Page 9

Chapter eight

Alessa

R un, Alessa. Fucking. Run!

These words blare in my head with a frantic intensity the moment my legs crash into the cold, murky puddle outside the wall I just scaled. The splash seems to amplify every fear, and every doubt, and the pounding in my chest matches the chaos of my thoughts. The world narrows to the sound of my breath, ragged and harsh, mingling with the relentless rain drip from the overhang.

Just run, Alessa.

I’m drenched from heavy rain and the T-shirt I’m wearing sticks to my body like glue on paper, and the shorts I have on don’t help with the chill in the air. If I had known that I’d have the opportunity to run—to leave the fortress that is Dominic’s safe house, I would have picked up a sweater or maybe changed into something warm and comfortable.

When I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been hit by a train, I knew it was time for me to swallow my pride and start a walk of shame towards the kitchen.

My stomach churned with relentless hunger pangs, sharp and insistent as if my insides were gnawing at themselves. Dizziness and lightheadedness washed over me, making the room sway and spin in a disorienting blur. I struggled to focus, my thoughts fragmented and disjointed.

I had enough time to take a step back and assess my situation, to accept that I was a captive and at Dominic Gianelli’s mercy. Once I swallowed that truth and wrapped my head around it, I realized that I should choose my battles and save my strength for life and death situations.

I knew it was time to replenish some strength so I could be able to fight Dominic and his goons when the time came. And choosing my pride over food was stupid. I was ready to face the music and have a meal with the devil.

At least, that was my initial plan.

After I made my bed, I walked out of my room feeling like my knees were about to give in from starvation. The first thing I heard was the muffled voices coming from the dining room. Alarm bells rang in my head as I realized there were people in there. Not just any people—men. I wasn’t afraid of God, I was, however, afraid of men. Men from the Cosa Nostra.

So, I retreated, every creak of the floorboards magnifying the oppressive silence of my confinement. But then, a glimmer of hope cut through the gloom—a faint, eerie light seeping through the narrow gap of the front door. The light was dim and distorted, smeared with the heavy, relentless downpour outside.

It was the only thing I needed to see before I rushed towards the door. I hovered for a moment, waiting for someone or something to stop me. But when nothing came, I ran.

I fucking sprinted as if my life depended on it, every muscle in my body straining to propel me forward.

And by some twisted miracle, nothing came to stop me. No blaring alarm shattered the silence of the estate, no K-9s roared after me, and not a single gunshot rang out to force me back.

I don’t know how long I’d been running before I reached the wall. Adrenaline surged through me, pushing me up a near slick tree in the blinding downpour. My mind was a haze, but somehow, I found the strength to scale the wall, driven by sheer desperation.

So here I am, out of Dominic’s prison, barefoot and drenched—and still running.

I don’t stop. I can’t fucking stop. Because I’m never going to be far enough. Not in a city where people answer to Dominic, a city where he knows everything and everyone. A city that is his kingdom.

I have no idea where or how far I’m running, but I don’t stop until I feel like I’m going to collapse and my lungs are about to explode. The rain is slowly calming down when I reach an empty and quiet alley.

The torrential rain’s been a blessing in disguise—shielding my desperate sprint for survival from any wandering eyes, and just maybe, it’s the reason the cameras in Dominic’s house haven’t picked up my escape

I press my hands against the wall, doubling over, gasping for air, trying not to collapse right here. Dying now will be humiliating, especially if Dominic is the one who finds me sprawled on the ground. No doubt the house is already in chaos. Someone must’ve realized I’m gone by now. I just hope it’s Dominic who figures it out first. Oh what I wouldn’t give to see his face when he discovers I’ve slipped through his grasp.

My lips chatter and my body shakes from the freezing air, and despite my growling stomach and aching bones, I try to navigate where I’m going to go from here. If I don’t keep moving, it won’t be long before they find me.

Keep going Alessa … you can do it. I relax my hands, willing every bit of me to continue on.

But I’m starving—so fucking hungry that every step feels like it’s draining the last of my strength. I don’t know if I’ll make it another block before my body gives out.

I’ve never been to this part of Vegas before. One of my co-workers and I have been out here a couple of times to play blackjack, but I still can’t figure out exactly where I am.

If I can just get my bearings… maybe I can find some clothes that don’t scream barefoot junkie on the run.

I rack my brain for someone—anyone—but it’s useless. No one at work I trust enough and I can forget about my co-worker, who’s great for a blackjack game, but’ll fold at the first sign of real trouble. And definitely not my editor… she’s probably off the grid with a drink in hand, dodging my emails like the plague.

Who can I get a hold of?

The Russos? Yeah right… I bet they’re behind all this in some twisted way… probably want me dead. My father, who God knows where he’s hiding because he’s stupid enough to go against the Commission.

No one goes against the Commission without suffering the consequences.

Marco Russo isn’t one of them.

He never was.

He just married into it—wrong place, wrong family.

I’m torn.

Then it hits me—I couldn’t call anyone even if I wanted to. No phone. No contacts. Just me.

Part of me—the logical, worn-down part—is starting to believe that maybe nothing will actually happen to me if I just tell Dominic where my father might be.

Maybe they’ll let me go. Maybe this all ends.

Still…my heart won’t let me turn him in.

Because no matter how much I hate him for putting me in this mess, he’s my father—my family. The only one that’s left.

A loud rumbling thunder rattles the gray and cloudy sky, and the vibration on my feet creeps up my body, my stomach rumbling along. I wince as I wrap an arm around my stomach, fingernails digging into my side as if the pressure might somehow dull the hollow ache.

Just as I’m about to take off again, I hear a metal door swing open behind me, the clang of it slamming against the concrete wall makes me jump. I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat, fingers already curling into defensive fists.

A lanky and awkward man walks out of the door with a tall, gangly frame that almost seems too big for him. His messy red hair sticks out from under his baseball cap, curling at the edges, and his pale skin flushes from the effort of carrying three bags of garbage. His large, round nose and wide eyes give him a perpetually bewildered expression as he struggles, fumbling with the weight of the bags.

He looks up, noticing me cowering at the end of the alley like a wet rat. The look on his face is replaced by surprise, which in an instant morphs into concern.

“Hey!” His Adam’s apple bobs nervously as he calls out. “Are you okay?”

I don’t reply as he tosses the bags inside the dumpster, his skinny arms straining with the effort. He wipes his hands on the back of his pants before he walks toward me, shoulders hunched forward like he’s trying to appear smaller, less threatening.

My shoulders lower slightly at the genuine concern in his eyes. Maybe I really did run that far. Maybe this guy has no idea who Dominic is. Maybe, just maybe, I can ask him for help.

“I’m Harold,” he extends his hand, then awkwardly pulls it back when I don’t immediately reach for it. “You look like you need help. Do you need me to call someone?”

I should try calling my father. Maybe, just this once, he’ll answer. Maybe he’ll actually help me get out of here. It’s a long shot, but what choice do I have? Desperation claws at my chest as I nod at the man—at Harold. I cling to the hope that maybe my luck isn’t completely gone, that there’s still a chance, however slim, that I’ll make it out of this mess.

“Why don’t you come inside and keep warm? I’m just cleaning up the club. I can heat something up for you. Maybe find something from the lost and found for you to wear.” He doesn’t look like he’s going to kill me. Maybe it’s the smile or mere lankiness of the boy that makes me gravitate toward him. “Do you have a name?”

“Colette,” I answer, using my second name, my fingers gripping the hem of my soaked shirt.

He nods, spinning towards the direction of the door, leaving me to decide whether to follow him. What happened to stranger danger? Maybe when you’re in a situation like mine, it just doesn’t matter anymore. After all, what’s worse than being locked in one of Dominic’s rooms, waiting for whatever comes next?

“Are you coming, Colette?” he asks, holding the door with one bony hand, his knuckles white from the pressure.

Here goes nothing, I think to myself as I walk towards Harold.

Ten minutes. That’s how long I’m going to give myself to stay in there and wait for whatever he promised me a few moments ago. Warmth. Food. Some change of clothes.

The back kitchen is a mess of contradictions. As I stumble in, still soaked from the downpour, the place looks deceptively clean at first glance. But the sink is a disaster zone—piles of dishes from last night stacked high, streaked with food remnants. The faint, stale smell of beer hangs in the air, mixing with the dampness I’ve brought in.

“Why don’t you take a seat,” Harold slides a kitchen stool towards me, the metal legs scraping against the floor. He shuffles to the fridge, head ducking inside as he rummages through the shelves. After a moment, he emerges with an almost empty tray of eggs and a stick of butter. “Scrambled eggs it is.”

Given my current state, I won’t care if he hands me a moldy, stale loaf of bread.

Harold sets a skillet on the stove and ignites it, the blue flame leaping to life. He cracks two eggs into a bowl and whisks them vigorously, his wrist flicking with unexpected precision. The butter sizzles as it hits the hot pan, followed by the eggs that hiss and bubble on contact.

As he cooks, my eyes dart around the room, cataloging potential weapons. My gaze locks on the hilt of a knife, partially hidden under a stack of plates in the sink. I mentally measure the distance between my stool and that potential lifeline.

Harold slides the fluffy scramble onto a plate and pushes it toward me, along with a steaming mug of coffee that releases tendrils of fragrant steam into the air.

“Here you go,” his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Thought you might need something to go with that.”

“Thank you, Harold,” I mumble before attacking the eggs, shoveling them into my mouth with such force that my jaw aches.

“Woah,” His eyebrows shoot up as he takes a step back. “I’ll go check something from the lost and found for you so you can change. Then you can call whoever you need from my phone.”

I nod, barely registering his words as I continue to devour the food. I don’t care that the eggs are bland or that the coffee burns my tongue. My body screams for sustenance, and I respond with animal-like desperation.

As Harold’s footsteps fade down the hall, my shoulders finally drop from their tense position. My hands shake slightly as I lift the coffee mug to my lips, the ceramic, warm against my frozen fingers. Excitement fills my chest at these small victories. The clock on the kitchen wall tells me it’s not even noon yet. To say the least, I have one heck of a productive morning.

The caffeine jolts through my system, bringing me back to life. Once I change into something dry, I’ll be ready to push forward, find my way to the city, check into a hotel, and do what I have to do to get the hell out of this wretched state.

I jump when the doorknob rattles, my spine straightening like a rod. My pulse spikes, and I shovel the last bit of eggs into my mouth, chasing it down with the rest of the scalding coffee in one quick gulp. My ten minutes are up.

“Thanks, Harold—“

The words die in my throat as the door swings open. My entire body freezes, blood turning to ice in my veins.

Standing in the doorway, ruby-encrusted brass knuckles glinting on his fingers, is Dominic Gianelli. His jaw clenches rhythmically, a muscle twitching beneath his perfectly shaved skin. His eyes—cold, calculating, murderous—lock onto mine with predatory focus.

What hits me first isn’t even his face—it’s that sharp black shirt hugging his body, and those crisp pants that scream control. Every inch of him radiates lethal precision.

No. No, this can’t be happening.

My heart slams to a halt—fear crawling up my spine like frostbite. For a terrifying moment, I forget how to breathe.

I’ve been running—running for my life—and now here he is, blocking my escape like a living nightmare.

Gone is my first plan to lunge for the knife in the sink. My chair crashes to the floor as I bolt for the door, lungs burning as I gasp for air. My body floods with adrenaline, every nerve screaming in flight mode.

But just as my fingertips brush the handle, his iron grip locks around my arm, yanking me back with terrifying force. His fingers dig into my flesh, pressing against bone, with calculated pressure.

“No!” I scream, my free hand clawing at the door, nails scraping against the wood. I twist in his grip, tendons straining as I fight against his hold. But it’s pointless. I’m caught—trapped once again in his grasp.

“You think you can run from me, Alessandra?” Dominic’s breath is hot against my ear, his chest pressing against my back like a wall of muscle and rage.

“Please!” My voice cracks, desperation making it sound foreign even to my own ears.

I thrash against him, heels kicking back at his shins, but he doesn’t even flinch. Every movement I make seems to tighten his grip, like fighting against quicksand.

“I’m always ten steps ahead of you.” His lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver of terror down my spine. “There is no place in this city where you can fucking hide from me.”