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Chapter twelve

Alessa

I n the suffocating dark of my room, my stomach gnaws at itself like a feral animal. You’d think after the absolute hell I’ve been through today—blood, bile, and trauma all swirled together in a lovely little cocktail—I wouldn’t be thinking about food. But all I can focus on is that rubbery pile of scrambled eggs Harold made me.

I should’ve eaten slower. Savored every tasteless bite. Because now, I’d kill for those damn eggs.

When I get out of this hellhole, I swear I’m never wasting food again. Not a crumb, not a single grain of rice. I’ll lick my plates clean and funnel every cent of my trust fund into soup kitchens. Being this hungry isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s torture.

This isn’t some dramatic, woe-is-me hunger. This is agony. A deep, twisting, gut-wrenching pain like period cramps dialed to a hundred. I don’t even have the energy to shift positions, let alone breathe normally.

If not for the dried blood crusted beneath my fingernails and Pavel’s stench clinging to my skin, I might’ve skipped showering. But the acidic taste of bile still burned the back of my throat, so I forced myself through it. Even brushing my teeth felt like an Olympic event.

Now, curled beneath a thick duvet, I watch rain hammer against the window. On a normal night, I’d see stars. Tonight, there’s only darkness.

God, I want to be out there. Free. Away from this prison.

My eyelids grow heavier, sleep threatening to drag me under—until the sharp click of my doorknob jolts me awake.

I freeze.

No one’s supposed to come in here. Dominic made that crystal clear. For days, that rule has been my only shred of security.

But now…

Dread coils in my stomach, and my heart slams against my ribs as a hundred awful scenarios flood my brain. Maybe it’s Dominic, finally deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Or TJ, rolling in with rusty pliers to pull out my teeth one by one.

The worst possibility—the one turning my blood to ice—is that Pavel isn’t dead. Maybe he and his brothers clawed back from hell to finish what they started.

Maybe they’re here to force my legs apart.

I don’t turn to look. I can’t. Instead, I go rigid, trying to even out my breathing. If I stay perfectly still, maybe this is just another nightmare I’ll forget when I wake up. Maybe this’ll all disappear.

Footsteps creep closer. Two sets.

Shit.

The soft shuffle against the carpet makes my stomach drop. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that if they’re going to kill me, they make it quick.

“Right here?” A voice I don’t recognize speaks up. A man.

“Yes.”

Dominic.

I’d know that voice anywhere.

“She must be sleeping.”

On cue, the overhead light flickers on, burning into my retinas. I don’t flinch. I force my eyes open, locking onto the men invading my room. If I’m about to die, I’ll know whose faces I’ll be haunting.

“All the corners, sir?” The stranger asks.

“Just the two. Make sure there are no blind spots.”

Blind spots?

I frown, panic momentarily replaced by confusion.

What the hell are they—

I hear movement. A ladder creaks. That’s when I see him—the stranger, an older guy in a blue-striped polo and cargo pants, fumbling with a drill in my room’s corner. His round face with a mustache nearly swallowing his upper lip screams working class, not mobster.

And then there’s Dominic.

Standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in—of course—more black.

The man owns a closet. Why does he refuse to wear anything but the color of death?

Except tonight, he’s not in his usual suit. He’s wearing a compression shirt and sweatpants, and God help me, it’s infuriating how good he looks. The fabric clings to him, outlining every muscle, every inch of the man I once knew intimately.

I’ve seen him naked before, but back then, it was dark. Here, under harsh light, I see everything, including the head of his dick bouncing in his pants, and like an idiot, part of me wonders what he’d look like out of them.

Geezuz… focus, Alessa.

As if sensing my gaze, Dominic turns, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a split second, something sharp and electric zips through me—but I shove it down, burying it deep before it can bloom into something dangerous.

Dominic Gianelli is my captor.

My enemy.

I won’t let myself forget that.

Then, his cruel words about my mother slash through my mind, reopening a wound that never fully healed. The pain sharp, like a knife twisting in my gut, relentless and unforgiving. And as the car jerked forward earlier, it wasn’t just the force that stole my breath. I was back there —that night.

I never fully remember what happened, only that flashes come when I least expect them. This time, I saw my father’s hands gripping the wheel, his knuckles bone-white. My mother’s voice, sharp with panic. The car moving too fast. Just like Dominic’s did. The same reckless speed before everything shattered.

I force myself to blink, pushing the memory down before it swallows me whole.

“You’re awake,” he says, moving toward the bed.

The mattress dips as he sits near my leg, and instinct takes over—I curl them back, a barrier between us.

Maybe for protection.

Maybe just to keep him from touching me.

Maybe… for sanity.

Either way, I don’t trust him enough to close the space.

“How are you feeling?”

I blink at him, rolling my eyes.

How am I feeling?

Is he serious?

“Exhausted. And really hungry.” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

I search his expression for guilt. For regret. For anything proving he feels something about what he’s done to me.

His face remains blank. Unbothered.

“You had quite a day,” he muses, as if I’d tripped into this situation rather than being violently kidnapped. “As for your hunger, that’s easily rectified. Food is served three times a day, sometimes four if Rosaria’s in a good mood and makes La Merenda .”

At the mention of La Merenda , my throat tightens.

My mother used to make crostata , but she was awful at it—either too sweet or too sour, never quite right. But she never stopped trying. And I never stopped eating it, pretending it was perfect just to see her smile.

It became our thing.

Now, I’d give anything to sit at our kitchen table and eat one of her messy, too-sweet pastries.

I hate him for bringing up memories that cut so deep.

“I thought no one was allowed in my room,” I say, changing the subject.

“You’re not allowed to leave the house either, and yet, you still ended up at my club.”

So we’re playing that game?

“I broke the rules because you’re keeping me prisoner.”

“And I’m breaking them because I don’t trust you.”

I scowl at him. “What are you doing here?”

Before he can answer, the man on the ladder starts drilling into the wall.

Dominic gestures toward him. “Alessa, meet Rocky. My surveillance tech. He’s installing cameras in your room.”

I sit up so fast the duvet slips off my shoulder. Cold air cuts through my nightdress, and I swear to God, if Dominic’s eyes drop to my chest—

“You’re putting cameras in my room?” My voice is pure venom.

“I am.”

“That’s a violation of privacy.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Do you really think I care about that?”

Of course he doesn’t.

Dominic Gianelli doesn’t care about anything but himself.

And yet, somehow, he’s the only person standing between me and death.

I pull the duvet up, clutching it like armor. The thought of being watched 24/7 makes my skin crawl.

What if I say something in my sleep? What if I breakdown? What if I forget he’s watching—forget myself?

The vulnerability presses in, quiet and choking. There’s nowhere to hide. Not even from me.

The thought makes me sick.

“I promise you won’t even notice them,” Dominic says, misreading my silence as acceptance.

“That’s not the point,” I hiss. “The point is, you’ll be watching me. All the time.”

His eyes darken, something unreadable flickering across his face. “That’s exactly the point, Alessa.”

The way he says my name, low and intimate, sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I hate my body’s reaction to him, hate how even now—trapped, hungry, terrified—some traitorous part of me remembers how his hands felt on my skin.

“What, you’re afraid I’ll try to escape again?” I ask, forcing defiance into my voice.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

He stands, moving to the window. Rain streams down the glass, distorting the world outside. For a moment, he looks almost contemplative, almost human.

“The cameras are non-negotiable,” he says finally. “But I’ll make you a deal.”

I narrow my eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“Come to breakfast tomorrow. Eat with the family.”

“That’s not a deal. That’s an order.”

He turns, his expression softening slightly. “Consider it an olive branch.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then starve.” All softness vanishes. “Your choice.”

The grumble in my stomach answers for me. I haven’t eaten in days, and my body can’t take much more. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll come to breakfast.”

Something like satisfaction crosses his face before he nods to Rocky, who’s now moving the ladder to the other corner.

“Good. Eight o’clock sharp.” He walks toward the door but pauses at the threshold. “And Alessa?”

I look up, hating how my heart jumps when he says my name.

“Try not to run away again. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

The threat hangs in the air as he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. Rocky continues working, the drill’s whine filling the silence.

I sink back into the pillows, exhaustion overtaking me. Tomorrow, I’ll face Dominic’s family. Tomorrow, I’ll try to find a way out of this nightmare.

But tonight? Tonight I’ll dream of freedom while cameras watch my every move.

And somewhere in the darkness of this house, Dominic Gianelli will be watching too.