15. The Captive That Wont Break
The Captive That Won't Break
Alessandra
The day earlier
The moment I step onto Via Monte Napoleone, I know something is wrong.
The air is cool, the luxury boutiques along the street glowing under soft golden lights, but the usual comfort of Milan’s nightlife feels off.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I glance over my shoulder.
Pedestrians stroll past, unaware, unconcerned.
A group of tourists snap photos in front of a designer storefront, their laughter blending with the distant hum of cars.
But there—just at the edge of my vision—I see them.
Two men.
They’re not looking at watches or window shopping like the rest of the crowd. They’re watching me.
My heart picks up speed, hammering against my ribs. I keep walking, forcing my pace to remain steady, though every instinct in my body screams at me to run. Damian’s voice echoes in my mind.
"You need a driver at night, Alessandra. You can’t keep walking alone."
I had rolled my eyes when he said it. Called him paranoid. But right now, I wish I had listened.
I cut through an alley between two buildings, taking the back route toward my apartment.
The moment I step into the dimly lit passage, I know I’ve made a mistake.
The street noise dulls, swallowed by the tight walls on either side of me.
My boots click against the pavement, too loud in the eerie silence.
Behind me, footsteps quicken.
Panic flares in my chest. I reach into my coat pocket for my phone, but a sharp squeal of tires stops me cold.
A black sedan screeches to a halt at the mouth of the alley. The back door swings open.
I turn to run, but it's too late.
Heavy footsteps thunder behind me. Hands grab my arms—rough, unyielding. I thrash, elbowing one of my attackers in the ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go. Another hand tangles in my hair, yanking me backward.
“Let go of me!” I snarl, kicking wildly. My heel connects with someone’s shin, and he curses in Italian.
A gloved hand slaps over my mouth.
Something cold presses against my face—a damp cloth.
Chloroform.
No. No, no, no. I fight. I twist, shove, bite—but my strength is already slipping. My vision swims, shadows bleeding into one another. The world tilts violently as my knees give out.
The last thing I hear before everything turns black is a familiar voice—smooth, laced with amusement.
“Sleep tight, princess.”
Present
The sting in my wrists is the first thing I register. The rough bite of rope has rubbed my skin raw, each shift against my restraints sending a fresh wave of fire through my nerves. My arms are twisted behind the back of the chair, muscles screaming from being bound for too long.
The next thing I notice is the smell.
A thick, suffocating blend of gasoline, sweat, and damp wood saturates the air, clogging my lungs with every shallow breath I take. It reeks of neglect, of filth and decay. The faint metallic tinge of blood lingers underneath it all.
I lift my head slowly, blinking against the dim light overhead.
A single bulb sways slightly, casting long, jagged shadows along the cracked concrete floor.
The walls are lined with rusted metal shelves, crates stacked haphazardly, their surfaces stained with grease.
A cold draft seeps through a broken window near the ceiling, rattling loose chains hanging from the rafters.
A warehouse.
One of Dante Beretti’s.
I exhale through my nose, steadying my breath. The room isn’t empty.
Across from me, a group of men sit around a splintered wooden table, a deck of cards spread between them. They drink from glass bottles, their laughter low, crude, careless. One of them, a thick-set man with a scar down his cheek, tosses his hand onto the table with a curse.
“Bastardo,” he mutters, reaching for another card.
Another man, leaner but just as dangerous, leans back in his chair, smirking. His boots are propped up on the table, one foot nudging the pile of cash in the center. “You’re a sore loser, Matteo.”
Matteo grunts, taking a swig from his beer, his gaze flicking toward me for the briefest moment. The others don’t bother looking.
They aren’t worried about me.
Because they think I’m just some helpless captive.
I roll my shoulders, testing the tightness of the rope. It’s secure. Too secure to slip out of easily. I scan the room again, cataloging everything—exits, weapons, weaknesses.
The Berettis are too comfortable.
That means they don’t expect anyone to come for me.
A mistake.
Because my brother is coming.
And when he does, this place will be drenched in blood.
Then I hear footsteps. Slow. Measured. Confident.
Each step echoes against the concrete, cutting through the murmur of the men at the table. Their laughter fades as the sound of boots scraping against the floor commands their attention. No one speaks. No one dares to.
The air shifts—thicker, heavier, tainted by something far worse than the stench of gasoline and sweat.
I don’t look up.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
A chair scrapes against the ground in front of me, its legs dragging deliberately before stopping with a sharp creak.
Silence. A waiting game.
I know this tactic well. The Berettis love their theatrics, their little displays of dominance. They enjoy the pause before the strike, savoring the illusion of power, waiting for fear to slip through the cracks.
I give them nothing.
Then, a voice. Low, smooth, and coated in mock amusement.
“You look just like him, you know.”
I don’t flinch.
“Same fire in your eyes. Same temper, I bet.”
I lift my chin slowly, finally meeting his gaze.
Dante Beretti leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his smirk sharp, expectant. Dark eyes glint with something twisted, something that enjoys this far too much.
I take him in—his tailored black suit, the expensive watch gleaming on his wrist, the lazy way he tilts his head as if I bore him. Everything about him screams control. Authority. A man who believes he holds the entire world in his palm.
It would almost be impressive. If he weren’t such a fucking rat. I tilt my head, mirroring his smirk.
“And you look just like your father,” I say coolly. “Like a rat with a superiority complex.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. Annoyance? Amusement? Maybe both.
But I don’t care. Because I may be tied to a chair in a warehouse filled with his men, but I will never be powerless. Not to him. Never to him.
Dante chuckles, shaking his head as if I’m some unruly child testing his patience. The sound is slow and deliberate, stretching out between us like he’s savoring the moment.
“I like you, LaCampanella.” His voice is laced with amusement, but there’s something sharp beneath it. Something that tells me he isn’t laughing. “It’s a shame you were born on the wrong side.”
I don’t react.
That’s what he wants—an opening, a crack in the surface. But I’ve seen men like him before. They wield their words like knives, pressing them in just deep enough to see if you’ll bleed before they go for the kill.
Dante shifts slightly, reclining back in his chair with an ease that doesn’t belong in a place like this.
“Your brother?” He clicks his tongue. “Now he’s a problem.”
My jaw clenches.
“But you?” He lets the words settle, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway to solving. “You could be useful.”
I arch a brow. “If this is where you ask me to betray my brother, save your breath.”
Dante grins. It’s all teeth, no warmth.
“Betray him?” He leans forward, his cologne sharp against the rot of the warehouse. “Princess, you misunderstand me.”
His voice drops lower, just above a whisper.
“I don’t need you to betray him.”
He pauses, letting the air stretch thin between us.
“I just need you to scream when the time is right.”
A slow chill seeps into my bones, but I don’t let it show. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
Instead, I hold his gaze, steady and unshaken.
Because if Dante Beretti thinks he’ll break me, he’s already lost.
I don’t flinch.
Dante watches me closely, his dark eyes narrowing as he searches for the reaction he’s expecting—fear, hesitation, anything that tells him he’s gotten under my skin.
But he finds nothing because I won’t give it to him.
I refuse to let him see the cracks, to let him feel like he’s won even an inch of control over me. The air between us is thick with unspoken threats, a silent war waged in the locked gaze we share.
His smirk falters—just slightly, just for a second.
Good.
I tilt my head, letting my own smile curl at the edges of my lips. It’s not forced. It’s not an act. It’s the kind of smirk that tells him exactly what I want him to know—he’s wasting his time.
“Then you really don’t know me at all,” I murmur, my voice smooth, unwavering.
Dante leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the armrest as he exhales slowly. He’s weighing his options now, deciding whether I’m worth more broken or defiant.
He won’t admit it, but I already know the answer.
Men like Dante Beretti don’t enjoy an easy kill. They like the fight. The chase. The illusion of control.
But the problem with men like him?
They always think they’ve already won—until the moment they lose everything.
And I plan on making sure that moment comes sooner rather than later.
Dante’s smirk falters—just a flicker, a fraction of a second.
I see it.
For the first time since he walked in here, I get a glimpse of something real beneath the arrogance. Annoyance? Frustration? Whatever it is, he masks it quickly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off an inconvenience.
“You’ll break, eventually.” His voice is quieter now, lower, as if he’s already certain of the outcome. “They all do.”
I tilt my head, letting his words settle between us, dragging out the silence until the tension is thick enough to cut through.
Then, I smile.
“I’d love to see you try.”
Dante exhales through his nose, a sharp sound, his amusement barely holding together at the edges. He stands, slow and deliberate, and smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. His movements are calm, but I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens—just for a second.
Without another word, he turns and strides toward the exit, his shoes echoing against the concrete floor. When he reaches the doorway, he pauses, lifting a hand.
A simple flick of his fingers.
A signal.
Two of his men step forward from the shadows. Their knuckles crack, slow and purposeful.
My stomach clenches, but I don’t let it show.
Dante doesn’t look back at me. He doesn’t need to. His message is clear.
I exhale, forcing my breath to steady as the two guards close in. My body tenses instinctively, preparing for what’s coming.
But I won’t break.
Not now.
Not ever.