Page 5

Chapter four

Alessa

I blink awake to a world that refuses to come into focus. The ceiling above me swims in and out of clarity, brightness stabbing into my eyes. I try to grab onto a coherent thought, but my mind feels hollowed out, scraped clean of recent memories. Have I been out for minutes? Hours? Days? The thought alone makes my stomach turn.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as the world tilts and sways. Every muscle in my body screams in protest as I force myself to move. The pounding in my skull matches the vibration beneath me—a shadow shifts in the corner. Broad shoulders. Ruby ring glinting on a tattooed hand. The predator who once whispered filthy promises against my skin now watches me with cold calculation.

The Russo survival handbook, drilled into me since childhood—Never stay still when you wake somewhere unexpected. ‘Women who freeze end up in caskets, ’ she’d say while making me practice escapes. The memory of Mom’s voice cuts through the drug haze like cold water splashed across my face. The soft hum beneath me vibrates through the mattress—an engine. My heart kicks against my ribs as the fog in my brain begins to clear.

I’m moving. And not in a car.

Jet engines.

I force myself upright, immediately regretting it as nausea rolls through me. The room tilts and spins—a small, rounded space, with elegant wood panels and a single window with the shade pulled tight.

A private plane. Not my father’s. Not any Russo aircraft I recognize.

The brutal truth slams into me— I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a captive. And the man responsible sits across from me, dark eyes tracking my every movement like I’m prey he already owns.

Memories flood back, sharp as broken glass—my bedroom, papers scattered across my bed, dark eyes watching me from my chair. Dominic Gianelli. The chloroform. The gun.

Bile rises in my throat as the reality crystallizes.

“I prefer it if you don’t throw up.”

The voice slices through the silence from a dark corner of the cabin. I whip my head toward it, instantly regretting the movement as pain lances through my skull. “But there’s a bucket on the floor if you need to.”

Dominic Gianelli sits in a leather chair, looking like he just stepped out of a luxury ad rather than a kidnapping. His black t-shirt stretches across shoulders I once dug my nails into. His hands are clasped before him, a silver ring with a ruby-red face catching the light—the Gianelli crest with its crescent moon proclaiming his loyalty to the very world I’ve been running from.

I always knew my mother’s world would come for me eventually. I just never expected it would arrive in the form of Dominic Gianelli.

“Where am I?” My voice emerges as a rasp.

My throat tightens as hatred surges through me—pure, unfiltered loathing that burns hotter than any fear. This man has torn through everything I’ve built. My freedom. My safety. The careful distance I’ve kept from my mother’s world.

“You won’t get away with this,” I snap, my voice scratchy against the dryness in my throat.

That infuriating smirk pulls at his mouth—the same one I remember from the Crimson Gala. God, how could I have been so stupid? How could I have let those hands touch me? Those lips claim mine?

I remember the way his mouth felt on my skin. The way he made me feel seen. Wanted.

All of it a lie.

“I already have, piccola,” he says, voice smooth, intoxicating—and I hate the way my body reacts to it, the way my skin prickles, traitorous and warm.

“Don’t call me that,” I bite out, curling my fingers into fists to stop them from shaking. “You don’t know me.”

“I know more than you think.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, close enough to steal the air from my lungs without even touching me. “I know you’ve spent years running from who you are, from what’s in your blood. I know you wake up checking the exits first, scanning for threats. I know the gun in your nightstand has never been fired.”

My jaw locks so tight it feels like my teeth might crack. Every word lands like a blow, tearing through the facade I’ve worked so hard to build.

“You’re just a monster in a tailored suit,” I say, watching his eyes darken. Good. Let him get mad. Let him break first. “And I’d rather die than help you.”

Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of respect—quick, sharp—before it’s buried under that cold, calculating stare. “We’ll see about that, Alessandra.” The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine I can’t control. “Everyone breaks eventually.”

I force myself to hold his gaze, unblinking. “Try me.”

The challenge sizzles in the air between us, dangerous and thick with tension. And despite everything—despite the fury twisting in my chest, the fear clawing at my ribs—something deep in me warms, low and unwelcome. That same heat from the gala. That same stupid ache.

I remember how he looked at me that night. Like I was the only woman in the world. Like he already owned me.

I vowed, right then, to bury that feeling so deep it never sees the light of day again. Because this man isn’t the stranger from that night anymore.

He’s my enemy.

And I’ll never forget it.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” I try to push myself straighter, but my arms tremble with the effort. My head swims, the drugs still clouding my system.

“Somewhere no one’s going to hear you mouth off.” His eyes finally meet mine. “Or find you.”

“Find me?! What the fuck do you want from me?” The question hangs between us, loaded and raw. But I need to know what I’m facing, what cards he’s playing with.

He leans forward. “Right now? For you to shut up. I found what I was looking for.” He produces a pistol from his waistband—my mother’s gun.

His mouth curves into a cold smile. “It’s smart that you hid it under your pillow,” he says, turning the gun to catch the light. His fingers caress the metal as he leans back in his chair. “But it was never yours to keep, piccola.”

Something cracks inside me at the sight of it in his hands. That gun is my legacy, my last connection to the woman who taught me to survive in a world designed to break me. And now Dominic Gianelli—the man who once made me forget my own name for a night—holds it like he owns it. Like he owns a piece of her. Of me.

My breath catches in my throat. That gun. Her gun. The one she pressed into my little hands when I was ten years old, teaching me how to hold it steady despite its weight. “Power isn’t about strength, Alessa,” she’d whisper. “It’s about knowing when to use what you have.”

“That’s my mother’s gun,” I say, each word careful and measured despite the rage building inside me. “It belongs to me.”

“Does it?” he challenges. “Funny thing about property—it tends to return to its rightful owner eventually.”

“This beauty belonged to me long before you stole it. Before you even knew what it was.” He taps the fleur-de-lis engraving with his thumb. “My mother gave it to Isabella. Isabella gave it to me. Then you decided to play thief after I fucked you. Bad choice.”

A memory of my mother cleaning that same pistol at the kitchen table rolls over me, her movements precise, methodical. “If a man ever takes something of yours, Alessa, make him pay double. The Russo name means something. Never forget that.”

I force my face into indifference, but something in my eyes betrays me, because his smile widens, predatory and knowing.

“I didn’t touch you,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “But there’s a change of clothes for you over there. I’ll give you ten minutes to change, then you can come out and have brunch with me. You can shower when we land.”

He rises from the chair—all controlled muscle and barely contained violence. Nothing wasted, nothing for show. The kind of movement that tells me he’s put men in the ground before, and didn’t lose sleep over it.

“Ten minutes,” he reminds me, hand on the door. “Or I’ll have someone drag you out of here.”

I exhale slowly as the door closes. Alone now, I allow myself three seconds of panic—three seconds to acknowledge the fear clawing at my insides, the realization that my carefully curated life has just been shattered.

Three seconds. Then I compartmentalize, just like my mother taught me.

I change quickly, mind racing through calculations. They need information from me, which means they need me alive and coherent. Pain is likely, but death isn’t on the immediate agenda. I can work with that. I can buy time.

No one’s coming to save me. Not my father, who’s in hiding himself. Not anyone from the paper who’ll just assume I’m chasing another headline. I’m on my own—just like I’ve always been.

The dining area awaits me, where Dominic sits beside a feast laid out on the table—golden croissants, vibrant fruits, perfectly cooked eggs.

“Help yourself,” he says, filling my mug with coffee. “Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”

I take a croissant, placing it on my plate like a small victory. “Are you going to tell me what you want?”

“Eager, are you?” His mouth curves into that same infuriating smirk.

“Impatient is more like it.”

“Now, now, Alessandra. Don’t act like a brat in front of our guests.” He nods toward the pair nearby. “That’s Gabriella Giovani. Family doctor. The man across from her is my brother, Luca. You’ve met.”

“We have?”

“I’m sort of the one who drugged you,” Luca admits. “Sorry. I had to do what I had to do.”

“Asshole,” I mutter, hearing a feminine snicker in response.

“I like her,” Gabriella says with a slight accent, earning an eye roll from Luca.

“Anyway,” Dominic continues, “to answer your question, I’m looking for your father.”

My pulse stutters. “My father?”

“Yes. News has it he’s backing a RICO case against us.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You tell me, “he challenges, leaning back with calculated casualness.

“You think I’m in on it with him? I haven’t seen him in almost a year.” I grab a strawberry, biting into it with more force than necessary.

“Family’s family in our world,” Dominic says, watching my mouth as I chew. “Even when they’re disappointing as fuck.”

“We’re not in your world.”

His laugh is cold. “Sweetheart, you were born in this world. You just pretend to live in another one. Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head, doing my damnedest to stay cool. Inside, a storm of contradictions rages—one year of silence after a lifetime of his desperate attempts to keep me clean of all this. His face when I chose investigative journalism—terror masked as disappointment. Our last fight when he begged me to move farther away, to change my name, to erase every trace of Russo from my life.

He wanted me invisible. Safe. The opposite of what he was. What my mother was.

If Dominic sees how complicated this is—how my father’s protection became its own kind of prison—he owns another piece of me. So I meet his eyes, face blank as slate, while confusion and resentment churn inside me. The man who fought to keep me out of this world is now the reason I’ve been dragged back into it.

“No,” I say simply.

Dominic leans across the table, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with something metallic. Blood. “Here’s what I think. I think you know exactly where Daddy is hiding. I think you know exactly what he’s planning.”

“Then you kidnapped the wrong girl,” I hiss, leaning in to match him. “Because you’re dead wrong.”

His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “We’ll see who’s dead wrong when we land, piccola. Can you tell me, then, why he’s backing it?”

“I don’t know, but if he is, it’s about time he puts a stop to you all.”

A growl emanates from Luca while Dominic just laughs.

“Careful, Alessa,” he warns. “You seem to forget that you’re at my disposal.”

“And the way I see it, Dominic, you need me to help find my father.”

“Are you going to help?”

“You trespassed into my penthouse, kidnapped me, drugged me, and you’re telling me nothing. Which of those things is supposed to convince me to help you?”

“I take it that the answer is no?” Dominic asks, his tone dangerously light.

“Never,” I hiss.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t take no for an answer.”

I laugh. “You can’t kill me, Dominic. I’m the only one who can help you. And the fact that you went to so much trouble to get me only shows how important this is for you.”

His jaw clenches, amusement evaporating as he stares me down.

“I’m sure there are a lot of ways we can get information from you,” he threatens.

“I’m not afraid of you, Dominic.” The lie shatters between us, sharp and unforgiving.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent and should be landing shortly.”

Staff appear to clear our breakfast as Luca approaches, setting a syringe filled with clear liquid on the table. My stomach drops.

Dominic watches me. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to put you to sleep right now for your safety more than ours. When you wake up, you’ll be in the safe house.”

He picks up the syringe, extending his hand toward me. I recoil instinctively.

“You’re not going to touch me?” I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.

“Not while you’re unconscious. Not when it’s against your will,” he promises. “You have my word.”

I slowly extend my arm. His fingers wrap around my wrist, the needle sliding into my vein with practiced precision.

“I hate you,” I whisper, just for him.

“Feeling’s mutual,” he says, but his thumb brushes over my pulse. “But hate fucks just as good as love, doesn’t it? We both remember that night.”

“You won’t get anything from me,” I promise, as my vision begins to blur.

“Everyone breaks, Alessa.” His voice follows me into darkness. “It’s just a matter of finding the right pressure point.”

My eyelids grow impossibly heavy. The last thing I see is Dominic reaching out to catch my head before I slip into oblivion.