OWNED BY THE DON

CHAPTER 4 - THE BRIDGE

The rain in Chicago was a cold, needles-sharp drizzle that blurred the neon lights of the skyline. Rachel didn’t wait for the door to open. The moment the sleek, black armored Escalade ghosted to a halt in front of the Romano estate, she bolted through the servant’s entrance and into the dark.

Her lungs burned. Her white dress was ruined, soaked through and clinging to her skin as she sprinted toward the iron expanse of the nearby bridge.

Behind her, the heavy roar of an engine and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of polished shoes hitting the pavement signaled the nightmare had begun.

She reached the center of the bridge. Below, the Chicago River was a churning, black abyss. She looked back. A group of men in dark overcoats were fan-out, but one man walked ahead of them.

The bridge loomed ahead, skeletal steel against a black sky. No pedestrians this late. No cameras. Perfect for a disappearance, or a message.

Rachel’s feet hit the metal grating. The sound echoed, sharp and hollow.

“Rachel! Stop!”

The voice cut through the rain like a blade. Deep. Calm. Terrifyingly steady. She turned.

A line of men in dark overcoats spread out behind her, blocking the exit. And at their head, walking like he had all night, was Fabio Castellano.

Rain slid off his silver-flecked hair. His charcoal suit was soaked, clinging to his frame, but he looked untouched. Unbothered. Like he’d walked out of a boardroom, not a chase.

Even soaked, even angry, he was striking.

He looked less like a mobster and more like a dark god coming to claim a sacrifice.

“Don’t come any closer!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. She scrambled back until her heels hit air. The grating pressed against her calves. One more inch and she’d be over.

Her heels slipped off into the dark without a sound.

Fabio stopped ten feet away. He raised one hand. His men froze.

“Get down from there, Rachel,” he said. No yelling. No threat. Just that same infuriating calm. “You’re shivering.”

“I’d rather die than be your property!”

The words tore out of her, raw and shaking. Her whole body trembled so hard the bridge felt like it was moving under her.

Fabio’s jaw tightened. For half a second, the mask slipped.

“I didn’t buy a slave,” he said, voice dropping to that silk-smooth register that made her skin crawl. He took one step forward. Just one. “I chose a Queen. Now step back.”

“No!”

She closed her eyes and let her weight tip backward.

For one heartbeat, there was only wind. Only weightlessness. Only the terrifying, freeing thought that it would all be over.

Then a hand like a vice locked around her waist.

Another caught her wrist with bone-bruising strength.

With a grunt of raw, athletic power, Fabio hauled her back over the railing. They hit the wet pavement together, his heavier frame taking the impact, shielding her from the steel and stone.

Rain poured over both of them.

Rachel fought. She hit his chest with small, frantic fists. “Let me go! Let me go, you monster!”

He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his face inches from hers.

For the first time, she saw him up close without the distance, without the myth.

He was devastatingly handsome. Sharp jaw, wet hair, eyes dark enough to drown in. But those eyes weren’t cold right now. They were burning. White-hot anger, barely leashed.

“I said stop fighting me,” he gritted out.

She spat at him.

His hand moved before he stopped it.

The slap cracked through the rain.

Silence fell, save for the hiss of water on steel.

Rachel gasped. The side of her face flared hot, her head snapping to the side. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

Fabio froze.

He stared at his own hand like it had betrayed him. Then at the red mark blooming across her pale cheek.

Something raw flashed in his eyes. Not anger. Not satisfaction.

Regret. Pain.

“I didn’t—” He stopped himself. Swallowed the apology he clearly wasn’t allowed to give.

“You’re a Romano,” he hissed instead, voice trembling with something that wasn’t quite rage. He reached out, brushed a wet strand of hair from her face with fingers that were suddenly, hauntingly gentle. “And I’m a Castellano. You don’t get to die until I say so.”

Rachel stared at him, chest heaving, cheek burning.

For a second, she saw it. The man under the Punisher. The one who’d ordered a dress in her size and checked his cuff for wine stains before ordering an execution. Controlled. Possessive. Terrified of losing control.

It didn’t make her feel safer. It made her feel worse.

Because it meant he meant it.

Fabio lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing, cradling her against his chest. She struggled, but his grip was iron.

“Put me down!”

“No,” he said simply.

He carried her toward the waiting Escalade, past his men who didn’t dare look at either of them. Rain soaked them both, but his suit took the brunt of it. He shielded her face with his shoulder like the rain itself might hurt her.

As he set her in the back seat, he leaned in close. His voice was low, only for her.

“You can hate me, Rachel. You can fight me every second of every day.”

His thumb brushed over the red mark on her cheek, barely touching.

“But you’re mine now. And I don’t lose what’s mine.”

The door shut.

The engine roared.

And Rachel realized running wasn’t an option anymore. Not when the man chasing her didn’t stop at lines.