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Chapter seventeen

Dominic

“ Y ou’re late, Mr. Gianelli.”

My jaw locks as I take a step forward. One more word—just one—and I swear to God, if my gun were in reach, he’d be choking on his own blood before he even finished the sentence.

One of these bastards messaged me an hour ago, demanding a meeting on behalf of the Commission. I redirected them to my favorite Luna Rossa location—the crown jewel in my Vegas empire. My territory. My rules.

I take my time entering the dimly lit, empty club, each footstep echoing like a countdown to violence. The sharp tap of Italian leather against hardwood announces my arrival better than any words could. At the far end, three shadows in expensive suits materialize around a poker table, their faces slowly coming into focus under the amber lights. The air reeks of expensive cologne, cigarettes, and the unmistakable stench of unearned arrogance.

“I squeezed this into my packed schedule today. Don’t complain,” I snap, cutting through the silence. The interruption from what had been a fascinating morning with Alessa still burns in my gut. Her green eyes flash in my memory, that defiant tilt of her chin when I’d pushed her too far. “Next time, make an appointment ahead of time.”

Someone scoffs, and my fists clench reflexively. The brass knuckles in my desk drawer call to me, promising the satisfying crack of bone beneath metal.

I take in the men before me, recognizing the first immediately despite his changed appearance. That platinum blonde hair—dyed to hide the dirty brown he inherited from his unremarkable parents. The Grimaldi bastard.

He has his father’s punchable smile—yellow teeth behind lips that perpetually curl with undeserved confidence. His suit strains against a body that’s clearly spent more time at buffets than in the gym. The scent of cheap cologne mixed with cigarettes and sweat creates an aura of desperation around him.

“What’s your name?” I ask, though I know exactly who he is. My doctor has cursed his existence countless times. My brother begged—on his knees—to be the one to separate this prick’s head from his shoulders.

“Emmanuel Grimaldi,” he answers, chest puffing like a peacock. “Fabio Giovani’s consigliere.” His voice carries the weight of borrowed importance. “This is Stefano Marchesi, for Vincenzo Cappone—“ He gestures to a hippie-looking motherfucker in a pink suit. “And that’s Raffaele Russo, on behalf of Paolo Russo—” He points to the only presentable one of the three, whose eyes mirror Alessa’s so perfectly it makes something twist in my chest.

“The Commission can’t even come to this meeting themselves, so they sent their cagnolini instead?” I drop into a chair across from them, the urge for a cigarillo clawing at my throat. I should have downed some whiskey before this—liquor and violence always did make for better negotiations.

“Watch your mouth, Gianelli. We may not be at the top yet, but we have influence.” Emmanuel’s voice strains with the effort of sounding threatening.

I raise an eyebrow slowly—the same way Alessa does when she’s calling bullshit. Now I understand the satisfaction she takes in that small gesture. The power in it.

“I suggest you be careful with your taunts, Emmanuel. You keep forgetting—I am the Commission.” My voice drops to ice.

“I’ll believe it when you take your oath. Until then, you’re as disposable as we are. Lower, even.”

I make a silent vow that the moment I’m made, Emmanuel Grimaldi’s blood will paint someone’s lawn a vibrant crimson.

“Grimaldi, you said?” I tap my fingers against the table in mock concentration. “Why does that name sound familiar? Right—aren’t you Giulia Grimaldi’s bastard son?”

“Allegedly,” he smirks, revealing teeth that would make a dentist weep. The other two men exchange glances, clearly wondering what game he’s playing. They know whose territory they’re in. They know who runs this city.

“The same bastard who’s promised to Gabriella Giovani?” I let the question hang. “How does it feel when the woman you’re supposed to marry doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

His smile evaporates, replaced by raw hatred. There it is—his soft underbelly. This isn’t about Gabriella herself. It’s his wounded pride at being rejected. He could be engaged to a corpse and still be furious if it refused him. His ego is as fragile as wet paper.

Emmanuel slams his fists onto the table. The other two flinch. I lean back, savoring his unraveling. If only Gabriella could see him now, spiraling like a child denied a toy.

She’s supposed to marry this piece of shit—the result of a bet her father lost to the Grimaldis. Poor Gabriella, barely an infant when the deal was made, her life bartered away as collateral.

Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon in Cosa Nostra. Call it tradition, call it a kink, call it keeping money in the family—it works more often than not. Almost ninety percent success rate.

But Gabriella would rather carve out her own eyes with a scalpel than be shackled to this disgrace of a man. Defying her father’s promise to the Grimaldis is just a bonus to avoiding her personal vision of hell.

“She can’t fucking run from her responsibilities forever, Mr. Gianelli,” Emmanuel growls, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “One way or another, I’m going to have her. When I do, I’ll make sure she regrets ever working for you.”

The image of his hands on Gabriella makes my blood boil. If I had my way, those hands would be feeding fish at the bottom of Lake Mead.

“Gentlemen.” All heads turn to the Russo man, whose impatience radiates like heat. “Are we going to fight like children all day?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes—another gesture I’ve noticed in Alessa. I catch myself wondering what she’s doing right now. Has she finished that breakfast? Is she plotting another escape? The thought of her makes something shift inside me, something I can’t afford to examine too closely.

“Raffaele is right,” interjects the hippie, who’s slouched back in his chair with glazed eyes. Is this fucker high at my club? “We came here for updates on the Russo girl.”

“You came all this way and couldn’t be bothered to learn her name?” My jaw tightens.

“What’s the point?” His dismissal cuts through the air. “She’s going to die sooner or later.”

White-hot rage floods my system. I could kill this man right now—cut off his cock and gift-wrap it for Gabriella to send to her father as a souvenir.

“Grimaldi,” Raffaele warns, his voice firm enough to make Emmanuel retreat like a scolded dog. His eyes linger on me, steady and calculating. “Mr. Gianelli, anything insightful to report to the Commission?”

“I might have something.” I’m full of shit and know it. The realization hits hard —I’m walking a dangerous line. I need Alessa to talk. Soon. “But the information is classified. I’m not sharing it with you degenerates. Tell your superiors if they want to know, they can fly here themselves. I’ll welcome them Las Vegas style.”

“What makes you think you’re in a position to make demands, Mr. Gianelli?”

“The same reason you call me ‘Mr. Gianelli’ while I can call you ‘jackass.’ The same reason I’m handling this job while you’re playing secretary.” Every muscle in my body tenses with the effort not to reach across the table and rip out his tongue. “Because I’m better than you, Grimaldi. I could dismantle everything you’ve built in an afternoon and walk away without a scratch.”

“That’s enough!” Raffaele slams his palms against the table, making the hippie jump and Emmanuel seethe. But the Russo maintains his composure, his eyes locked on mine. “Mr. Gianelli, I apologize for him—he’s temperamental. Kids these days. We’re here to check on your progress, and we won’t leave without something to report back. You know how this works.”

“I do,” I nod. “Which is why I’m not going to tell you shit. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and tell them I’ll only speak directly to their faces. Now get the fuck out of my club.”

My voice carries the promise of violence—specifically for the Grimaldi bastard. I watch with predatory satisfaction as he rises, muttering curses his limited vocabulary can manage. He and I both know the truth: no matter how hard he climbs, he’ll never reach the top. Not because he’s a bastard, but because he’s an idiot with rocks for brains.

“And Grimaldi,” I call before he reaches the door, the hippie trailing behind him like a lost puppy. “The next time I hear you disrespect me—or Gabriella—I’ll cut your dick off and shove it down your throat. Capisce?”

Emmanuel’s face contorts with rage, more curses spilling from his lips. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, plotting my demise or at least rehearsing the complaints he’ll make to Fabio Giovani. I know stalling will raise suspicions, but I need more time with Alessa. Just a little more time.

The sharp scent of tobacco cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find Raffaele lounging back in his chair like we’re old friends. The ember of his cigarette glows as he takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke with casual disregard.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, sliding a gold tin and a white Zippo across the table.

I ignore the offering. Accepting would imply camaraderie I don’t feel. My eyes flick to the cheap cigarillo balanced on the ashtray’s edge before returning to his face. I decide to give him the benefit of doubt—for now.

A Don knows when to make temporary alliances, when to extend limited trust to potential assets.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Who?”

“Alessandra.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Isabella Russo was my cousin.”

“And Alessa is your...niece?”

“Technically, first cousin once removed. But who cares? She’s family.”

The Russo family tree is sparse these days. Paolo’s six sons all met stupid ends—one even managed to shoot himself while cleaning a gun. Darwin’s theory in action. Those six brothers shouldn’t have been trusted with assignments requiring functional brain cells.

Then there’s Isabella, Bartolomeo’s only child. Both dead now. Which means Raffaele must be Ettore’s son—the youngest brother who died after his wife put a bullet in his head while he slept.

No wonder Paolo worshipped Isabella. She single-handedly salvaged the Russo reputation and gave the name respect. Yet she, too, joined the family tradition of early death. The Russo legacy is written in blood and headstones. I find myself strangely determined that Alessa won’t follow the same path.

“She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say, studying him carefully. His interest feels genuine, but in our world, nothing is as it seems.

“Did she tell you anything?”

“Listen, Raffaele—”

“Raffy,” he interjects with unexpected familiarity.

“Raffy,” I repeat, tempering my impatience. “What I do with Alessa is my business. The Commission gave me this assignment and the freedom to handle it my way. But since you’ve shown respect today, I’ll tell you this much—Alessa isn’t hurt. Not yet.”

“She’s a good kid, Dominic.” He exhales another plume of smoke that curls toward the ceiling like a ghost. “She hasn’t done anything to disrespect the Commission. Whatever Marco did, she’s not part of it—she’s innocent. I hate to see her become just another casualty when I’ve done everything I can to follow my cousin’s wishes.”

“Which were?” My interest piques. Whatever this man knows could help me understand Alessa better, maybe finally convince her to reveal her father’s hiding place.

“How about this: I tell you something valuable, you give me something in return.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement. “Isabella wanted Alessa out of the Commission. It became her mission when she discovered she was pregnant.”

“Are you saying you helped her escape Cosa Nostra?” The puzzle pieces shift in my mind.

“After her mother died, I did.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you did a terrible job. Do you know how easy it was for me to find her in that penthouse?” Not entirely easy—the place was registered under a different name, and she used a pseudonym for her work. It took me two months to track her down.

“She was safe there,” he insists. “Until Marco decided to do something stupid and the Commission wanted her. But we both know she’s innocent as a lamb.”

“Why did Isabella want her to leave?”

“Because she never wanted her daughter to live the life she did.”

“And where were you when the Commission ordered the hunt?” I lean forward. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

Raffy shakes his head with a dry laugh. “That’s two questions from you. You have to meet me halfway, Mr. Gianelli.”

I study him, calculating what harmless information I can afford to share if this is a trap.

“I have reason to believe Marco is responsible for Isabella’s death.”

A heavy silence falls between us. My hand inches toward the gun at my waistband, ready for this to go south.

“At least I’m not alone in that theory,” he finally says. “Does Alessa know?”

“She’s in denial.” I frown, wondering why he never acted on his suspicions. “She believes the Commission killed her.”

“The Commission may be terrible people, but they’re not stupid. Isabella was their asset for years. There’s no reason to kill her.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“And Alessa? What do you plan to do with her?” His eyes—so like hers—probe mine.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is. Like I said, she’s family.”

“I don’t know if you’re deaf, but this is the Commission’s business now. Vaffanculo family. You don’t meddle in this, Raffy.”

“Let me share a secret, boy.” He crushes his cigarillo in the ashtray, embers dying with a hiss. Rising to his full height, he towers over my 6‘ 3 frame, methodically buttoning his suit as his gaze pins me in place. “I’m Paolo Russo’s only legitimate family left. I’m next in line when that old weasel dies. When I sit on the Commission, I plan to make things right for the Russos. It’s the least I can do for my cousin. How am I supposed to do that when her only legacy is dead?”

“I study him with new interest. He’s playing the same game I am—positioning himself for power, planning his ascension. The difference is that he’s merely aiming for a seat at the table while I intend to run it. When I’m Don Gianelli and he’s representing the Russos, we’ll be having very different conversations.

“That’s not my problem.” But it is. It means our paths will cross again if he’s appointed. And something in me rebels at the thought of Alessa rejoining that cursed family.

“It will be,” he promises, his words heavy with certainty. “I’ll be in town a while longer if you change your mind. I’ll tell Paolo you had nothing important to share. Consider this my olive branch, amico .”

I don’t respond well to threats, and if it wouldn’t cause complications, this man would be missing fingers. For now, though, I let him live. I’m curious to see his next move—and how it might affect the woman whose green eyes haunt me even in meetings like this.

As he walks away, I’m struck by the realization that time is running out. I need Alessa to talk—not just for my future with the Commission, but for her own survival. The predators are circling, and I’m no longer certain which role I’m playing, hunter or protector.

Maybe both.