His Savage Ruin (Preview) - Faye Pierce

Chapter One

Alessia

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought hammers through my skull as I stand on this godforsaken Chicago Street, surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken dreams. Graffiti tags cover every surface like infected wounds, and the smell of piss and decay hits me like a physical blow, making my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood a Moretti wife should be caught dead in…

Which is exactly why I’m here.

I pause near a rusted fire escape, pretending to check my reflection in a shop window that’s completely cracked. The movement lets me scan the street behind me without being obvious about it. Old habits die hard, and paranoia has kept me alive this long. A black sedan idles at the corner, exhaust puffing gray clouds into the autumn air. The driver’s been there since I arrived twenty minutes ago. Too long for it to be a coincidence.

My phone buzzes against my ribs, the vibration sharp enough to make me flinch. Only three people have this number, and one of them is dead. Has been for forty-five days now.

The caller ID makes my stomach clench: Don Emilio Moretti.

My father-in-law. The man who owns half of Chicago’s politicians and all of its fear. I can’t ignore him—no one ignores Don Emilio and lives to regret it. But answering means lying, and I’m so fucking tired of lying.

“Papà,” I say, forcing warmth into my voice as I accept the call. The Italian rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and practiced. “How are you feeling today?”

“Alessia.” His voice cuts through the phone line like broken glass—sharp, cold, unforgiving. Even through the speaker, it carries the weight of absolute authority. “Where are you?”

My free hand finds the small knife tucked inside my purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight. Lorenzo gave it to me on our wedding night, a pretty little thing with a pearl handle. For protection, he’d said, not knowing I’d learn to sleep with it under my pillow. Protection from him.

“At the doctor’s office,” I lie smoothly, my eyes never leaving the street. A man pretends to read a newspaper across the street, but the pages haven’t turned once since I’ve been watching. “Getting some routine tests done. Nothing to worry about.”

“Tests.” The word hangs in the air like smoke. “What kind of tests, daughter?”

Daughter. He only calls me that when he wants something, or when he’s about to deliver bad news. Sometimes both.

“Just follow-up care, Papà. You know how doctors are—they want to monitor everything, especially with…” I let my voice trail off, leaving the implication hanging. The pregnancy that doesn’t exist. The grandchild that will never be born. The lie that’s kept me alive for forty-five days.

“Sì, of course.” His tone softens fractionally, and I can picture him in his study, surrounded by the dark wood and darker secrets that define the Moretti legacy. “The memorial is in one hour, Alessia. You will be there.”

It’s not a request. Don Emilio doesn’t make requests—he issues commands, and smart people follow them. The forty-day memorial for Lorenzo. Catholic tradition demands it, and the Morettis bow to tradition when it suits them.

“Of course,” I say, checking my watch. The appointment inside will take ten minutes, fifteen at most. Plenty of time to get this done and make it home to play the grieving widow. Again. “I’ll be back within the hour.” “Good.” A pause, long enough for me to wonder what he’s thinking, what he knows. “And Alessia? Take care of yourself. That baby is precious to all of us.”

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the cracked window. Dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, golden-brown eyes that have learned to hide too much, skin that’s finally lost the sickly pallor it carried for months. I look like a respectable mafia wife. The perfect widow.

If only they knew the truth.

I turn away from the window and face the building that is the reason I am in this neighborhood. The Chicago Family Health Center squats between a check-cashing place and a store that definitely doesn’t sell the kind of merchandise advertised in its blacked-out windows. The clinic’s sign flickers on and off, the ‘H’ in ‘Health’ strobing like a dying heartbeat. Paint peels from the door frame, and the single window facing the street is covered with bars that have seen better years.

It’s perfect. No one from my world would ever set foot in a place like this, which makes it invisible. And invisibility, I’ve learned, is its own kind of power.

The door sticks when I push it, requiring actual effort to get inside. The waiting room is a study in despair—worn linoleum floors in a color that might have once been white, fluorescent lights that flicker and buzz like dying insects, and the kind of furniture that’s designed to be uncomfortable. The air tastes of antiseptic and something fouler underneath, something that speaks of too many desperate people passing through these doors.

A receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass, her eyes the color of old pennies and just as lifeless. She doesn’t look up when I enter, doesn’t acknowledge my existence until I tap my knuckles against her window.

“Name?” she asks, voice flat as roadkill.

“Smith,” I say. “I have an appointment with Dr. Carter.”

She consults a schedule that looks like it was typed on a machine from the Carter administration, running one chipped fingernail down the page. “Room three. He’ll be with you shortly.”

I take a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs, crossing my legs carefully and keeping my purse close. The knife inside feels heavier now, more necessary. Two other people wait in the small space—a teenager who can’t be more than sixteen, staring at her hands with the kind of desperation that makes my chest tight, and an older woman whose face tells stories I don’t want to read.

This is where hope comes to die, where desperate people make desperate choices. Where Mrs. Lorenzo Moretti can become just another woman with a problem that money can solve.

“Smith?” A voice calls from the hallway, and I stand smoothly, years of finishing school posture serving me well even here. Dr. Carter stands in the doorway to room three, and he’s exactly what I expected—sleazy smile, receding hairline, and gold teeth that catch the fluorescent light. His white coat has seen better days, and there’s a stain near the pocket that I choose not to identify.

“Doctor,” I say, extending my hand with the kind of cool politeness that comes naturally after years of charity galas and political dinners. He takes it, his palm soft and damp.

“Come in, come in,” he says, gesturing toward the examination room. It’s cleaner than the waiting area, but not by much. “Please, have a seat.”

I remain standing, my chin lifted in the way that used to make Lorenzo’s eyes go dark with rage. Power pose, my mother called it, back when she was alive to give advice. Back before the Morettis decided the Ricci family had outlived their usefulness.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “We both know why I’m here, Doctor.” The words taste bitter—I’d had to take an enormous risk calling him, speaking in careful euphemisms about ‘documentation’ and ‘discretion.’ “You know this isn’t a medical consultation.”

His smile falters for a moment, revealing something calculating underneath. “Of course, of course. Though I do usually recommend at least a brief examination, for authenticity’s sake—”

“No.” The word cuts through the air like a blade. I let my smile turn sharp, the kind that used to make servant girls scatter when I was still naive enough to think I had power. “I’m not here for your medical expertise. I’m here for your flexible morals.”

He actually laughs at that, a sound like gravel in a blender. “You’re certainly more direct than most of my… patients.”

“I find directness saves time,” I say, setting my purse on his desk and opening it with deliberate care. The knife catches the light, and his eyes track the movement. Good. Let him wonder if I’m desperate enough to use it. “Time I don’t have to waste on pretenses.”

Inside my purse, beneath the knife and next to the compact mirror I never use, is a thick envelope. I remove it carefully, feeling the weight of necessity and desperation.

Fifteen thousand dollars in cash, money I’d scraped together from jewelry sales during my carefully orchestrated shopping trips, skimming from the household accounts, and a small emergency fund my mother had made me promise to keep hidden for exactly this kind of desperate moment.

I set the envelope on his desk, the bills making a soft sound against the scarred wood. “For this amount,” I say, meeting his eyes steadily, “you’ve never seen me. You never will again. And the documentation you provide will be flawless.”

Dr. Carter lifts the envelope, feeling its weight with the practiced touch of someone who’s made this trade before. He doesn’t count it, we both know I’m good for it, but he opens it enough to see the bills inside. Hundreds, mostly, because fifties and twenties would make the stack too thick.

“Understood,” he says, tucking the envelope into his desk drawer. From the same drawer, he produces a manila envelope, sealed and official-looking. The clinic’s letterhead is printed across the top, the kind of detail that makes forgeries convincing. “Your results, Mrs… Smith.”

I take the envelope, feeling the weight of my future inside. “Pregnancy test?”

“Positive.” He settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. “Lab work confirms high hormone levels that match about ten weeks of pregnancy.” He pauses, studying my face. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” I slip the envelope into my purse, next to the knife that’s kept me safe and the phone that connects me to my cage. “This transaction is complete.”

“Of course.” But he doesn’t look away, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. “Though I do hope you’ll remember where to find me, should you need any… future services.”

I’m already moving toward the door, my heels clicking against the linoleum with sharp sounds. “Doctor, for both our sakes, I hope I never see you again.”

The waiting room feels smaller now. I nod once to the receptionist, who still doesn’t look up, and push through the sticky door.

The air outside tastes like freedom and fear in equal measure. I’ve done it—bought myself another month, maybe two, of protection under the Moretti umbrella. As long as they think I’m carrying Lorenzo’s child, I’m valuable. Untouchable. But the moment they discover the truth…

I don’t let myself finish that thought.

My car sits where I left it, a modest sedan that doesn’t attract attention. I chose it specifically for that reason, the Maserati would have marked me as clearly as a neon sign in this neighborhood. As I walk toward it, my heels clicking against broken concrete, I feel eyes on me. The same sensation I’ve lived with for forty-five days, the weight of being watched.

The black sedan is still there. The newspaper man has moved closer, his position shifting just enough to keep me in sight. My fingers find the knife again, and I adjust my grip on my purse, making sure I can reach it quickly if needed.

I’m almost to my car when it happens.

Footsteps behind me, moving too fast, too determined. I spin, my hand already reaching for the knife, but I’m not fast enough. A hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I jerk away with practiced desperation.

“Don’t…” I start to say, but the word dies as a black SUV screeches around the corner, tires screaming against asphalt. The door flies open before it even stops moving, and hands—multiple hands—grab for me.

I twist, my body moving on instincts learned through months of survival, but there are too many of them. My fingers close around the knife’s handle just as something sharp bites into my upper arm. A needle, I realize with crystal clarity, even as warmth spreads through my veins like honey.

“No,” I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, hollow. The knife falls from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete like a death knell. My legs give out, and I’m falling, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me.

The last thing I see before darkness swallows everything is the envelope from the clinic, scattered papers drifting across the dirty street like snow. Like the ashes of all my carefully laid plans.

Then nothing.

Chapter Two

Matteo

She’s beautiful, even like this.

The thought hits me as I watch the surveillance footage for the third time, my fingers drumming against the steel table in my Manhattan warehouse. On the screen, my men carry an unconscious woman from the SUV, her dark auburn hair spilling over strong arms like silk. Even drugged and limp, there’s something about her that commands attention. Something dangerous.

Alessia Moretti. Lorenzo’s widow. The woman who started a war.

I check my watch. She’s been out for a few hours. The sedative should be wearing off soon.

“Boss.” Marco appears at my elbow, young and eager, still trying to prove himself worthy of the Romano name. “She’s stirring.”

I push back from the table and straighten my suit jacket. Armani, black as my reputation, tailored to perfection. Details matter in this business. Power is in the presentation as much as the action.

“Time we had a conversation.”

The room where we’re holding her is exactly what it needs to be. Windowless, dark, with only the faintest light seeping in from under the door. No decoration, no comfort, nothing to distract from the reality of her situation. Just concrete walls, a single chair, and the kind of silence that makes people want to talk.

I position myself in the deepest shadows and wait, watching her slowly return to consciousness. There is a single, dim lightbulb shining over her. She’s already awake, though she’s trying to hide it. Her breathing is too controlled, too measured for someone truly unconscious. Smart, but I’ve seen enough people come around from drugs to know the difference.

I can see her testing her restraints carefully, the zip ties around her wrists, trying to piece together what happened. Her head must be pounding from the sedative—it always does—but she’s fighting through it, thinking, calculating.

After three minutes of this charade, I decide to end it.

“Awake at last.”

She jerks toward my voice, and I watch her strain her eyes trying to see me in the darkness. Her heart rate picks up—I can see it in the pulse jumping at her throat—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t beg. Interesting.

“What’s a woman like you doing in such a bad neighborhood?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. The kind of tone that makes smart people nervous.

“My business is none of your concern,” she snaps back, and I’m impressed that her voice barely shakes.

“Well-bred girls like you shouldn’t wander into neighborhoods like that, principessa. It invites trouble.”

“That still doesn’t give you the right to kidnap me,” she fires back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my name is not principessa. ”

I chuckle, genuinely amused. Most people in her position would be sobbing by now. “Bold words for someone tied up and alone.”

I start moving, circling her in the darkness, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. She tries to track the sound, turning her head to follow my voice, but in the complete blackness that surrounds her, she’s blind.

Her vision adjusts when I walk out of the darkest shadow, her golden-brown eyes find me immediately. I’m standing just outside the circle of light, but she can make out enough. I watch her catalog details with quick intelligence—my height, my build, the expensive cut of my suit.

To my surprise, she doesn’t cower. Instead, she lifts her chin in defiance, meeting my stare with more backbone than most men show me.

I step into the light, letting her see me clearly for the first time. The scar along my jaw catches the light, a reminder of the night my father died.

My tattoos are visible at my wrists, dark ink that speaks of a world she’s only glimpsed from the protected heights of Moretti society. I know I carry myself with the controlled presence that has made grown men piss themselves.

Yet she doesn’t look away.

I can see her mind working, trying to piece together what’s happening. “How long was I unconscious?” she asks, her voice steady despite her situation.

“Long enough,” I say simply.

Her eyes narrow as she processes this. “The Morettis will be looking for me. They’ll tear Chicago apart—”

“They’ll have to expand their search,” I tell her, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. “Welcome to New York. My territory.”

The color drains from her face as the implications sink in. The kind of operation this represents, the resources required to move someone across state lines without detection. Her breathing quickens slightly, but she fights to maintain composure. “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

She studies my face intently, looking for clues. “Should I?”

“Most people would say yes.”

We stare at each other, me patient as death, her trying to put pieces together. I can practically see the wheels turning—Chicago to New York, the kind of operation this represents, the casual way I talk about territory.

Then recognition clicks, and her face goes pale.

“Romano,” she breathes.

I smile, and it’s not a nice expression. “Getting warmer.”

“Matteo Romano.” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “Il Diavolo.”

“Clever girl.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, and I catch something breathless in her voice.

“You’re the reason the Morettis declared war,” I tell her, watching her face carefully for tells.

Her eyes widen with what looks like genuine shock. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“Sure you do.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing my words. “I told them Lorenzo was murdered by unknown attackers. If they declared war on you, that decision was theirs, not based on anything I said.” I study her with the patience of a predator, weighing her words, looking for the lies underneath. But there’s something in her denial that rings true. Or maybe she’s just a very good actress.

“Someone so small and gentle shouldn’t cause such problems,” I murmur, moving closer.

I reach out slowly, making sure she can see the movement coming. Her eyes track my hand but she doesn’t pull away when I trace one finger along her cheek. Her skin is soft, unmarked by the kind of violence that shapes people like me.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, jerking her head away from my touch.

But I don’t stop. I let my finger trail along her jawline, curious to see what she’ll do.

Quick as a snake, her teeth close on my finger—hard, sharp, aiming for bone. I pull back just in time, genuinely impressed by her speed and viciousness.

I laugh, I can’t help it. When was the last time someone tried to bite me? “There she is. I was wondering when the real Alessia Moretti would show up.”

The sound of my laughter makes fury blaze in her eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re far more interesting than I expected.”

“Interesting enough to let me go?” she shoots back.

“Interesting enough to keep you alive.”

Her jaw tightens. “How generous.”

“I can be.” I circle her chair slowly, and her head turns to follow my movement, cataloging every step. “Tell me about your husband’s enemies.”

“I wouldn’t know. Lorenzo didn’t discuss business with me.”

“Of course not. Good wives don’t ask questions.” I pause behind her chair, and her shoulders tense. “But smart wives listen.”

“Maybe I’m not that smart.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug, but her eyes cut away, lashes lowering as if to hide something she doesn’t want me to read. Her fingers curl tight against the armrest, betraying nerves her voice tries to disguise.

“Oh, but you are.” I move back into her line of sight. “Smart enough to survive four months of marriage to Lorenzo Moretti. That takes considerable skill.”

Something flickers across her face—too quick to read, but not quick enough to hide.

“You’re fishing,” she says.

“I’m conversing.”

A sound from the darkness makes her eyes dart toward the shadows where my men wait—shapes she can sense but not see. Her breathing changes, just slightly, as she counts the invisible presences surrounding us.

I see the moment it truly hits her. Her knuckles go white around the arms of the chair, her breath stutters, and her throat works in a hard swallow she can’t quite finish. Her pupils dilate, eyes darting to the shadowed corners, as if she’s counting threats she can’t see. Her composure slips in that fraction of a second, enough to show she’s realized the truth: this isn’t some street kidnapping — she’s sitting in the grip of power itself.

Before I can push further, the door opens. Light spills in from the hallway, and Enzo enters first, lean and deadly, his serpent tattoo visible in the dim light. Behind him comes my brother Luca, younger, softer-featured, but carrying the Romano name with quiet authority.

“Matteo,” Luca says, and something in his tone tells me we have a problem. I glance between my men and the woman tied to the chair. She’s watching this exchange with curious eyes; no doubt cataloging names and faces and power dynamics even in her helpless state.

I’m about to leave when she speaks up.

“Are you planning to keep me tied up forever?”

The question is pure defiance, thrown at me like a challenge. Not a plea from a broken woman but a demand from someone who refuses to accept defeat. Even now, even helpless, she’s trying to seize some small measure of control.

I turn back to her fully, and for a moment, I feel something almost like admiration for her unbreakable spirit.

“You belong to me now, principessa, ” I tell her, letting the Italian endearment carry both promise and threat. “What happens to you will be decided by me alone.”

I leave her in the chair. The door shuts behind me, the lock snapping into place.

Luca and Enzo are waiting in the hallway, faces tight.

“The head injury isn’t serious,” Enzo reports, rolling up his sleeves, serpent tattoo catching the light. “No fracture, no bleeding. She’ll have a headache, but nothing lasting.”

A hostage with a broken mind is useless and we both know that. Relief flickers through me, though I bury it.

Luca shifts uneasily, the way he always has before delivering bad news. “We searched her belongings. Purse, keys, phone. The usual. But there was also an envelope from the Chicago Family Health Center. Pregnancy test results. Positive. Ten weeks old.”

I take this in without surprise. Of course, she’s pregnant. It explains everything—their desperation, Emilio’s recklessness. A widow carrying the Moretti heir is worth starting a war over.

“Expected,” I say flatly. “Emilio wouldn’t spill blood over a barren widow. The child makes her invaluable.”

That should be the end of it. Yet something gnaws at me. That clinic—wrong part of town, the kind of place the Morettis would never send their women. And her denials during interrogation… not fearful.

“I want Dr. Reeves to confirm the pregnancy,” I decide. My tone leaves no room for argument. “If we’re going to use her as leverage, I need certainty. I don’t deal in assumptions.”

Both men nod, and I turn away, already thinking about my next move.

War isn’t won on luck. It’s won on information. And Alessia Moretti’s truth is about to become mine.