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Chapter seven

Dominic

“ I s this brunch really necessary?”

Enzo, my youngest brother, strolls in late as fucking usual. Crisp white button-down, cream slacks, Dad’s black Rolex on his wrist. Eyes glued to his phone like it’s feeding him oxygen. Always too goddamn important for family shit.

“You sound like a fucking eight-year-old,” Matteo scoffs from across the table, already three whiskey sours deep and halfway through his second bagel. Matt never misses a meal—even dodging bullets or burying bodies. I’ve seen him stop mid-job for a sandwich. Man would risk a prison sentence for a good steak. Priorities fucked beyond repair.

How he keeps that body with the garbage he shovels in his mouth is beyond me. His stomach’s a black hole, but his muscles didn’t get the memo.

“This is how you welcome me back, brother?” I smirk, watching him drop into the chair next to Luca’s empty seat.

“We’re doing just fine without you, Dom,” he reaches for a grape. “Vegas celebrated when you left. Even the Vitales haven’t shown up at our properties. I drove through this fucking downpour for brunch with the same assholes. Nothing’s changed except I’m wet as shit.”

Rain hammers the windows like it’s trying to break in. The sky bruised dark, swallowing any hint of daylight. The kitchen sits in that gray half-light that makes everything feel like a bad omen.

“That’s what she said,” Matteo snickers.

“I’m surprised you’re not at the gym,” Enzo fires back. “Isn’t that all you’re good at? Lifting weights?”

“Yeah. I’m also good with snipers, and of course, picking up women at the bar.”

“Of course,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of cantaloupe—just another fucking Sunday with the Gianellis.

“Manwhore.”

Matt’s brilliant when he isn’t thinking with his dick, or drinking away our profits or balls-deep in some cocktail waitress at the Bellagio, he’s... actually, that’s all he does. Zero fucking ambition beyond the next piece of ass. Red flag at our age, but whatever.

“Where’s Luca?” Enzo asks, glancing around like he just noticed.

Brunch in this family is sacred—Dad’s rule, passed down like a blood oath. I remember being eight, pissed off, trapped at this table listening to men talk business, when all I wanted was to be anywhere else.

Then Mom died. That first Sunday after her funeral, brunch was the only normal thing left. Dead silent, Dad staring at her empty chair, but we were together. Should’ve appreciated that shit before it was gone.

That’s the Gianellis for you—loyal to our own, true to our word, honest to our wives. At least that’s the bullshit Dad fed us before he ended up in the ground too.

So yeah, brunch. No one skips it, not even if you’re bleeding out. Sundays are for family.

“He’s waiting for Gabriella.”

“Are they fucking already?” Matt asks through a mouthful of strawberry.

“Just because you’ve screwed half of Nevada doesn’t mean Luca is too.”

“You know, Enzo,”—Matt narrows his eyes, filling his glass with more booze, —“if you actually showed up for shit, you’d know Luca and Gabriella are in love.”

“Did they tell you that?” Enzo’s voice is flat as a corpse.

“No. But it’s fucking obvious. They hate each other but can’t stay apart. He goddamn glows when she walks in.”

“Gabriella’s too smart to fall for that act.”

“You’re so fucking boring.” Matt shakes his head. “You need to learn how to live a little and get that stick out of your ass.”

Enzo’s been a miserable bastard since we were kids. Can’t blame him entirely. He was too young when everything went to hell—when our parents started dropping and the family cracked. Being the baby meant growing up in the aftermath.

While Matt, Luca, and I had time with Mom—her piano playing, her laugh when we ran wild in the rain—Enzo got nothing. His first memory of her wasn’t her music; it was her dead in a box. Before he knew what love felt like, he knew grief.

That’s why he’s such a cold-blooded prick. I don’t entirely blame him.

“You think I have time for that bullshit, Matteo?” he snaps. “I’m running for fucking mayor next year. The time I have left is packed with meetings and hunting for my campaign manager.”

I’m not sure when politics hooked him. He barely speaks in public. Then, a year and a half ago, he started slipping into rooms with powerful men. What looked like curiosity turned obsessive—reading theory, studying everything. Never explained why, and I never asked. Whatever drives him makes him sharper, more dangerous.

Before I can dig into his political hard-on, Luca bursts in with Gabriella. The doctor’s forehead is creased, urgently whispering something, but my brother’s face tells a different story—that dopey grin plastered across his mouth. The contrast is jarring: her worry against his lovesick puppy routine.

“See,” Matteo whispers to Enzo. “Fucking glowing.”

He’s right. Luca is pussy-whipped, doesn’t even try hiding it anymore. Gabriella’s dressed in black—high-neck top, wide-leg pants—with Luca matching her like they fucking planned it.

Gabriella’s Fabio Giovani’s youngest daughter and the only one of that family I trust. She hates her father with a passion that runs bone deep. When she chose medicine over becoming a mob wife, he cut her off. Made her pay her own way through med school.

When she graduated top of her class, got that Distinguished Service Award for her transplant research, her father’s response was what you’d expect from that cockroach.

He demanded she work for the Giovani family, using his pull to force her into their organization. She told him to go fuck himself, more or less.

Her working exclusively for me is her middle finger to Daddy. Me paying her ten times what normal doctors make is my thanks for her loyalty. Plus, she’s a fucking miracle worker with a bullet wound.

She’s gorgeous too. In another life, she’d be the perfect mob wife by their standards. But now she’s like that cousin you’re excited to see at Christmas and the reason you want to leave early.

I don’t encourage whatever this thing with Luca is because Gabriella’s not on the same page. She’s not even in the same fucking book. She’s here for business and to piss off Daddy. Not looking to settle down. Too married to her work.

“Good morning, Gabriella.” I reach for coffee as Luca smacks Enzo’s arm, telling him to move his ass. It’s like clockwork—Gabriella takes the seat without a word, like it’s been hers for years.

“Good morning.” Her smile is tight as she scans the table. She’s not scared of my brothers—she’s stitched them up more times than she can count. But I know she’d rather it was just me and Luca.

Luca pours her a mimosa, which she downs in one go. Girl needs it.

“Well,” I straighten my back. “Now that everybody’s here—“

“What do you mean everybody’s here?” Gabriella cuts in, and every head turns. Even Matt stops mid-chew. “Alessa isn’t here.”

“Alessa?”

“Who the fuck is Alessa?” Matt and Enzo ask in unison.

“That’s why I wanted you all to come.”

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you getting married?” Enzo hisses. “Because I’m running for fucking mayor and the last thing I need is another disas—“

“I’m not getting married, Enzo, and she’s not my girlfriend,” I snap, my patience threadbare. It’s been a shit few days with Alessa being a stubborn bitch and the Commission breathing down my neck about Marco.

“What’s going on, Dom?” Matt shifts, all traces of amusement vanishing as he leans forward.

I lay it all out—Marco Russo backing a RICO case against the Commission, refreshing their memories of who this prick is. Can’t blame them for forgetting. He’s nothing, a necessary evil tolerated because of his position. I explain, grabbing Alessa, his only daughter, hoping she’d roll over on Daddy’s hiding spot. Detail her resistance, how critical it is she breaks.

“If this is so important to the Commission, why not do it themselves?”

I scan the room, taking in my men watching from the shadows—they follow orders, sure, but loyalty runs deeper when there’s respect. “I don’t fucking know.” I exhale sharply, running a hand over my jaw.

“Look, you’re missing the long game,” I say, meeting their eyes with steel. “Getting made isn’t the endgame—it’s the starting line. This RICO shit? It’s leverage. I solve this, I get my button. With my button, I build my crew. With my crew, I expand our territory.” I lean forward, voice dropping. “In five years, Vince will be too drunk to lead. Paolo’s heart is a ticking time bomb. Fabio’s kids want nothing to do with this life. Who do you think steps in when they fall? This isn’t about getting made. It’s about becoming what I was always meant to be—the don who rewrites the fucking rules. Capisci?”

“So what’s taking so fucking long…why the hell hasn’t this Alessa talked yet?“ Enzo’s forehead creases. “Better yet, why haven’t you made her talk yet?”

“Yeah, Dom.” Luca grins like the fucking asshole he is. “Why haven’t you?”

“Don’t tell us it’s because she’s innocent,” Matt jumps in. “Because from what I see, the only thing between you and what you’ve wanted for years is her. If she talks, you find Marco. Otherwise, you’re fucked.”

“Tell them, Dom,” Luca urges. I give him a look that promises he’ll pay for this later.

“I fucked her four years ago.” The confession tastes like ash on my tongue, bitter and burnt.

Now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize how pathetic it sounds. So what if we fucked once? It’s not like I’m suddenly a changed man.

I want to say the only reason I think about her is because she stole my fucking gun. How I’ve hunted her across continents in my head to get it back—too many times to count. How if I found her sleeping, I wouldn’t waste the chance. Wouldn’t bother with games. No, I’d press my weight over hers, feel her jolt awake beneath me. Let her mind scramble, fight to catch up. Then I’d wrap my hands around that delicate throat, watch panic bloom in those wide, pretty eyes. Watch her struggle.

And then?

Then, maybe, I’d finally stop thinking about her.

But no matter what, in my head, it’s always her underneath me. Her on top. Her on her knees as I fuck her mouth until she gags. That’s how I’ve seen her since that night. I do these things with a vengeance. And in my sick, fucked-up mind, she begs for it. I see her in every woman since. It’s always her green eyes staring back when I close mine.

Her red hair I want to pull. Her voice I want to hear break.

“You’re letting a one-night stand ruin everything you’ve worked for?” Enzo’s tone cuts like a blade. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Tell them how she took your gun,” Luca adds, grabbing fruit from the bowl.

“You lost your gun?” Matt’s eyes widen.

“It’s been dealt with,” I growl, giving Luca another warning look. If this asshole doesn’t shut his trap, I’ll put a hole in his fucking leg so his doctor girlfriend has something to work on.

“She accidentally shot him too.”

“Goddammit, Luca!”

“What?” He looks up, looking innocent. “She did. You’re limping. They were gonna ask anyway.”

“I’ve always wanted to shoot you myself, brother.” Matt bursts out laughing. I turn to see Enzo grinning too. “Yet some woman beat me to it… accidentally, no less.”

“How long have you had her?” Thank Christ for my youngest brother’s question, or I might’ve put Matt’s teeth through the back of his skull, and Gabriella would have two patients.

“Three days.”

“Three days and she still hasn’t talked? Don’t tell me the great Dominic Gianelli’s gone soft for Marco Russo’s daughter.”

“I haven’t,” I snarl. “She’s in her room. Hasn’t left since I put her there.”

“You fucking grounded her?” Luca chuckles .

“No. She can leave whenever she wants to eat. And if she doesn’t cooperate, she can die of boredom in there.”

“You mean she hasn’t eaten anything in three days?” Gabriella’s voice rises, thick with concern for Alessa and disgust for me. “She won’t die of boredom, Dominic. She’ll starve to death.”

“This is mob business, Gabriella,” I remind her. She’s amazing at her job, one of the most compassionate people I know—a fatal flaw in this industry, but admirable nonetheless. “You don’t work for her.”

“You told me to keep her alive,” she counters, fire in her eyes—the same fire my brother’s clearly trying to tame. Me, I find it fucking irritating, especially right now. “You’re making my job impossible. You want her alive for questioning, but you’re starving her? Which is it?”

“I’m not starving her,” I correct through clenched teeth. “She can leave the room whenever she wants to eat at the table. That’s not inhumane. That’s her showing some fucking respect in my house.”

“You kidnapped her. Drugged her. Tied her up in your basement for your thugs to terrorize. And you think she’s going to dine with you?”

“Whose side are you on, Gabriella?” My voice drops to ice.

“There are no sides, Dominic. You told me to keep her alive, and I will. I’m doing my job,” she fires back. “If you want me to leave her to starve, just say so. Then I won’t waste time making sure she survives long enough to give you what you need.”

The table goes silent as everyone watches our standoff. I clench my jaw, meeting her dark glare. She doesn’t flinch.

Pure Giovani, through and through. I can feel it radiating off her as she stares me down, knowing she’s scored a point.

I push back from the table without a word. No one makes a sound as I stalk out of the dining room toward Alessa’s room.

Having a Giovani on payroll is a blessing and a curse—a blessing because she works without asking questions about bullet holes or black eyes. A curse because she thinks we’re equals, and she’ll run her mouth without fear of consequences.

I fucking hate it because she’s right. Alessa needs to be in shape for questioning. Time to focus on what matters. I’ve been busting my ass for years to join the Commission, and I’m not letting whatever this is with Alessa derail everything.

I stop cold outside her door, ice flooding my veins. It’s ajar. No one—absolutely no one—is allowed inside except her. I made that crystal fucking clear to everyone.

Hand shaking with rage, I push the door wide. The room sits untouched. Bed made, curtains drawn, bathroom door closed. Silence hangs thick in the air—no breathing, no movement, nothing.

The room is empty.

Alessa is gone.