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Chapter sixteen

Alessa

“ Y ou’re out of your mind.” I force steel into my voice, but his words slice through my armor like it’s paper. The confidence I felt moments ago—strutting in this ridiculously expensive Prada dress—gone.

“Am I?” Dominic challenges.

God, he’s lethal this morning. All Black—expensive slacks and a polo that strains across muscles that shouldn’t be legal. His scent hits me like a drug—cedar, spice, and something sweet I can’t quite make out. I hate how my body responds, how I have to fight the urge to close the distance between us. My captor. My enemy. The man I shouldn’t want to climb like a tree.

“Yes!” The word comes out too shrill, betraying me.

I should’ve hidden in that closet longer. Talking about my mother tears me open every time. Not just her death—but the holes in my memory. Was she smiling in those final moments? What was the last thing she said? The gaps feel like betrayal, like I’m losing her all over again every time I try and fail to remember.

“You said you’d hear me out,” Dominic complains.

I shake my head and walk to the full-length mirror, smoothing my hands over the dress. The pearls catch the light, gleaming against the fabric. For a moment, I allow myself to admire the woman staring back. Strong. Collected. Nothing like the terrified girl inside.

Dominic’s footsteps approach, deliberate and unhurried. In the mirror, I watch him stalk toward me like a predator who knows his prey can’t escape. Each click of his shoes against marble matches my quickening pulse. Without touching me, he stands close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body.

He stops inches behind me, a shadow with substance. Electricity crackles between us, dangerous and undeniable. If he touched me now, I might combust.

I maintain my mask even as his eyes tell me he sees right through it. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans close—so close his breath caresses my cheek. A shiver races down my spine, my skin prickling with awareness.

“What happened to not wanting to eat with me?” His eyes never leave mine in the mirror.

“I’ll pray you choke on a pancake and die.”

“Brat.”

“Asshole.”

My mind short-circuits with him this close. I can’t move—can’t push him away. All I can do is breathe him in—that intoxicating blend of cedar scent makes my head swim.

He inhales deeply, almost deliberately, before stepping back. The invisible tether between us slackens, and oxygen rushes back into my lungs. My thoughts return, one by one.

He holds the door open, watching me compose myself. I clear my throat and walk past him, allowing myself one dangerous moment of pretending—pretending I’m not his captive, pretending my life isn’t balancing on a knife’s edge.

The hallway stretches before us, our footsteps in perfect sync despite everything.

The dining room stops me in my tracks. Timmy places a tray of chocolate croissants on a table that looks like it’s set for royalty. Fresh fruit glistens in crystal bowls. Golden scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fluffy pancakes steam on silver platters. The rich scent of butter and maple mingles with coffee—bitter, complex, and sinfully good.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo. I ignore it, taking a tentative step forward.

“Are you expecting more people?” I ask, though the answer doesn’t matter. There’s enough to feed his entire mafia empire.

He gestures toward a chair, pulling it out with unexpected grace. Once I’m seated, he takes his place at the head of the table, the position of power. Always.

“Not really. Luca usually comes around brunch. Gabriella too.”

I nod, pretending to care about anything but silencing the pang of hunger in my belly. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for bacon and fruit. Dominic helps himself to a waffle, cutting into it with precise movements. Everything he does carries that same controlled power—even something as simple as eating breakfast.

The first bite hits my tongue, and I nearly groan. My previous objections to sharing his table seem ridiculous now. Survival comes first. Food means strength. Strength means a fighting chance.

“So,” Dominic begins, cutlery tapping gently against fine china. “Tell me what else you remember about that night, Alessa.”

My stomach tightens. “Nothing you don’t already know. I was in the backseat, the car was speeding, then I woke up in surgery.” I spear a piece of honeydew. “Look, I really don’t want to—“

“The only damage to your car that night was on the passenger side.” He sips his coffee, unflinching at the heat that would scald normal men.

The food turns to ash in my mouth. My stomach plummets as his words hang between us, sharp and accusing. Shame and rage battle for dominance. But worse than both is the helplessness—the damning fact that I don’t remember. I can’t recall which way the car turned, if my mother screamed, if death came instantly or slowly. The gaps feel like failure, like I’ve betrayed her memory.

“Of course, because we hit a building,” I say, as if his words haven’t shattered something fundamental inside me.

“Your father claimed another car hit you from the driver’s side, sending you into the building that killed your mother.” Dominic’s voice remains measured, but his eyes narrow, watching me too closely. Looking for cracks.

I hate that expression—worse than his anger or violence. This... pity. It crawls over my skin like insects. Does he pity me because I can’t remember my mother’s final moments? Or because the daughter of La Falciante is reduced to this—captive, confused, clinging to stories that might be lies?

Either way, the weight of his gaze makes me want to carve it from his face.

“Yes. And?” My voice comes out brittle.

“But the wreckage photos show no impact on the driver’s side—no dents, no scratches. No evidence of another car.”

Deny. Deny. Deny. I repeat it silently, a desperate litany. Because if not the Commission, then who? Questions multiply faster than I can process them, each heavier than the last. Questions only my father can answer.

If I find him before they do. If he’s even alive.

“Three of four witnesses told NYPD there was no other car,” he continues, relentless. “The event data recorder showed sudden, inexplicable acceleration just before the impact.”

“You have no proof.” My voice shakes despite my best efforts. “My father still hasn’t stopped looking for the person responsible.”

“There was no other driver, Alessa.” Frustration edges his words. “Marco is NYPD Chief—strings to pull, tracks to cover. Photos, witnesses, footage. The file I have matches NYPD archives. The investigator, Cedrick Knightly? Removed from service two weeks later. Case inactive after a month.” He leans forward. “What does that tell you?”

“They haven’t found who’s responsible yet.”

“It’s been fourteen years. How hard could it be to find one normal person?”

“Because the Commission isn’t someone you can arrest on the street like some thug!” The words erupt from me, violent and raw. My hand slams down, cutlery clattering against porcelain. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t cry in front of him—I won’t give him that satisfaction. “And if they didn’t do it, why didn’t they investigate themselves? If my mother was so important, why didn’t they care?”

“Isabella was less active by then. Paolo represented the Russos. When her death was ruled an accident, there was no benefit in digging deeper.”

“So, all that bullshit about respecting her was lies? When it came down to it, nobody cared? My mother gave her entire life to people who didn’t give a fuck?”

“The Commission is loyal, but they’re not nice. They worshipped her alive, mourned her dead. She was a powerhouse among many. There were others before her, others after. It’s a cycle.”

His words hit like a physical blow. I freeze, breath catching as his implication sinks in. Not just the casual dismissal of my mother’s death—but the reduction of her entire existence to a replaceable cog in their machine. My chest constricts painfully.

“Are you really saying that to my face?” Each word feels torn from me. “That my mother was just a number, a cadaver to bury, a cautionary tale for the Cosa Nostra?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know what you think.” I force casualness I don’t feel. “You disproved the Commission’s involvement—fine. Tell me your theory.”

“You know what I think.” His voice drops, soft with a gentleness I don’t want.

“Say it anyway.”

“Alessa—“ The pity in his eyes cuts deeper than any knife.

“No!” I thrust a finger toward his face. “You don’t get to look at me like that! Not after saying my mother wasted her life for nothing. She may be disposable to you, but my world ended when she died. I’m here because she died. I’m running from the Commission because I don’t want to end up like her—dead.” My voice cracks. “Now fucking say it.”

“Fine.” His face hardens. “I think your father killed her, made it look like an accident, hid the evidence, but got sloppy. These discrepancies aren’t coincidences.”

“Why would he want her dead?” The question tears from me.

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know!” I scream, my voice shattering. Tears escape despite my best efforts, and I swipe at them with trembling fingers.

“Raise your voice at me one more time. See what happens.” His warning slices through the air, cold and certain.

I shrink back instinctively, hating myself for it. “You know what?” I grab a napkin to dab my mouth, pushing my chair back with a screech. “I don’t need this shit this early in the morning.”

“Alessa. Sit down.”

“If you think you’ll convince me to betray my father after this, you’re mistaken.”

“Sit. Down.”

His voice carries a weight that pins me in place. Despite the defiance burning in my chest, my body responds to the command. Slowly, reluctantly, I return to the chair, nostrils flaring as I stare daggers at him.

“I know you won’t tell me shit because of this.” He leans forward. “I just want you to understand that Marco Russo doesn’t give a fuck about you, just like he didn’t care about your mother. He’s not on your side.”

“And you are?” The question comes out bitter.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“For now.”

“That’s right—for now. If you don’t wake up, I hope Paolo’s the one to interrogate you. Pray he goes easy on family.”

“My father didn’t kill my mom.” The words sound hollow even to me.

“Believe what you want. I have my theories.”

“You should’ve seen how destroyed he was. He became a shell.”

“I bet he did.”

I open my mouth to argue, but his phone rings, cutting through the tension. He grimaces, fishing it from his pocket. After glancing at the screen, he shakes his head, jaw tightening before answering.

“Great. Now I have to go.”

“What? Where are you going?” I stare in disbelief. After dropping these bombs, he’s just leaving? “You’re just walking out?”

“You’re not nine, Alessa,” he says coolly, rising from his chair. “Besides, didn’t you just say you didn’t want to eat with me?”

He pockets his phone with casual indifference while I’m left reeling.

“I could escape again,” I challenge. “I did it once. This time I won’t stop.”

“I’d like to see you try.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But heads up—I have dogs patrolling now. Not the kind you pet.” He pauses at the doorway. “And Alessa?”

“What?”

“Think about it.” The weight of those three words settles over me like a shroud.

Without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with a feast I can no longer stomach and questions that might destroy everything I’ve ever believed.