding my system.

“Somewhere no one’s going to hear you mouth off.” His eyes finally meet mine. “Or find you.”

“Find me?! What the fuck do you want from me?” The question hangs between us, loaded and raw. But I need to know what I’m facing, what cards he’s playing with.

He leans forward. “Right now? For you to shut up. I found what I was looking for.” He produces a pistol from his waistband—my mother’s gun.

His mouth curves into a cold smile. “It’s smart that you hid it under your pillow,” he says, turning the gun to catch the light. His fingers caress the metal as he leans back in his chair. “But it was never yours to keep, piccola.”

Something cracks inside me at the sight of it in his hands. That gun is my legacy, my last connection to the woman who taught me to survive in a world designed to break me. And now Dominic Gianelli—the man who once made me forget my own name for a night—holds it like he owns it. Like he owns a piece of her. Of me.

My breath catches in my throat. That gun. Her gun. The one she pressed into my little hands when I was ten years old, teaching me how to hold it steady despite its weight. “Power isn’t about strength, Alessa,” she’d whisper. “It’s about knowing when to use what you have.”

“That’s my mother’s gun,” I say, each word careful and measured despite the rage building inside me. “It belongs to me.”

“Does it?” he challenges. “Funny thing about property—it tends to return to its rightful owner eventually.”

“This beauty belonged to me long before you stole it. Before you even knew what it was.” He taps the fleur-de-lis engraving with his thumb. “My mother gave it to Isabella. Isabella gave it to me. Then you decided to play thief after I fucked you. Bad choice.”

A memory of my mother cleaning that same pistol at the kitchen table rolls over me, her movements precise, methodical. “If a man ever takes something of yours, Alessa, make him pay double. The Russo name means something. Never forget that.”

I force my face into indifference, but something in my eyes betrays me, because his smile widens, predatory and knowing.

“I didn’t touch you,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “But there’s a change of clothes for you over there. I’ll give you ten minutes to change, then you can come out and have brunch with me. You can shower when we land.”

He rises from the chair—all controlled muscle and barely contained violence. Nothing wasted, nothing for show. The kind of movement that tells me he’s put men in the ground before, and didn’t lose sleep over it.

“Ten minutes,” he reminds me, hand on the door. “Or I’ll have someone drag you out of here.”

I exhale slowly as the door closes. Alone now, I allow myself three seconds of panic—three seconds to acknowledge the fear clawing at my insides, the realization that my carefully curated life has just been shattered.

Three seconds. Then I compartmentalize, just like my mother taught me.

I change quickly, mind racing through calculations. They need information from me, which means they need me alive andcoherent. Pain is likely, but death isn’t on the immediate agenda. I can work with that. I can buy time.

No one’s coming to save me. Not my father, who’s in hiding himself. Not anyone from the paper who’ll just assume I’m chasing another headline. I’m on my own—just like I’ve always been.

The dining area awaits me, where Dominic sits beside a feast laid out on the table—golden croissants, vibrant fruits, perfectly cooked eggs.

“Help yourself,” he says, filling my mug with coffee. “Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”

I take a croissant, placing it on my plate like a small victory. “Are you going to tell me what you want?”

“Eager, are you?” His mouth curves into that same infuriating smirk.

“Impatient is more like it.”

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