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Chapter thirteen

Dominic

I lock my phone as Timmy brings in my steak, Alessa’s grainy surveillance image vanishing from the screen. The meat’s aroma fills the air, but my mind stays fixed on that footage—her pale, hollow-eyed ghost wasting away in that room.

It’s been a fucking century of a day. Since Alessa arrived, nothing’s gone right. Every hour feels like wading through quicksand with the Commission breathing down my neck, waiting for Marco. Time isn’t my friend anymore.

I’ve always been the perfect soldier—the one who gets shit done. I deal with who they want dealt with, kill who needs killing, lie when necessary. Most times, I even enjoy it. It’s therapeutic—channeling rage into something productive.

Then there’s Alessandra Russo. Those full lips and steel spine. Defying me at every turn. Instead of being my ticket to made status, she’s another concrete wall in my path. A thorn I can’t remove because I can’t break her like I’ve broken countless others.

Her words burn in my head—’ It’s the only reason you haven’t started torturing me yet.’

She’s right, and I fucking hate it. With anyone else, they’d be screaming in the basement by now, missing teeth and fingernails. Instead, I’ve only killed that security guard, the Russian dumbass, and the piece of shit who put his hands on her. Three bodies—practically restraint for a man with my reputation.

That’s fucking control I never knew I had. Control a Don needs to master. The old Dons—they ruled through fear, but the smart ones, the ones who built dynasties, they knew when to use the knife and when to use something sharper—mercy.

The truth hits like a shotgun blast I’ve gone soft. Not from losing my edge or running out of targets. I’ve gone soft because of her. The admission feels like a goddamn piano lifted off my chest.

The Commission would call it weakness. Why would the heir to the Gianelli name, a pillar of Cosa Nostra, fall for Marco Russo’s daughter? While on a job, no less.

It’s forbidden. Taboo. Marco is Public Enemy Number One. Anyone who takes him out gets a direct ticket to the inner circle. Yet here I am, twisted up over his daughter.

So sue me if I’m pussy-whipped by someone I fucked four years ago. There’s something about her—helpless yet fierce—that makes me want to move mountains. Every word from her mouth is fire and defiance. Christ, it’s hot.

I catch myself wondering what might’ve been if her mother hadn’t died, if she’d stayed in our world. Would she have become like Isabella—feared and respected? Would she stand beside me instead of against me?

That mouth would serve better purposes wrapped around my cock than talking back. She’d fit perfectly in the Commission. She’d fit perfectly at my side.

Fantasy. She wants out, I want in. If I act on these feelings, everything gets complicated. I need to bury this shit deep, lock it away, pray it stays buried.

I just need her to talk. Get Marco’s location, become made, then guarantee her safety when this is over. When she walks away, I’ll never see her again.

The steak tastes like ash. Not Rosaria’s fault—she hasn’t fucked up a meal in the half-century she’s been with us. Woman was probably cooking on hot stones before modern ovens existed.

“Timmy!”

He appears in his butler’s suit, silent and attentive.

“Have Rosaria prepare something for my guest.”

“Preferences, sir?”

“Protein. Soup. Vegetables. Fruit.” Something to put color back in her cheeks.

I dismiss him and push my plate aside. Unlocking my phone, I check on Alessa again. She’s at the bay window, watching the rain. The nightdress she’s wearing reminds me of how she hid her chest earlier—as if I haven’t seen every inch already.

Mental note—have Gabriella check those bruises. The stress and hunger are taking a visible toll. Dropping weight that fast is dangerous.

She’s becoming a ghost. Those bright eyes, now sunken and dull, dark circles beneath them like bruises. Her complexion, once warm, has turned ashen. Her lips—full and pink in my memories—are chapped and colorless. The healthy curves of her face have started to hollow, leaving sharp edges where soft lines should be.

The vibrant Alessa is disappearing, and I’m responsible. That knowledge burns worse than any bullet wound.

Time blurs until Timmy returns with a serving cart loaded with silver trays. The aroma hits before I even look at what Rosaria’s prepared.

“Should I call her down?”

I pocket my phone and stand. “We’ll take dinner to her.”

He wheels the cart toward her bedroom while I follow, mentally kicking myself for breaking another rule. My future with the Commission hangs by a thread, and I’m catering to her like a lovesick teenager.

At her door, I knock out of some twisted sense of decency but don’t wait for an answer. The food would freeze before she’d acknowledge me.

I push in and flip the lights. Alessa’s head snaps up before she rushes for her robe—silk that shimmers against her skin. Born to wear the finest things.

“What now?” Her arms wrap around herself like armor.

“Is that how you greet the man bringing food?” Timmy wheels in the cart and vanishes silently.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure. Sit down.” She just stares like I’ve sprouted horns. “ Sit. Down. ”

“You’re going to let me eat?”

“You make it sound like I’m intentionally starving you.”

“You are. And I am a prisoner.”

“Look, Alessa.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t want to fight. Just sit and eat.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I just want to talk.”

“I’m not going to—“

“ Sit. Down. Don’t make me say it again.”

She approaches cautiously, glancing back like she expects a bullet between her shoulder blades. I pull the cart to her side and sit on the mattress. She positions herself against the headboard, legs crossed with a pillow covering them—whatever barrier she can create.

I lift the covers. Rosaria’s outdone herself—steaming Zuppa di Pomodoro with grilled cheese, steak and mashed potatoes, roasted veggies, and gelato for dessert. Water and green juice to wash it down—her silent concern.

“Prefer wine?”

“No. This is fine.”

I balance the soup bowl on the pillow in front of her. She hesitates, eyes never leaving mine, searching for the trick.

“Now eat.”

“And you?”

“You made it clear you don’t want to eat with me.”

“So you’re just going to watch?”

“I am.” Nothing would please me more than seeing her devour this food. If it’s not enough, I’ll have more made. That’s how fucking generous I feel tonight.

“That’s creepy.” She lifts the spoon with visibly shaking hands.

“I can leave, but there’s a fork and steak knife on this cart. I’m not risking you hiding one to stab me in the eye.”

“You think I’m strong enough to fight? I’m exhausted.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Smart. That’s exactly what I thought when I saw the knife.” She dips her spoon into the soup.

The moment it touches her tongue, her eyes close, and she moans softly, shoulders sagging with pure pleasure. She savors it, and I swear color returns to her face instantly.

I watch, transfixed, as she takes another spoonful. Christ. Better than any high or orgasm—seeing her savor every bite, cheeks flushing with warmth, tension easing from her face.

Those lips curve slightly as she swirls soup in her mouth, tongue catching stray drops. Her eyes flutter closed in bliss, lashes brushing against skin like she’s forgotten everything but this moment of pleasure.

Something lights up in my chest as I reach for the steak plate. Feeding this woman, watching her come alive through something as simple as a meal—it’s become my mission.

There’s an intimacy to it, giving her something she desperately needs but refuses to ask for. I’d kill for that look on her face again—seeing her lose herself in a moment of peace.

“Good?”

She nods silently, dipping grilled cheese into soup. I slice the steak so she won’t have to struggle with it. “Can I ask my questions now?”

She shrugs, still chewing. I reach behind me, hand sliding to my waistband. My fingers wrap around cold metal as I pull it out slowly, making sure she notices.

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t stop eating. I set the gun on the mattress between us. The silver gleams in the light, red fleur-de-lis almost winking.

“What’s this? Last meal before execution?”

“I’m not going to kill you. But the Commission might.”

“You’re part of the Commission. What makes you different?”

“You’re part of it too. Your mother was Isabella Russo—a legend.”

What I don’t say is how much I studied her. Not just her kills, but her strategy. How she built alliances, managed territories, positioned the Russo family for generations. A soldier follows orders, but a Don creates a legacy. I’ve been collecting these lessons for years, watching the old families, learning their strengths and weaknesses. Isabella was one of the best.

“You think Paolo had anything to do with your family’s success? That asshole couldn’t throw a punch if his life depended on it. But your mother? Single-handedly earned the Russo clan’s respect. Followed rules, ruthless, always ten steps ahead. You’re her only legacy. If anything, they owe you. So why run?”

I know I’ve hit something raw when tears glisten in her eyes, quickly blinked away. Her lip trembles, and her next words send ice through my veins.

“Did the Commission kill my mom?”

I stop mid-cut, staring at her. There’s a hardness in her expression, jaw clenched tight against a flood of emotions. Her eyes are focused but icy, walls built to hold back an ocean of pain. Hatred radiates from her—so potent I feel it might scorch my skin.

The Commission practically worshiped Isabella. She’s a saint to them—speaking ill of her is sacrilege. Her only mistake was marrying Marco, and even then, they overlooked it.

La Falciante was the Commission personified. Every criminal network in New York feared the Italians because of her. An executioner without equal, loyal to the core. Her death shocked everyone.

To those who didn’t know her personally, she was death’s shadow. Her name alone was law, enough to paralyze enemies.

“The Commission had nothing to gain from killing her.” I pass her the plate of cut steak. “Why think that?”

“People don’t just die like that. A gunshot? Sure. Lung cancer from smoking? Absolutely. Even murder in their sleep happens. But a car crash? Too—”

“Mundane.”

“For someone as high up as she was, it doesn’t add up.” She stabs a piece of meat. “Not a freak accident. Too convenient. I know in my gut the Commission did it.”

“How would you know? You were what, ten?”

“Twelve. And I know because I was in the backseat when it happened.”

The words hang between us, heavy as lead. The fork in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.

She was in the car.

A child, watching her mother die. No wonder she hates everything about our world.

“You survived.”

“Obviously.” Bitter as wormwood. “Sometimes I wonder if that was their plan too.”

“Meaning?”

“Why kill just the mother when you can traumatize the child? Make her fear the world she was born into. Ensure she never wants anything to do with it.”

“That’s not how the Commission operates. They don’t target children.”

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t they? Then what am I doing here? Being used as bait for my father? Tell me again how the Commission doesn’t target children.”

I have no answer. She’s right, and we both know it.

“My father tried to protect me. After she died, he did everything to keep me away from this. I think he knew it wasn’t an accident.”

“Is that why he’s going after them now? Revenge?”

Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. “Wouldn’t you?”

The question hits deeper than expected. Would I burn the world if someone took my mother? In a heartbeat. Would I wait years, building evidence methodically? Not sure I have that patience or foresight.

“Your theory? Why kill La Falciante? She was their most valuable asset.”

“She could’ve become a liability. Maybe she knew something she shouldn’t. Disagreed with them about something important. Or maybe—“ She looks directly at me. ”—she threatened to take her family and leave.”

If Isabella had planned to walk away, taking her skills and connections... it's possible. I've never known the Commission to show mercy, even to their best.

The thought dredges up a memory I've buried deep—me at six

years old, walking home from school with Matteo. We took the shortcut through the alley behind Mancini's Bakery, laughing about some bullshit. I remember the smell—fresh bread mixing with piss and garbage.

Then this junkie stumbles out from behind a dumpster. Skinny as a skeleton, pants hanging off his hips, prick practically hanging out. Fucking disgusting. Dirty magazines scattered around him like he'd been jerking off right there in broad daylight.

'C'mere, pretty boys,' he slurred, eyes wild, pupils blown. 'Got something to show ya'

Matteo grabs my arm, tries to pull me back, but I'm frozen. The junkie pulls out a knife—rusty piece of shit, but it looked like a sword to me then.

'I'll cut your throats,' he hisses, taking a step toward us. ' Take your—'

That's when we ran. Sprinted all the way home with our hearts in our throats, fumbling with the front door lock.

Dad was cleaning his gun at the kitchen table. One look at our faces and he's on his feet.

'What happened?'Raw command in each syllable, face carved from granite.

Matteo spills it all—the junkie, the knife, the threats. Dad doesn't say a word. Just slides the magazine back into his Beretta, chambering a round with a click that echoes through the kitchen.

'Show me.' Two words. A command, not a request.

We lead him back to that alley, me clutching his jacket, shaking like a leaf. The junkie's still there, still muttering to himself, knife glinting in his dirty hand.

'That him?' Dad asks, voice flat as pavement.

We both nod. Dad doesn't hesitate. Two shots—center mass. The junkie drops, twitches, stills. Dad nudges the body with his foot—looks down at us with eyes hard as marble. 'He won't hurt you now,' he says, voice flat. 'This is what you do for family.' He tucks the gun back into his waistband—casual as putting away car keys. "You protect what's yours. Always. No matter what. You understand?' We both nodded, too shocked to speak. "Good. Now help me drag him behind the dumpster.'

I blink the memory away, focusing back on Alessa. If what she believes is true, her mother tried to shield her from this life—and maybe paid the ultimate price. It's just her theory, but in our world, people have died for less. "Marco knew?" I ask, pushing aside the ghosts crowding my head. "My father still knows. That's why he's finally making his move." I lean back, processing. If Marco has been building a RICO case for years while pretending to be the loyal to the families, it's not just about criminals—it's justice for his wife.

And Alessa is caught in the crossfire. Again.

“So you really don’t know where he is.”

“Told you that from the start, but you wouldn’t believe me.” No accusation, just exhaustion. “Haven’t spoken in nearly a year.”

“Why?”

She sets down her fork, plate half-empty. “Became a journalist. Started investigating things too close to home. He thought I was putting myself in danger.”

“He was right.”

“No. I was fine until the Commission decided to use me to get to him. Making my own way, telling stories that mattered. Then you showed up in my bedroom.”

She’s right. Again. Her abduction, her suffering—collateral damage in a war she never chose.

“Eat your gelato before it melts.”

She takes it without argument. We sit in silence as she eats. The truth of her words sinks into me like slow poison. I’ve been a pawn too, but I chose my role. She never had that luxury.

When she finishes, I stack her plates on the cart. She looks better already—color returning to her face, eyes clearer.

“Breakfast tomorrow. No more hunger strikes.”

“Will you join me?”

“Want me to?”

She shrugs. “Better the devil you know.”

I nod, unsure what to say. “Rest, Alessa.”

At the door, her voice stops me.

“Dominic. The gun.” She points to where it still lies on the bed. “You forgot it.”

I look at the silver pistol, the fleur-de-lis catching the light. “Keep it.”

“What?”

“Insurance. In case the Commission decides to finish what they started with your mother.”

“You’re giving me a weapon?”

“I’m giving you a choice.”

I leave her staring at the gun, confusion written across her face. It’s a risk—one that could cost everything. But for reasons I can’t fully explain, I need her to know she’s not completely powerless.

Not anymore.