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His eyes flicker with hesitation. To shield me or to treat me as the partner I’ve chosen to be?
“I don’t know.” His jaw tightens. “But I’m going to find out.”
And God help anyone who stands in his way.
I chose this life. This man. This world.
Whatever comes next—we face it together.
Chapter thirty-one
Dominic
Thebasementreeksofpiss, blood, and desperation. I don’t flinch. Can’t flinch. Not in this life. Not anymore.
Growing up, I learned quick. The streets don’t forgive, and the Cosa Nostra sure as hell doesn’t forget. Got word the top turns out my old man’s death was Raffy Russo too... little mook thought he could clear his way to the top by setting him up. Dirty move, but nothing new. The kind of betrayal that only comes from someone you used to call brother.
My mother? She was the real survivor. Worked her ass off—Taught me that survival isn’t about strength—it’s about adaptability. About knowing when to fight and when to play the long game.
The first time I killed a man—it wasn’t for family or respect. It was for survival. Some asshole thought he could push our neighborhood around. I learned that day that hesitation kills faster than any bullet. Between me and Alessa’s safety.
“Marco,” I whistle, each step down echoing like a death march. My stomach doesn’t churn—it coils with anticipation. Predatory. Hungry. Fear...the kind that sits like lead, knowing how much is at stake. The roadblock standin’ between me and my place in the Cosa Nostra... between me and Alessa’s safety.
I need him to cooperate—unfortunately for him, I don’t give a damn about his life—just his daughter’s. That means I can beat the living shit outta him if it comes to it.
I promised Alessa I wouldn’t kill him, but I never said I wouldn’t break him.
Six days. Six fucking days of watching her fight. Of holding her hand through the worst of it. The hospital room became my entire world—fluorescent lights, the smell of latex, cleaning solution, and Alessa’s shallow breaths. I’d dozed in that extra bed, laptop open but forgotten, more machine than man. Watching. Waiting.
My mind drifts to how we got here. How a simple assignment turned into... this.
Alessa wasn’t supposed to be more than a job. A connection. A means to an end. The daughter of an NYPD chief with ties to the Cosa Nostra. Perfect leverage. Perfect opportunity. But shebecame something else entirely. Something that scared me more than any threat I’d ever faced.
My mind drifts to the first time I saw her at the Crimson Gala. That place is nothing but a bunch of rich fucks hiding their sins behind polished suits and masked faces. But her... She stood out, like a lamb in a den of wolves. I would’ve bid any price to get my hands on those strawberry locks, not because she was the curviest thing in the room, though she damn sure was. Nah, it was the way she didn’t fit. The way she was uneasy in her own skin, looking like she wanted to bolt the second she could. That’s when I knew—she wasn’t like the others. And I was gonna make her mine.
The cell’s a coffin in the corner. Same hellhole TJ used to break guys who thought they could fuck with our neighborhood. Marco’s slumped against the rusted bars, looking like roadkill. Dried blood. Vomit. Beaten to near-unrecognizable.
I remember the first time I saw Marco Russo. A dinner. Some high-profile Cosa Nostra event where the lines between law and crime blur into nothing. He’d stood there—NYPD Chief, married into the family—looking like he didn’t quite belong. But he was smart. Strategic. The kind of man who knew how to play both sides.
“You’re supposed to say ‘Polo,’” I mock, flipping on the lights. My pristine black shoes—a fuck-you to the filth surrounding me. “Have some respect for the game.”
He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. But I see it—the tremor in his shoulders. The fear bubbling just beneath the surface.
TJ did a number on him. Good. He deserves worse.
“NYPD Chief. Married into Cosa Nostra. Impressive climb for a nobody,” I start, circling like a shark. Each step calculated. Each word a knife. “Too bad you’re about to become less than nobody.”
The silence stretches. Oppressive. Suffocating.
I pull out the big gun. The one that always breaks them. My ruby-encrusted brass knuckles catch the dim light—a trophy, a promise. “You’re lucky it’s me and not the Commission. Fabio Giovani wouldn’t leave enough of you to identify.” My voice is calm. Cold. The kind of calm that comes from years of watching men break.
A twitch. A spark of life.
“I need to know about this RICO case. How deep you’ve dug. What evidence you’ve got.” My fingers curl into a fist, knuckles white, the rubies glinting like droplets of blood. “Cooperate, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll make this quick.”
Suddenly, his head snaps up. Eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it could incinerate. And in that moment, I see Marco Russo—not the broken man, but the threat. The man who could burn everything to the ground.
“Tell that traitorous bitch she can die a slow, painful death!”