Page 12

Chapter eleven

Dominic

T oday’s been a shit show from start to finish.

I slam the car door in her face, guilt flickering through me for a split second before I crush it. The fact she made it this far from the house—barefoot in this storm—would be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating.

Alessa’s covered in someone else’s blood. Looking like a drowned cat that got dragged through a slaughterhouse. Her fault. If she’d just fucking stayed put like I told her to, she wouldn’t be sitting here looking like Carrie on prom night.

The look in her eyes when that Russian piece of shit dragged her in with a gun to her head. It ripped something open inside me. Made me want to burn the whole damn place down just to get to her—just to make sure she was safe. A tight coil of frustration and rage twists in my gut.

She’s Mine.

I round the car, stretching my fingers around my brass knuckles. They’ve been baptized in blood since I left the house—courtesy of the security guard who decided to take a fucking siesta when Alessa decided to bolt. Incompetent bastardo . He won’t make that mistake again. Not with a broken jaw and three less teeth.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I slam the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. I’m fuming, pulse pounding in my ears like war drums. Her scent chokes the air—she’s drenched, shivering, rain-soaked and that fucking intoxicating musk. My cock betrays me, hard and aching, as I imagine wrapping my hands around her throat, squeezing—only instead of punishing her for putting me through this merda , I’m fucking her into oblivion.

I turn the key, the Maserati purring to life. We sit in silence, nothing but our ragged breathing between us. I reach for the heater and crank it up, angling the vents toward her before she gets fucking frostbite. Not out of kindness—I just can’t have her dying before I get what I need.

She’s sulking, arms crossed over those perfect tits, lips in a pout that makes me think of how they’d look wrapped around my cock. Her face is speckled and her hands stained red, but there’s still fire in those green eyes. Good.

I don’t want her broken—just bent to my will.

“If you’d stayed at the house, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” I say, buckling my seatbelt.

“If you hadn’t kidnapped me from my penthouse, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“You’re such a fucking pain in the ass.”

“Why don’t you just do us both a favor and kill me, Dominic,” she snaps, rolling those beautiful eyes. “Isn’t that where this is all going?”

“I’m tempted to,” I admit, voice dropping low. “Now put your fucking seatbelt on.”

To my surprise, she obeys, the belt clicking into place. I press the accelerator, the engine roaring as we tear through the rain. The wipers thrash against the windshield, struggling to keep the glass clear, but nothing matches the storm raging in my chest.

Her breath hitches as I push the car faster, hands gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline. Her knuckles turn white as she glances at me, fear and fury mixing in her eyes.

“Slow down,” she says, voice tight.

“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. “You think 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.

For someone who’s been running from the mob her whole life, she has the grit of a seasoned soldato . A spine of steel, holding out this long without breaking. She’s got the mouth for it, the determination, the fire. With training, she’d fit right in. She is, after all, her mother’s daughter.

There’s something about her I almost pity. We’re opposites in the same world—while I’ve spent my life fighting to be a made man, she’s been desperate to escape it. It’s not her fault Marco dragged her into this mess. She’s just the bait in a game she never asked to play while I’ve been hustling for a seat at the table.

“I don’t want to be here, Dominic.” Her voice is a whisper, raw with exhaustion. It hits me like a bullet to the chest—the first genuine thing she’s said to me. Not a smart remark or a sarcastic comeback. A confession. “Why am I the collateral? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s not your fault your mother’s the one who died in that car crash and not Marco.”

Dio mio . I could’ve said it better, something that doesn’t sound like kicking someone already down, but the words spill out before I can stop them.

Alessa stares at me, jaw dropping, like she can’t believe what I just said. Neither can I, but I’m not about to apologize. It’s the truth—she’s better off without her father. If Isabella was still alive, Alessa wouldn’t be caught in this mess. Her life would be different, safer. She wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder every second.

Without another word, I start the engine and pull away, ignoring the conscience I didn’t know I had clawing at the back of my mind.

Scalding water beats down on my skin, each drop searing away the day’s filth. I watch as the water turns crimson, blood swirling over white tiles before disappearing down the drain.

I grip my cock, hard and aching in my hand, as my mind conjures her. I imagine Alessa walking into my shower, footsteps soft against wet tiles, that defiant energy filling the space. She’s naked, curves on full display—just like I remember from that night four years ago. Delicate yet strong. All for me.

Up and down. My hand moves in steady rhythm over the head, precum glistening as I ignore the blistering water pounding my back. The heat barely registers, nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. It’s fucked up—stroking myself just minutes after watching Alessa vomit in the rain, hours after being covered in some Russian fuck’s blood. Just an hour ago, I was on a rampage, and now...this.

But I need release. Something to untangle the knot that’s been building since I woke to find her gone. Something to drown out the adrenaline still surging through my veins like poison. I need to let it out somehow… even if it fucks with my head after.

With Alessa so close, flaunting those legs, wearing nothing but my clothes with that perfect ass peeking through—my imagination runs wild. It’s not the first time I’ve fantasized about her while jerking off, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.

In my head, she steps behind me under the spray, reaching around to find my cock. She wraps her delicate fingers around it, struggling to contain its girth. Her grip is firm, setting me on fire as she strokes, twisting her wrist just right. So deliciously slow.

But my hand moves faster, harsh grunts echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Fuck,” I growl, mind betraying me as it paints Alessa on her knees before me. She’s completely bare, skin flushed, eyes locked with mine. Those full breasts heave with each breath, nipples hard and begging for my mouth. Heat radiates off her body, wrapping around me like a vice as I lose myself in the fantasy.

I stroke harder, grip tightening as tension coils in my gut like a spring wound too tight. My head falls back, water cascading down my body, barely registering anymore. All I feel is a desperate need for release, the day’s violence and frustration gnawing at me like hunger.

The softness of her skin, those full lips parted as she kneels before me—it’s enough to drive me insane. I can almost hear her breathing, feel her warmth against me. My chest tightens, every muscle tensing as the need to explode becomes unbearable.

There’s something primal about this, something twisted in how anger, lust, and control blur together. But I can’t stop. Each stroke drags me deeper into the fantasy, pressure building until I’m teetering on the edge, the fury and guilt and want all about to erupt into something I can’t control.

In my mind, she’s looking up at me with those defiant eyes—challenging me even as she gives herself over. Just like in the club today. Just like when I first had her. The memory of her beneath me, fighting pleasure until she shattered, sends me over the edge.

I come with a roar, spilling onto the shower wall in thick white ropes, her name a curse on my lips.

As the evidence washes away, shame creeps in—But the water can’t wash the ambition burning in my veins.

I wipe steam from the mirror, staring at my reflection. My father always said a man is measured by the scope of his vision, not just his willingness to pull a trigger. “Soldiers die forgotten, Dons live forever.” The old man never made it past capo, but he planted seeds of something greater.

Every move I make—even handling Alessa—is calculated to strengthen my position. The Commission thinks this is about loyalty and earning my button, but I’m playing a deeper game. Generations of Gianellis have served other families, but I’ll be the one to change that. I’ll be the one they all answer to, eventually. Don Gianelli. It’s got a ring to it that keeps me going through all this shit.

But I shouldn’t want her. Not the daughter of La Falciante. Not my captive— the key to my future. Not the woman who could burn everything I’ve built to the ground.

But I do. God help me, I do.

And that might be the most dangerous game I’m playing.