Page 3 of His Savage Ruin
Then nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
Matteo
She's beautiful, even like this.
The thought hits me as I watch the surveillance footage for the third time, my fingers drumming against the steel table in my Manhattan warehouse. On the screen, my men carry an unconscious woman from the SUV, her dark auburn hair spilling over strong arms like silk. Even drugged and limp, there's something about her that commands attention. Something dangerous.
Alessia Moretti. Lorenzo's widow. The woman who started a war.
I check my watch. She's been out for a few hours. The sedative should be wearing off soon.
"Boss." Marco appears at my elbow, young and eager, still trying to prove himself worthy of the Romano name. "She's stirring."
I push back from the table and straighten my suit jacket. Armani, black as my reputation, tailored to perfection. Details matter in this business. Power is in the presentation as much as the action.
"Time we had a conversation."
The room where we're holding her is exactly what it needs to be. Windowless, dark, with only the faintest light seeping in from under the door. No decoration, no comfort, nothing to distract from the reality of her situation. Just concrete walls, a single chair, and the kind of silence that makes people want to talk.
I position myself in the deepest shadows and wait, watching her slowly return to consciousness. There is a single, dim lightbulb shining over her. She's already awake, though she's trying to hide it. Her breathing is too controlled, too measured for someone truly unconscious. Smart, but I've seen enough people come around from drugs to know the difference.
I can see her testing her restraints carefully, the zip ties around her wrists, trying to piece together what happened. Her head must be pounding from the sedative—it always does—but she's fighting through it, thinking, calculating.
After three minutes of this charade, I decide to end it.
"Awake at last."
She jerks toward my voice, and I watch her strain her eyes trying to see me in the darkness. Her heart rate picks up—I can see it in the pulse jumping at her throat—but she doesn't cry out. Doesn't beg. Interesting.
"What's a woman like you doing in such a bad neighborhood?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral. The kind of tone that makes smart people nervous.
"My business is none of your concern," she snaps back, and I'm impressed that her voice barely shakes.
"Well-bred girls like you shouldn't wander into neighborhoods like that,principessa. It invites trouble."
"That still doesn't give you the right to kidnap me," she fires back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my name is notprincipessa.”
I chuckle, genuinely amused. Most people in her position would be sobbing by now. "Bold words for someone tied up and alone."
I start moving, circling her in the darkness, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. She tries to track the sound, turning her head to follow my voice, but in the complete blackness that surrounds her, she's blind.
Her vision adjusts when I walk out of the darkest shadow, her golden-brown eyes find me immediately. I'm standing just outside the circle of light, but she can make out enough. I watch her catalog details with quick intelligence—my height, my build, the expensive cut of my suit.
To my surprise, she doesn't cower. Instead, she lifts her chin in defiance, meeting my stare with more backbone than most men show me.
I step into the light, letting her see me clearly for the first time. The scar along my jaw catches the light, a reminder of the night my father died.
My tattoos are visible at my wrists, dark ink that speaks of a world she's only glimpsed from the protected heights of Moretti society. I know I carry myself with the controlled presence that has made grown men piss themselves.
Yet she doesn't look away.
I can see her mind working, trying to piece together what's happening. "How long was I unconscious?" she asks, her voice steady despite her situation.
"Long enough," I say simply.
Her eyes narrow as she processes this. "The Morettis will be looking for me. They'll tear Chicago apart?—"
