Page 6 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

S omeone is here.

Heavy footsteps echo softly against the stone floor—too deliberate, too sure to belong to anyone but a man.

I can’t see him, only the faint silhouette just beyond the reach of a flickering lamp inside this cell. The room is drowned in pitch-black darkness, but the silence around me sharpens every sound, every breath, every shift of air.

I feel him—a subtle disturbance, like a gale building just beneath the surface. The air thickens with energy, coiling down my spine in a slow, aching crawl. He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved closer, but I know he’s there. Watching. Waiting.

The floor lamp is to my right. I could reach for it, use it to stand, maybe fight. But I stay frozen. My knees won’t cooperate, not when my mind is racing with questions and dread.

Whoever he is, he’s the one who sent for me. Who probably sent that note.

His presence looms so large, it feels like the room shrinks to contain it.

Then I smell him.

Sandalwood and smoke, laced with black pepper—earthy, warm, and impossibly male. It doesn’t just drift through the air—it claims it.

Where the man who brought me here smelled only like like wealth and tailored suits, this scent offers more.

It’s Older. Wilder. More dangerous.

This is what power smells like.

And somehow, I know—without question or logic—that this man is the reason I’m here.

“Bella ragazza, it’s time to talk. We have much to discuss.”

His voice cuts through the dark—low, rich, and dangerously smooth. The kind of voice that doesn’t shout because it never needs to. People probably scramble to obey the moment he speaks.

Every syllable wraps around me like velvet laced with razor wire.

Seductive. Icy. Unmistakably in control.

My heart kicks against my ribs. Fast. Hard. Loud enough, I’m scared he might hear it. I want to see him—need to—but part of me hopes he stays in the shadows just a little longer. Because once I look into the face behind that voice, I won’t be able to pretend this is anything less than a nightmare.

I grip the edge of the cot, grounding myself. The lamp to my right flickers, casting gold along the concrete floor, but it doesn’t reach far enough. He stays hidden. Watching me.

Waiting.

In the dark, I feel a little less helpless a little more in control. If he’s the kind of man I think he is—and God help me, I know he is—he’ll feed off any crack in my armor.

I can’t let him see the fear clawing at my throat.

Not yet.

Not ever.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to sound steady. “Who are you?” My words hang in the air, clipped and formal, like Mama taught me to do when I needed to command attention. I might be stuck in this cell, but I refuse to let him think he’s won.

The sound is scratchy, hoarse—not the pretty, assertive tone I’d perfected over the years, but it’s enough to stand on. I cringe inwardly but push forward. “Why am I here? Where are my phone and my belongings? People will be looking for me.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, I hear the faint creak of leather as he moves closer, the soft click of his shoes against the concrete.

My words don’t matter to him; his silence only fuels my unease.

The lock rattles, and the heavy door swings open with a metallic groan.

He steps inside, closing it behind him with a loud clang that makes me jump.

The lamp clicks to a higher level, and suddenly, light.

A brighter beam floods the room. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting.

When I finally blink them open, I gasp.

He’s standing right in front of me.

Towering. Commanding. Unapologetic.

Mafia.

There’s something magnetic about him, something that drags the breath from my lungs and coils it into a knot at the base of my throat. I should look away. I want to. But I can’t.

Olive skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones.

A strong jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to hint at danger.

Full lips set in a line that’s equal parts arrogance and promise.

His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place—except for one rebellious curl that’s slipped forward, softening a face carved from dominance.

But it’s his eyes that shatter me.

Piercing blue. Icy. Electric. Alive with something ancient and unknowable. They don’t just look at me—they see me. Strip me bare. Peel back the bravado I’ve been clinging to like a shield and leave me exposed.

Helpless.

And somehow, against all logic and sense, a small part of me doesn’t mind.

Because damn it all, why does he have to look like that ?

I’ve never been into White guys. There’s too much history, expectations, and multiple ways to misunderstand each other. Hell, with my practice and performance schedule, I hardly have time to be into Black guys, either.

But this man? He looks like an orgasm. And he knows it.

I drag my gaze downward, unable to bear the intensity of his stare.

My eyes trace the lines of his tailored black suit, from the curve of his broad shoulders to his trim waist. The fabric clings to him, hinting at the strength beneath.

He’s dressed like a man going to war—a harbinger of death cloaked in elegance. Even his appearance is a weapon.

“Who are you?” I demand again, forcing myself to meet his gaze again. My voice sharpens, edged with the steel Mom always said I needed. “And what could you possibly want with me?”

Slowly, he kneels until we’re at eye level.

I shuffle back, my thighs chafing against the floor, but his hand lands on my knee, unyielding.

Heat floods me at the contact, and I hate myself for the shiver that follows.

A whimper escapes before I can stop it. His lips twitch, a hint of satisfaction flickering across his face.

It’s been so long since anyone touched me that I don’t know how to feel about it.

It takes me a few seconds, but I finally find the appropriate emotion.

But then I do.

Rage.

So, I slap him.

His head snaps back, his eyes blaze, and the icy blue ignites like fire. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and I brace myself for his retaliation. But instead of anger, he seems…amused. Infuriatingly so.

“I am Rocco Fieri,” he says, his voice calm but laced with menace. “And you shouldn’t have done that, Piccola Ragazza. I had hoped this would be a calm conversation. Now, you will have to be punished.”

Both fear and fascination flood through me, but I don’t let either show. I lift my chin, defiance pulsing hot in my veins.

“Punished? For what—defending myself against some Gucci-clad gangster with delusions of Godfather grandeur?”

The words slice through the air, sharper than I intended, but I don’t flinch.

I want to see how far I can push him. I need to know what kind of monster I’m dealing with—one who burns hot with rage, or cold with calculation.

For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Then, his mouth curves—just slightly.

And that’s when I realize the most dangerous thing in this room…is how much he enjoyed being challenged.

His grip on my knee tightens, a silent warning. The pressure makes me wince, but I refuse to back down. Neither does he.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch away, prepared for his hit. Instead, he grabs a lock of my hair and rubs the curl between his fingers as he speaks.

The gentle gesture throws me off balance.

"I see the need to explain the rules so that you won't dig yourself into deeper debt with my belt."

His belt. What the hell?

“Rule number one,” he says, his tone clipped and cold. “There will be no more cursing. It is disrespectful and unladylike. I will not tolerate it.”

I throw my head back and laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “How would you know anything about being a lady? You’re nothing but a monster in a suit.”

His hand moves in a blur, wrapping around my neck. The pressure isn’t enough to cut off my air, but it reminds me of his strength and control. His thumb brushes against my pulse, and I’m horrified to realize it’s racing.

“You think I’m a monster,” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto mine. “And perhaps I am. But you’ll find I’m not the worst in your orbit.”

His rough calluses scrape my delicate skin, contradicting his impeccably dressed and wealthy appearance. I recognize the $2,000 shoes on his feet—lessons from my time working in Neiman Marcus’s shoe department aren’t wasted.

Hard labor doesn’t buy that kind of luxury.

His grip on my neck is a warning, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me it could change at any moment. When my tears finally spill over, he drags a finger along my cheek, catching one. To my horror, he licks it off his fingertip, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then he leans in, close enough to kiss.

My breath quickens, adrenaline surging through me.

Two thoughts hit like bricks: This man is dangerous, and my panties are soaking wet.

“Lucia,” he says softly, his voice like velvet over steel, “you are indeed a bambina cattiva , my palla di fuoco . But disobedience will not be tolerated—a lesson you’ll learn tonight.”

He releases my neck, and I cough, sucking in air. The reprieve is short-lived. He clasps both sides of my jaw, forcing my focus onto him.

“You’re mine,” he states. “You became my possession the moment you were captured and brought here. Everything you thought you knew about your life is irrelevant now. Who you were no longer exists. You’ll either accept your place by my side or die—not by my hands, but by the hands of the man who tried to take you first. Your obedience is the only thing keeping that precious Ricci blood flowing through your veins. ”

What the hell is he talking about? Isn’t he the one who took me? Isn’t he the one who sent the note? Confusion knots my thoughts, and I decide to play along, for now.

I nod, and he lets go of my jaw.

I fall back, landing on my butt but never breaking eye contact. I’m owed an explanation, and he’s prepared to give it. Rising to his feet, he walks to the far corner, hands slipping into his pockets. Quietly, he studies me like a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

“You, Lucia Ricci, are the only daughter of Don Matteo Ricci, head of the New York Mafia syndicate.”

I snort. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “Don’t interrupt. I’d hate to add to your punishment.”

Punishment ?

He steeples his fingers, his glare setting my skin ablaze. “Your father is rich and powerful—my family’s natural enemy. He rules New York and the East Coast. We control Chicago and the West Coast. Of course, both families dream of ruling it all.”

He tilts his head. “Are you following me, palla di fuoco ?”

“Yes, I’m following. What is palla…dee…fuck-oh ? Are you cursing me? You know what? Fuck you! Let me out of here.”

Rocco throws his head back and laughs, the sound hoarse and throaty at first, then deep and rich. His entire face transforms, eyes crinkling as he holds his stomach. It’s unnerving how gorgeous he looks, how captivating he becomes in that moment. My thighs clench involuntarily.

But he’s still a ruthless kidnapper—a common criminal in fancy clothes. My mother may have been foolish enough to sleep with one, but I never will.

The laughter fades, and he focuses on me again. “No, Lucia. I don’t let such filth fall from my lips as you do. I would never curse you. Palla di fuoco means ‘fireball.’”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, so you wouldn’t curse me. You’d stalk me, drug me, and drag me to your lair to do God knows what. Maybe rape or kill me. That’s not rude at all.”

“Enough!” he roars. I press back against the wall but refuse to break eye contact. I won’t let this monster see me flinch.

“I don’t rape women,” he says, his tone cutting.

“They come to me willingly. Just as you will one day.” He smirks, his gaze flicking over me.

“Your mouth, however, seems to do you no favors—unless it’s wrapped around my cock.

Perhaps I’ll help you with that later. For now, mia palla di fuoco , you’ll listen or face the consequences sooner than planned. ”

I say nothing, choosing my silence wisely. If I stay quiet, he’ll finish his explanation and—hopefully—unchain me. Not to mention, I desperately need to use the bathroom.

Satisfied with my apparent obedience, Rocco nods, then begins to pace in slow, deliberate steps that echo like a countdown. He stops at the edge of the light, just close enough for me to see the wicked curl of his lips.

“My cousin Leonardo intended to take you for himself,” he says, voice calm, cruel. “To break you in ways you can’t imagine.”

A chill skates down my spine, but I lock my body in place. I won’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.

“And what about you?” I ask, my voice a whisper sharp as glass. “What will you do to me?”

Rocco moves before I can brace myself, closing the space between us like a shadow swallowing light. He leans in, his breath warm against the shell of my ear.

“I will own you,” he growls, the promise low and dark. “Mind. Body. Soul. And you will thank me for it.”

My breath stutters. His lips graze my jaw—barely a touch, but it brands me. Heat flares under my skin, uninvited, unwelcome. It coils tight in my stomach, tangled with fury, fear, and something far more dangerous.

I hate him.

I hate how he speaks.

I hate how he looks at me like he already knows what I’ll do next.

I hate how my body reacts—like it’s his to command.

“What do you want with me?” I pant, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat.

Rocco doesn’t answer right away.

He leans in closer, his breath a slow drag against my skin, the scent of power and control curling around me like smoke.

What either of us wants doesn’t matter, Piccola. “Because in less than an hour,” he murmurs, his voice velvet-drenched in menace, “you’ll be my wife.”