Bound by Silence

The warehouse squatted on the edge of the city like a rotting secret, its corrugated walls groaning in the wind. Elena had taken a wrong turn... again, cutting through the industrial district to shave ten minutes off her walk home from the diner. The air was thick with the smell of rust, diesel, and something sharper she couldn’t name. She should have turned back the moment the streetlights ended, but exhaustion made her reckless.

A low murmur of voices stopped her cold in her tracks. Male. Rough. Close.

She slipped behind a stack of splintered pallets, heart already kicking against her ribs. Through a gap in the crates, she saw them: six men in tailored black suits under a single hanging bulb. At the center stood the one who commanded the room without raising his voice, Dominic Russo. She’d seen his face on the news, grainy surveillance stills next to headlines about bodies found in the river. Forty-two years old, head of the Russo family, a man who smiled only when someone was bleeding.

One of his soldiers shoved a bound man to his knees. The traitor’s pleas were muffled by duct tape, but the terror in his eyes was loud enough. Dominic drew a suppressed pistol with the casual grace of someone pouring coffee. No speech, no hesitation. Just a soft mechanical cough.

The bullet took the traitor in the forehead. Blood and bone erupted in a wet arc, splattering the concrete in thick, dark ropes. The body slumped sideways, twitching once before going still.

Elena’s hand clamped over her mouth too late. A tiny, choked sound escaped.

Dominic’s head snapped toward the shadows. His eyes, black, depthless, found hers instantly, as if he’d sensed her heartbeat from across the room.

Time stretched, thin and brittle.

She saw the calculation flicker across his face: witness, liability, eliminate. Then something else, something that made his jaw tighten and his gaze drop, slow and deliberate, over her body. The cheap cotton dress she wore clung to her skin from the damp air, thin straps slipping off one shoulder, hem riding high on her thighs. Her chest rose and fell too fast, nipples tight against the fabric from the cold. Or from fear. Or from the way he was looking at her, like he was already imagining her stripped bare.

He moved first, holstering the weapon with a soft click that echoed like a promise. Two of his men seized her before she could bolt, iron fingers biting into her upper arms, dragging her into the light. She kicked uselessly, sneakers scraping through the traitor’s blood, warm and sticky against her ankles.

They forced her down in front of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of expensive cologne over gunpowder. Dominic crouched, bringing them eye level. Up close, he was overwhelming, broad shoulders straining his suit, faint silver threading his dark hair, a thin scar slicing through one eyebrow. His presence pressed against her like heat from a furnace.

One gloved hand rose. Slowly. Deliberately. The leather was cool against her skin, sliding under her chin to tilt her face up. His thumb dragged across her lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the frantic rush of her breath against the smooth hide. A tremor ran through her, full-body, uncontrollable, and the strap of her dress slipped lower, baring the upper curve of her breast.

Dominic’s gaze followed the movement. His pupils dilated, black swallowing the irises. The muscle in his jaw flexed hard, as if he were biting down on something vicious.

“You’re shaking, little one,” he murmured, voice low and rough, the kind of sound that slid straight between her thighs.

She couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

His thumb pressed harder, dipping just inside her mouth, grazing her teeth, the tip of her tongue. A single, deliberate invasion. When he withdrew, her lip was wet, glistening. He stared at it like he wanted to taste it himself.

The glove lingered at her throat, not squeezing, just resting over the wild hammer of her pulse. Feeling it. Owning it.

“I should kill you,” he said quietly, almost conversational. “Quick. Clean. One more body on this floor.”

Her tears spilled then, hot against her cheeks, but she didn’t beg. Not yet.

He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath scalding. “But I find I don’t want your blood on my hands tonight.”

Straightening, he rose to his full height, adjusting the front of his coat with a subtle shift of his hips. The movement drew her eyes downward, and she saw it... the thick, unmistakable ridge straining against the fine wool. He let her see. Let her know exactly what the sight of her fear soaked innocence was doing to him.

He hated it. She could see that, too, the self-disgust flickering behind the hunger.

Dominic turned to his men. “Blindfold her. Drive her home. She speaks of this to anyone, I mean anyone, and I’ll come for her myself.”

Rough fabric covered her eyes. Hands bundled her into the back of an SUV, the leather seats cold against her bare thighs. The drive was silent except for her ragged breathing and the low growl of the engine.

When they finally shoved her out onto her apartment steps and peeled away, she ripped off the blindfold with shaking fingers. The street was empty. Normal. As if nothing had happened.

Inside her cramped living room, she locked the door, slid down the wall, and pressed her thighs together against the treacherous ache that had no business being there.

Across the city, Dominic stood under the icy spray of his shower, water sluicing over scarred muscle, trying to wash away the feel of her lip under his thumb. The taste of her fear on the leather glove he still hadn’t removed.

His cock was iron-hard, throbbing with every heartbeat. He braced one arm against the tile, head bowed, letting the cold punish him.

He should have killed her.

Instead, he’d just chained himself to her.

And the chain was already cutting into his skin.