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“Did you call somebody?” I ask, ignoring her as I press down harder, feeling the car surge forward.
“Didn’t Harold tell you everything?” she snaps, defiance coating every word despite the tremor in her voice.
“You didn’t call somebody before you reached my club?”
“If I did, why would I tell you?”
“So I know who to eliminate if someone tries to rescue you. Or if they even set foot in my territory.”
“Why is killing always your first instinct?”
“Usually, it’s torture,” I growl. “But now that you’re here, seems like all I want to do is kill, kill, and fucking kill.”
“You’re sick,” she pants. “Please slow down.”
“What was that?” I challenge, pushing the car to its limit, rain slamming against the windows like bullets.
“I said you’re sick, Dominic,” she repeats, voice suddenly steady. “You act like you’re above the Commission, but you are the Commission. The rest of the families don’t hide behind fake morality. But you? You’re wearing sheep’s clothing, pretending to be something better. For all I know, you’re worse than all of them. And honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Something dark and primal flares in my chest at her words. She thinks she knows me? Thinks she can see through me?Puttana arrogante.
“You think Vincenzo Cappone would let a day pass without whipping you until your back splits open, bleeding like a fucking fountain?” I snarl, the car accelerating, faster and faster. “Youthink Fabio Giovani wouldn’t send his grandsons to take turns with you, passing you around like a cheap whore?”
Her face pales as the words hit their mark.
“And who do you think orchestrated this entire kidnapping? Who made the call to drag you into this mess to get to Marco? Your great uncle, Paolo,” I twist the knife deeper, watching her crumble.
“Stop!” she cries, voice breaking. “Please stop. I need to—”
“If it were up to me, you’d be a continent away,” I admit, surprised by the honesty in my words. “And as much as I love breaking people, it’s not my style to do it with someone so...helpless. So fucking weak. Where’s the fun in that?”
“STOP THE CAR!” she screams, the sound slicing through the air.
I slam on the brakes, tires screeching against wet pavement. We jolt forward, my hands gripping the wheel white knuckled as the car skids to a halt. Her frantic breaths fill the silence, eyes wide with panic.
Then she gags.
Once.
Twice.
“Mingya che cazzo!”
She fumbles with her seatbelt and flings the door open, rain crashing into the car. My first thought isn’t that she’ll run—I could catch her in seconds. Run her down if I had to, toss her in the trunk where she belongs.
Instead, I watch as she doubles over, shoulders heaving violently under the downpour. She’s throwing up on the sidewalk, and I wince, wondering what her body’s even purging—she’s barely eaten anything in days.
I sit there, watching from the dry comfort of the car, gripping the steering wheel as her body convulses. She’s completely exposed—vulnerable, broken—but something holds me back from stepping out. Instead, I watch, waiting for her to finish.
When she straightens and turns, the hurt in her eyes is so raw it cuts through me. Her eyes glisten with tears, and I’m reminded of how she looked with Pavel’s gun to her head—steady, unbreakable.
It hits me then, as she walks toward the car, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, that this is the first time I’ve seen her cry. She’s been kidnapped, drugged, interrogated, threatened—and never once shed a tear. But here she is, breaking down over a fucking car ride.
“I told you to slow down,” she croaks, voice thick with emotion. Her hands tremble as she closes the door and buckles her seatbelt, acting like the past minute didn’t happen.
“Car sickness?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I know it isn’t that, but I’m willing to pretend.
“Sure,” she nods, eyes growing heavy.