Page 51 of Ruined By Capture

"Look at me," I say.

She raises her eyes to mine, those unshed tears making them shine like amber caught in sunlight.

"What you're doing right now?" I say, holding her gaze steady. "It's braver than anything I've ever done. Braver than your brother, than your father, than any don in our world."

She blinks, a single tear escaping down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb, the contact sending heat through my fingertips.

"I don't feel brave," she whispers. "I feel terrified."

"That's what makes it brave,piccola. Feeling the terror and doing it anyway." I don't release her chin, can't seem to make myself let go. "You know what I want from all this? To make your father lose control. To show him his place. It's about power and territory and all the same shit we've been fighting over for generations."

My thumb strokes along her jawline without my permission. "But you?” I continue, “you're doing this for those people in the files. For kids who'll never get to grow up. For families who'll never know what happened to someone they loved." I shake my head, something like awe creeping into my voice. "There's a fucking huge gap between those two things."

She stares at me, searching my face like she's trying to decode another encrypted file. Whatever she finds there makes her shoulders straighten, her chin lift slightly higher in my grasp.

CHAPTER 17

His face hovers inches from mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. My pulse thunders in my ears as I realize how little I would need to move—just a slight tilt forward and our lips would meet.

The thought freezes me in place.

His thumb traces my jawline, the calloused pad rough against my skin, sending electric currents down my spine. His dark eyes hold mine, intense and unguarded in a way I haven't seen before.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, his words from last night echo: hookups without strings or consequences.

I'm not that. I can't be that. Not when my life hangs in the balance, not when everything I've worked for depends on keeping a clear head.

"I should continue working," I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet warehouse. "The encryption won't break itself."

His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretches into eternity. Something flashes across his face before he slowly releases my chin, his fingertips dragging slightly as they leave my skin.

"You're right," he says, his voice rougher than before. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, putting distance between us that feels both necessary and unbearable.

I nod, unable to form words as I watch him retreat, taking the warmth with him.

I stare at Alessio's back as he walks away, his shoulders rigid with tension. The distance between us grows with each step, but the echo of his words remains, cutting deeper than he knows.

You really want to help those people.

It wasn't a question when he said it. And he's right. This has never been just about escaping Raymond or exposing my father. It goes deeper, to something embedded in my bones.

My mother taught me this—to see people, really see them. Not as assets or liabilities like my father does.

I remember being eight years old, watching Elena Vasquez get mocked for her accent and homemade clothes. Without thinking I stepped between her and the other girls. The next day I begged my mother for extra lunch money to share with Elena.

When I was fifteen I convinced our housekeeper to take my ‘outgrown’ designer clothes to her neighborhood. They weren't outgrown—I'd barely worn them. But the lie made the giving possible in my father's house where sharing was degrading.

Small rebellions. Tiny defiances against the Lombardi way.

And now... now I know what those tiny acts were preparing me for.

Somewhere right now a child is lying on a cold table. Somewhere a girl my age is being evaluated for the health of her kidneys or the condition of her heart.

My throat constricts. The warehouse blurs through sudden tears.

I try to swallow them back but a sob breaks free, raw and jagged. I press my palm against my mouth, trying to silence it, but it's too late. The dam breaks.

Tears stream down my face as I gasp for air. My shoulders shake with the force of it—this grief, this rage, this helplessness. I curl forward over the laptop, my forehead nearly touching the keyboard as I weep.

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