Page 7

Chapter six

Alessa

I ’m underwater.

At least that’s how it feels. My senses are dulled, muffled, like the world is passing through a thick filter before reaching me.

The ringing in my ear is relentless—a high-pitched hum that drowns everything else out. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I struggle to catch my breath. The metallic taste of fear coats my tongue.

I’ve heard gunshots before in my shooting classes, but this is different. This was real. This was death, delivered with precision. No hesitation. No remorse.

Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic, as I stare at Cardo’s lifeless body.

The moment loops in my mind like a sick film—the way his body crumpled to the floor, the bullet hole perfectly centered between his brows. And the blood—God, there’s so much of it. On the floor. On the wall.

On my face.

My breath hitches as my eyes remain locked on the corpse sprawled across the blood-stained concrete.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me now, but I do know I can’t afford to get on Dominic’s bad side. He’s frustrated, empty-handed, with nothing to report to whoever pulls his strings. His calm exterior is just a mask, hiding the fury simmering beneath, which makes him dangerous.

The humor in his voice and the playful smirks are gone, replaced by a tired, almost dead look in his eyes. But there’s also a flicker of pride in them, as if he’s been itching to use that gun on someone. If it isn’t me, it’s always going to be someone else.

Unfortunately for Cardo, it’s him.

Next time, I may not be so lucky.

You need to stay alive, Alessa. I tell myself.

Survive.

Just long enough to get the fuck out of this hellhole—wherever this is.

My father’s voice echoes in my head. I see him clearly — six years old and I’m sobbing in our backyard after falling. The gash on my knee, deep, and the blood terrifies me. “Crying is for the weak, Alessandra,” he sneered while the other kids watched. “The daughter of Isabella Russo doesn’t shed tears over a scratch.” He circled me like a predator as I forced myself up, small body trembling to appear strong.

“You need to keep training. Your mother took a bullet once and still finished what she had to do. Don’t let her see you like this.”

I learned then to swallow pain whole. This is just another scratch. I’m going to make it through this.

My eyes lock with Dominic’s dark ones. Four years ago, I fell into his bed willingly, drawn to the danger, mystery and charm that radiated from him.

I just can’t believe it…I never would’ve thought I’d end up kidnapped by the same kind of asshole I built my career exposing, yet here I am—bound, locked up, and living the damn nightmare instead of writing it.

He barks an order, and a pair of hands work the knots loose. My wrists fall limp to my sides, stiff and burning. Angry red welts mark where the ropes chewed into my skin. I just stare at them, hollow and dazed—like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m free.

Then it hits—thousands of tiny needles stabbing into my flesh as circulation returns. My wrists are raw from hours of struggling. My fingers feel foreign, swollen, and useless as I try to flex them.

A hand yanks me up by my arm, pain shooting through my shoulder as my body jerks upward. The chair crashes to the floor behind me.

Dominic turns without a word and limps toward the exit. I can’t help the small swell of pride in my chest. He’s hurt. He bleeds. I did that with my stray bullet. Next time, I won’t miss.

A mountain of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a tattoo crawling up his hand drags me toward the stairs. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into my flesh. My legs feel like they might give out any second.

We climb the stairs, and as we reach the door, I’m blinded by sudden light. My head swims. I’m nauseous, dizzy from whatever drugs are still lingering in my system. My throat feels like sandpaper, each swallow torture.

The transition from basement to hallway assaults my senses. The stench of blood and sweat gives way to fresh-cut flowers with a hint of citrus—it smells like luxury. The bright light stabs my eyes like daggers after hours in dim darkness. The damp chill evaporates, replaced by warmth that makes my clammy skin prickle. Every sound intensifies—shoes clicking on marble, air conditioning humming, a clock ticking somewhere down the hall, my drugged brain struggles to process it all.

This is a safe house? I take in the niche paintings decorating the walls, the gleaming marble floors beneath my feet. Soft lighting and not a speck of dust mars the surfaces. Yet beneath the beauty, the oppressive silence hints at this place’s true purpose.

The brute jerks me forward, and I stumble. “Careful,” I bite out, yanking my arm back. Pain shoots through my shoulder. I meet his eyes, pouring every ounce of hatred into my glare. Dominic walks several paces ahead, not bothering to glance back.

Asshole .

“The last person who hurt me is dead on the basement floor.”

He snarls as Dominic opens a door to our right. We follow him into a classic-style office. Several warm light sources illuminate the space—a table lamp, wall sconces. Green plants occupy the corners, and I wonder if they’re fake.

No living thing could thrive in an office this oppressive.

“Thank you, TJ. You can leave,” Dominic says as he moves deeper into the room. TJ practically throws me inside before retreating.

I scan, noting the bookshelves lining one wall. Even from here, I can tell they’re first editions and limited collector’s items—what the fuck… A killer with refined taste in literature. It messes with my head. I mean, nothing like a bloodstained first edition to set the mood.

Dominic strides to the desk but doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans against the edge, crossing his arms over his chest as he studies me. Under the good lighting, I see him clearly for the first time since my blindfold came off. All black—sweater and slacks that hint at the muscles beneath. Damn him. Even now, standing here like he owns the world—like he owns me—he’s still as brutally handsome as I remember. But I refuse to let that night, that mistake, hold any power over me. Not when he’s the one who just ripped me out of my life.

“Take a seat, Alessa,” he demands, nudging the chair with his foot. His shoes are black John Lobb Oxfords, probably worth more than most people’s monthly rent.

I sink into the chair, wincing as my body protests every movement. The leather feels absurdly soft against my aching body. I look up at him, trying to read his expression, but his face gives nothing. I note the gun tucked into his waistband—a silent reminder of who holds the power.

This isn’t an interview I can talk my way out of with press credentials and a clever question.

His jaw tightens as his gaze travels from my eyes down to my neck. The wound. Now that the adrenaline is fading, I feel it sting—a sharp, persistent burn.

“Well?” his voice unnervingly calm.

Don’t do anything stupid, Alessa.

What’s he thinking right now? And why hasn’t he shot me yet for resisting?

Maybe he’s planning a more painful way to get info from me. The thought of pliers tearing out my fingernails makes me shudder.

“I want water.” The words escape my parched lips before I can think. Dominic turns toward the desk and presses an intercom button.

“Timmy,” he says.

“Sir?”

“Bring in water for my guest? And the kit, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to kill me?” I force the question past the lump in my throat.

“If you cooperate, I don’t see why I’d have to,”

“And if I don’t?”

“It’s not an option, Alessa. You’re the only one who knows where Marco is.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“Because you’re his daughter. And regardless of your daddy issues, you still care enough about him to know where he could be hiding.”

He steps closer, deliberately invading my space. His presence looms over me, radiating heat and danger. Every instinct screams retreat, but I force myself to stay still. He’s using his height advantage on purpose—making me feel smaller. It’s Intimidation 101, and knowing the tactic doesn’t make it less effective. My pulse races—my throat tightens, but I keep my breathing steady.

“Well, if you know that I care about him, why the hell would you think I’ll tell you where he is?”

“Cosa Nostra doesn’t give a shit about who your mother is, or that you and Marco aren’t on speaking terms. They want to stop that RICO case from being finalized, and they’ll take out anyone and anything in their way.”

“ I don’t care who gives a shit about what…I’m not gonna let you kill my father.”

“No one has to die, Alessa,” he purrs my name, the sound sending an unwanted shiver down my spine. He leans down, bringing his face inches from mine. “Ask Julia Moretti if you ever get the chance,” he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek. “Oh wait, you can’t. She thought she could protect her brother, too. Wouldn’t tell me where he was hiding.” He pauses. “Last I heard, they found pieces of her washing up on Brighton Beach for weeks.”

He straightens his expression as if he’d just commented on the weather. “Not my handiwork, of course. The Commission has their own... specialists for that shit.”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Dominic?”

He doesn’t answer, just smirks. As if on cue, the door opens and a man in a butler’s uniform enters. He sets a tray on the desk—a glass, a pitcher of ice water, and a first aid kit.

The sight of water makes my throat constrict painfully. Condensation beads on the pitcher, and I stare at it like a dying woman in the desert. I could drain it in one go, not caring if it’s laced with poison. At least I’d die hydrated.

“Thank you, Timmy.” The butler nods and leaves. Dominic pours water into the glass and hands it to me. “That’s five.”

“What?” I frown, accepting the glass—the water rushes down my throat. He refills it immediately.

“Your questions,” he clarifies. “And to answer your last one, no. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“But that’s not—“

“Ah, ah,” he cuts me off with a wave of his finger. “You had your time—you asked your questions. It’s my turn.”

“Fine, but I’m not telling where he is. I couldn’t even if I wanted to—I don’t know.” Dominic nods, picking up the first aid kit. He opens it and removes gauze and antiseptic. The focused look on his face almost makes me laugh—as if he gives a damn whether I bleed to death.

He takes my glass and sets it aside before reaching for my chin. I jolt backward as his fingers make contact. The touch sends electricity through me—his skin both soft and callused. Memories surface—his hands on my body that night at the gala, caressing me like something precious. Fear and adrenaline mixed with his proximity and my body betrays me in the worst way possible.. What the fuck. My nipples harden—heat pools low in my belly, and I despise myself for it. I’m responding to his touch while my brain screams danger.

It’s just biology—nothing more.

But I can’t stop the hot flush spreading across my cheeks, and I squeeze my thighs together, desperate to silence the ache between them. Please, God, don’t let him notice.

“Stay still, Alessa,” he commands, breaking into my thoughts. He reaches for me again, and this time I don’t pull away. He presses a clean gauze pad against the wound, applying just enough pressure to stop the bleeding without causing pain. “Why don’t you tell me the last conversation you had with Marco Russo.”

“That’s not a question,” I whisper. He’s too close. His scent overwhelms me—sweet, cedar wood, nothing like the basement’s stench.

“Okay—what’s the last conversation you had with your father?”

“I asked him to meet for coffee. But he said he was busy.”

He tears open an antiseptic wipe, the sharp medicinal smell cutting through the air as he cleans the wound. I focus, staying perfectly still, trying desperately to ignore his touch.

For just a moment, his fingers pause—a flash of something raw. His breath catches slightly, his throat working as he swallows hard. Then it’s gone. But I saw it. A crack in his armor.

A glimpse of the man beneath the monster.

“When was this?”

“I don’t know, almost a year ago.”

I don’t mention how we fell apart, how he spent years keeping me out of this life—only to shove me toward it now. Funny how that works. After all that talk about protecting me, now it’s about protecting his connections. Maybe he thinks helping me blow the lid off some of my biggest stories, I owe him…I don’t know, but some secrets are mine to keep.

“Is he in New York?”

“I don’t know.”

Dominic covers the wound with a bandage, smoothing it carefully over my skin. He steps back, examining his handiwork.

“Is that the truth?”

“Is that really your question?”

“Yes.” He narrows his eyes, studying me.

“Then, yes, I don’t know if he’s in New York. If he’s smart, he’s long gone. Otherwise, he’s still there. Maybe right under your noses.”

“How many properties do you have in New York?”

“Aside from that penthouse you broke into, I’m also starting to invest in a country house in the Hamptons.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says through gritted teeth, realizing his mistake.

“Then ask better questions,” I challenge.

He moves fast—too fast. Hands slam down on either side of my chair, trapping me. I go still. He’s right there, so close I can feel his breath ghost across my lips, see every fleck of amber in those dark, unreadable eyes. My heart misfires. I press back, but there’s nowhere to go. The chair is solid. Unforgiving. His scent coils around me, scrambling my thoughts. This isn’t about closeness. It’s about control. A silent reminder of what we are. Predator. Prey.

“You’re cheating Alessa. That’s not how this goes.”

“I answer your questions as long as you answer mine.” I shrug, fighting to maintain my composure. “You asked. I answered.”

He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, patience hanging by a thread. Good.

“How many properties does Marco Russo have in New York and where the fuck could he be hiding?”

I let the silence stretch, watching his jaw tick. He doesn’t correct himself. My lips curl.

“Marco Russo isn’t hiding in any of his properties—because the only thing in his name is a crappy loft in SoHo. The real estate… Those belong to Isabella Russo’s Trust.” I watch him carefully. His brows knit, eyes narrowing to slits, mouth pressing into a hard, unforgiving line. Then it happens—the crack. A dark flush creeps up his neck, rage bleeding through the calm mask he’s barely holding together.

And then the dam breaks.

“Get up.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that hums with danger.

He pushes off the desk, striding toward the door without another glance. My pulse jumps, but I follow.

“You want to fucking play, Alessa? Let’s play.”

He stops three doors down, turns sharply, and swings the door open. A bedroom.

Not just any bedroom. A statement. A massive bed, draped in expensive linens. Gold accents glint, catching the sun streaming through tall windows. A chandelier looms overhead, casting shadows. It’s stunning. And soulless.

A cage dressed in luxury.

Plush carpet swallows the sound of my steps as I cross the threshold. The air is thick with unspoken rules.

“Consider this my gesture of kindness,” he sneers. “No one comes in here but you.”

I arch a brow. “You’re here.”

His smirk is razor sharp. “Would you rather sleep in my bed? Or would you prefer a cell with a nice, cold concrete floor?”

My silence is answer enough.

“This is your space while you’re here. You come with me to church on Sundays. Meals are in the dining hall—three times a day. You don’t want to leave this room? Then you starve. I don’t give a fuck.”

The finality in his tone settles like a stone in my stomach.

“You’re taking me to church?” The irony is almost funny—mobsters worshipping on Sundays, right after a week of killing and screwing without a second thought.

“I am. That’s non-negotiable.”

Seriously. Damn Italian traditions. What’s his angle? Is this part of some twisted game? Love-bomb me until I break, spill whatever he wants to know?

“You do realize that defeats the whole point of keeping me hidden.”

He barely blinks. “You’re in Las Vegas, Alessa. A long way from home. You’re in my city now. If you run, I’ll know. If you hide, I’ll find you. So don’t waste your time thinking about it.”

Too late.

“I’ll get bored.” It’s a stupid thing to say, considering the circumstances, but the words slip out anyway.

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think I give a shit about you being bored? I don’t. No gadgets. No books. No internet. Nothing. You sleep, you shower, you eat, you repeat. Throw a tantrum, waste away, hell hang yourself if you want. But until you cooperate? You suffer.”

My stomach turns. “So, I’m a prisoner.”

He doesn’t bother answering. Just steps toward the door, pausing long enough to throw one last insult over his shoulder.

“Take a shower and get some rest. You smell like shit—Oh, and dinner’s at seven.”

The door slams behind him, the sound final.

He didn’t need to answer. The suffocating weight of the room, the pit in my stomach—they say it all.

I’m a prisoner. His prisoner.

And this room… My own personal gilded cage.