Page 1 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Caterina Gallo

Family dinner isn't about family. Not in my world.

I shift in my seat at my father's favorite restaurant, watching him hold court.

Tonight's guests include three retired members of the Italian Mafia who once served Don Giuseppe: Luigi "The Ghost" Romano, Vince "The Widowmaker" Caruso, and Roberto "The Viper" Morandi.

Retired, my ass. No one leaves the mafia breathing.

And then there's my father's whore.

"Caterina, you are becoming such a lovely young woman," Martina says, her smile too bright, too practiced.

I meet her eyes. "Sure."

"Caterina, don't be rude to your aunt," my father warns, his voice carrying that edge I know too well.

"Please, she isn't my fucking aunt." The words escape before I can filter them.

"Watch your mouth." His eyes narrow dangerously as Martina places her manicured hand over his, a gesture of possession as much as comfort. Of course she's seated on his right side.

"It's alright, Tomasso," she coos. "She's probably having a bad day. You know these things happen with young people."

"You are right," my father agrees, his attention shifting to my mother. "Olga, you need to discipline your daughter."

My mother shrinks beneath his gaze. I feel my jaw tighten.

"Leave my mother out of this."

"I will, Tomasso," my mother promises quickly, her voice barely audible. "Mia figlia, please apologize to your Zia Martina."

I swallow the acid rising in my throat. "I'm sorry if I was rude, Martina." I push my chair back. "Now, excuse me, I need to use the bathroom."

I don't wait for permission.

Walking through the restaurant, I imagine burning the whole place down.

This is where I perform the perfect daughter routine happens.

Where I pretend we're a normal family. Where my father pretends he isn't a piece of shit who clings to Don Giuseppe's memory for status.

My father claims he saved Giuseppe when they were kids.

But that's my father—always an angle. Always taking, never giving. Especially from his family.

I check my phone discreetly as I walk, disappointed to find no new messages.

It's been three days since I heard anything from my contact across the river in Queens.

The waiting is killing me. I'd been promised action by this weekend, a solution to my family's problems that would end my father's reign of terror once and for all.

Maybe Liam got cold feet. Or maybe someone found out. Either way, I'm running out of time.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and continue toward the bathroom, still hoping the Irish will come through before it's too late.

I hear voices around the corner and freeze.

"Do you think Vito suspects?" It's Vince.

"Not yet. But it won't be much longer," Roberto answers.

I press myself against the wall, heart hammering. They don't know I'm here.

"Tomasso has been careful, so we have nothing to worry about," Vince says.

"I'm still not sure about Carlo. He is still a gamble."

"He's the only person on The Commission high enough to give us intel."

"I know, I just don't like it."

"Well, Tomasso said that Martina is working her magic."

"You mean fucking him." Both men laugh.

My stomach turns. Of course. My father's mistress is just another tool in whatever game he's playing.

"What about the Irish?" Vince asks, his voice dropping even lower. "Tomasso's been edgy about them pushing into our territory."

"He's not worried. Says they're too disorganized without old man Mickey calling the shots." Roberto scoffs. "His son's a hothead with more balls than brains."

I feel a chill run through me. Liam Costello isn't as clueless as they think. And he certainly isn't disorganized. Not when it comes to our arrangement.

"Miss," a voice says behind me. Shit.

I turn to the waitress, forcing my face to look innocent. "Yeah?"

"Your father asked me to bring you back to the table."

"Of course he did. My father gets what he wants." The bitterness slips out before I can catch it.

"Excuse me?" The waitress blinks, confused.

"Forget it." I move past her without looking at Vince or Roberto, praying they didn't see me.

As I approach our table, my father's booming laugh grates against my nerves.

I slide back into my seat next to my little sister.

Sofia, sixteen now but still possessing that careful wariness that comes from living in our house.

Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and though she's grown taller this past year, she still has a tendency to make herself small around our father.

"Are you okay?" Sofia asks, her voice quiet but steady—she's learned to read the room as well as I have.

"I'm fine. Try and eat something," I tell her, noticing her untouched plate.

"I'm not hungry," she protests, her jaw set with the stubborn streak that's been getting stronger lately.

"Just a little. Dad will be upset if you don't eat."

She nods and reluctantly picks up her fork, the gesture more mature than it would have been even a year ago.

Today had been brutal at home. My father was on one of his rampages about my mother not giving him a son.

The screaming, the names—useless, fat, worthless.

My mother thinks I don't see the bruises on her arms, but I see everything.

Things are escalating quickly. I don't know how much longer I can take this.

I glance at my watch, wondering if Liam has made his move yet.

He promised it would be quick, clean. Said we would be free before the month was out.

Just one more week, he'd told me when we last met in that little coffee shop across from St. Patrick's.

I'd offered him everything I had—my future, my body, my loyalty to his family instead of mine—in exchange for my mother and sister's safety. A fair trade. If only he would hurry.

The dinner drags on. War stories. The good old days with Don Giuseppe. I tune them out, focusing instead on counting the minutes until we can leave—not that we can go until my father allows it. Control freak doesn't even begin to cover it.

An hour passes before something in the air changes. A prickle at the back of my neck. The sudden twist in my gut that says danger is coming.

The restaurant goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Like everyone's collectively holding their breath.

He walks in like death dressed in Armani.

The air changes—becomes electric, dangerous.

Don Vittore Rosso. The eldest son of Don Giuseppe.

I've never seen him in person, but the rumors don't do him justice.

Dark hair swept back from a face that belongs in a Renaissance painting of fallen angels—all sharp angles and cold intention.

His movements are fluid, predatory, every step calculated.

The restaurant parts for him like the sea before Moses.

I hate that I can't look away. Hate even more the strange flutter in my stomach as his gaze sweeps the room. Power radiates from him in waves—not the borrowed, desperate kind my father clings to, but something innate, something that's been bred into his bones for generations.

There's something mesmerizing about the way he commands space without saying a word.

His shoulders, broad beneath the tailored jacket, taper to a narrow waist. His hands—I notice them immediately—strong, with long fingers that look equally capable of violence or gentleness.

I swallow hard and force my expression to remain neutral.

The last thing I need is for anyone to see how he affects me.

My father stands too quickly, fear flashing across his face before he can mask it. I've never seen him afraid of anyone before.

"Don Vito, what brings you here tonight?" my father asks, his voice suddenly rough.

Vito doesn't answer immediately. His gaze sweeps over our table, lingering on each person before landing on me. The way he looks at me sends ice down my spine—like I'm the reason he's here. What would the Don of the Italian Mafia want with me?

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Liam? Now, of all times? My heart races, but I can't check. Not with Vito Rosso staring at me like he can see every secret I've ever kept.

"We weren't expecting company. Would you like to join us? Boy, bring another plate set," my father orders, desperation bleeding through his fake hospitality.

"I'm not here for dinner, Tommaso," Vito replies, his voice as cold as a morgue. "You didn't waste time, Vince, Luigi, and Roberto."

"Don, we are just breaking bread. You know how it is," Vince says quickly.

"Exactly," Luigi adds, but the tension keeps building.

"Hmm, I'm sure that is the case," Vito says, mockery dripping from every word. "Tomasso, do you bring friends to family dinner now?"

"We are all family here. Aren't we guys?" my father responds, his smile strained.

"I'm sure you all are. Let me ask you, who do you love the most, Tomasso? Is it your wife? Your daughters? Your mistress?"

"I love my family equally. Why don't you sit and join us for dinner," my father suggests, scrambling for control he no longer has.

Vito snaps his fingers, and suddenly we're surrounded by men built like concrete walls.

Vito leans forward, and I catch his scent—expensive cologne with notes of sandalwood and something darker underneath.

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he speaks, the only indication of the rage I sense simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

The restaurant lights cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting the dangerous elegance of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips that contrast with the cruelty in his eyes.

"Choose, or they all die," Vito states flatly.

I find myself studying the way his throat moves when he speaks, the subtle shift of his shoulders under his jacket. Dangerous. He's dangerous, I remind myself, tearing my eyes away only to find them drawn back to him seconds later.

My father says nothing. The coward.

"Fine, I'll choose for you." Vito nods, and one of his men moves toward Sofia.

"Take me," I say, standing before I can think better of it.

Vito's eyes lock with mine. "Brave or stupid. I can't quite decide." His lips curve slightly. "Sit," he orders.

"Vito, we are family here. There is no need for anyone to get hurt," my father pleads.

"That is Don Vito to you. You're a rat, Tomasso. Did you think I wouldn't learn what you've been up to?" Vito's voice turns to gravel.

"What are you talking about, son?" My father's pathetic attempt at familiarity makes me cringe.

Vito's laugh is devoid of humor. "I'm not your son."

"I've known you—" my father begins.

"My father trusted you, but I know better."

He pulls the gun from its holster, holding it almost lazily, like it's just an extension of him now.

My mother's eyes go wide. "Please put that gun away, Don Vittore," she begs, but Vito isn't looking at her. His eyes are trained on my father.

"You thought you could kill me and take over. You were wrong, Tommaso," Vito says, his voice emotionless.

The gunshot is deafening. My ears ring as everything blurs around me. More shots follow. My heart stops, thinking we're all dead, until I hear my mother's scream. Then Sofia's. I can't move, frozen in my chair.

"Take them," Vito orders, his voice so cold it could've frozen the air around us.

I look around. Everyone at the table is dead except my mother, Sofia, and me.

I stand up so fast I nearly topple over.

My phone vibrates again in my pocket, and in that moment, I realize with sickening clarity that I've made a terrible mistake.

Liam is too late. And now I'm caught in a web far more dangerous than I could have imagined, tied to two deadly men with no way out.

"What do you want with us?" I demand, my voice betraying my fear despite my attempt to sound brave.

Vito steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Caterina—" he starts, then pauses. "Time to go home," he continues.

Sofia backs away, her face pale but her chin raised defiantly—a flash of the fire that's been growing in her as she's gotten older.

When one of Vito's men reaches for her, she doesn't cower like she would have at twelve.

Instead, she slaps his hand away and steps protectively in front of our mother.

"Don't touch her," she snaps, her voice carrying more steel than I've ever heard from her.

My mother tries to pull Sofia behind her, but my sister stands her ground, glaring at the soldier with a fearlessness that's both admirable and terrifying.

A man grabs me from behind. I fight back, adrenaline surging through me, but Vito closes the distance between us. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His dark chocolate eyes are penetrating, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, bambola," his voice drops to a low, seductive rumble.

But I'm not stupid.

He doesn't want me for any good reason.

He's here to ruin everything.

And worse—he's stolen the revenge I'd planned, the freedom I'd bargained away my future to secure. The Irish will never understand why I disappeared, why I couldn't keep my end of the deal. All they'll see is betrayal.

Between Vito and Liam, I don't know which devil is more dangerous.