Page 11 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

Time becomes elastic in captivity. Hours stretch like taffy, minutes drag into eternity, and yet somehow it's already noon and I've accomplished nothing except pacing the perimeter of my luxurious prison cell approximately fifty-seven times.

I press my ear against the door for the hundredth time today, straining to hear any movement in the hallway beyond. Nothing. The penthouse might as well be empty for all the signs of life I've detected.

A knock startles me back from the door. I compose myself quickly, not wanting to appear as desperate as I feel.

"Yes?" I call, aiming for bored indifference.

The door opens to reveal Antonia, Vito's housekeeper, carrying a tray with what appears to be lunch. She's an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that reveal nothing.

"Your lunch, Miss," she says, her accent thick but her English clear.

"Thank you, Antonia." I try for friendly, hungry for human interaction after hours of isolation. "How are you today?"

She places the tray on the desk by the window and turns to leave without responding.

"Wait!" I step toward her. "Please, can you tell me how long this is supposed to last? Has Vito said anything?"

Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment, then away. There's something there—pity, perhaps—but her expression remains professionally blank.

"I'm not permitted to speak with you beyond necessities, Miss." She moves back to the door.

"That's ridiculous." Frustration bubbles up. "I'm not contagious. I just shredded some papers."

"Don Vittore's orders are clear." She pauses at the threshold. "Enjoy your lunch."

The door closes with a soft click, followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock. Not just confined to my room—actually locked in. My punishment feels increasingly disproportionate to my crime.

I examine the lunch tray: some kind of pasta with a light cream sauce, a small salad, crusty bread, and sparkling water. Despite my annoyance, my stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday.

The food is delicious, of course. Everything in Vito's world is perfect, controlled, excellent. I eat mechanically, staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. So close to freedom, yet impossibly far.

After lunch, I try reading, but the words swim on the page.

I attempt meditation, but my thoughts skitter like panicked mice.

I even try napping, but every time I close my eyes, I feel the phantom pressure of Vito's hand on my back, the shocking contact on my backside, and my body's traitorous response.

Around two o'clock, I hear footsteps in the hallway—deliberate and measured. Vito. I recognize his gait by now, the confident stride of a man who owns everything he surveys.

I rush to the door, pressing against it. "Hey!" I call out. "How long do you plan to keep me locked up in here?"

The footsteps pause briefly, then continue past without response.

"This is childish, you know!" I yell louder. "What happened to 'you'll be my wife'? Is this how you treat family?"

Nothing. Not even a pause this time.

"Coward!" I slam my palm against the door, frustration boiling over.

Silence answers me, maddening in its completeness. I slide down to the floor, resting my forehead against the cool wood. The isolation is worse than the confinement—at least when Vito was punishing me, he was acknowledging my existence.

Hours crawl by. Antonia returns with a mid-afternoon snack that I ignore out of spite. She takes away my lunch tray without comment. More silence. More solitude. My mind begins to play tricks on me, fabricating sounds in the hallway, imagining conversations just beyond my hearing.

By the time evening approaches, I'm ready to apologize just to end the isolation, which is probably exactly what Vito wants. The thought stiffens my resolve. I won't give him the satisfaction. I'd rather rot in this gilded cage than submit.

Footsteps approach again around seven o'clock. I recognize Vito's stride, but this time I refuse to rush to the door or call out. Let him think I'm broken. Let him think I'm subdued. I curl up on the window seat with a book, forcing my expression into studied nonchalance.

The lock turns. The door opens. Vito fills the frame, impeccably dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. The casual elegance only heightens my awareness of my own rumpled appearance after a day of confinement.

"Oh, how nice of you to visit," I drawl without looking up from my book. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Dinner," he says simply, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

I turn a page I haven't read. "Not hungry."

"That wasn't a question." He remains in the doorway, immovable. "We're having dinner together."

Now I do look up, eyebrows raised. "Why would I want to have dinner with my jailer?"

"Because if you don't come to dinner," he says with infuriating calm, "you won't eat for the foreseeable future."

"That's inhumane."

"That's consequence." His eyes hold mine, implacable. "Your choice, Caterina."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, betraying my hunger despite the afternoon snack I'd ignored. I snap the book closed.

"Fine." I stand, smoothing my wrinkled clothes. "Lead the way to the gallows."

His lips twitch almost imperceptibly. "Dramatic as always."

"I try."

I follow him through the penthouse to the formal dining room, where the table is already set for two at one end. The lights are dimmed, candles flickering in silver holders. It looks almost... romantic. The thought sends a surge of panic through me.

"What is this?" I gesture to the elaborate setup.

"Dinner." Vito pulls out a chair for me with old-world courtesy.

I hesitate, then sit, if only because my legs suddenly feel wobbly. "You didn't need to go to all this trouble just to feed your prisoner."

"You're not a prisoner." He takes his seat at the head of the table. "You're my future wife."

"Same difference."

Antonia appears with the first course—some kind of delicate soup that smells divine. She serves us silently, her eyes downcast, then disappears back to the kitchen.

An oppressive silence descends. I spoon the soup into my mouth mechanically, too hungry to maintain my food strike but determined not to show enjoyment. Vito eats with precise movements, his attention seemingly focused entirely on his meal.

The main course arrives—perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, some sort of potato creation that would make a French chef weep with joy. Still, not a word passes between us.

The silence becomes a third presence at the table, growing more substantial with each passing minute. I find myself stealing glances at Vito, trying to read his expression, his intentions. His face remains impassive, giving away nothing.

By the time Antonia clears our plates and brings dessert—a sinfully dark chocolate tort—I'm ready to scream just to break the tension.

"Is this my punishment?" I finally burst out. "Death by silence?"

Vito takes a small bite of his dessert before answering. "Not everything is punishment, Caterina."

"Then what is this?"

"Dinner."

"With the world's worst conversationalist, apparently."

He sets down his fork with precise movements. "What would you like to discuss? Your further plans to destroy my property? Your ongoing resistance to an inevitable marriage? Or perhaps your father's criminal enterprise?"

The mention of my father stings. "None of the above."

"Then enjoy the silence and the excellent food." He returns to his dessert.

I push my plate away, appetite gone. "I'd rather starve than endure another minute of this farce."

"As you wish." He continues eating, unbothered by my declaration.

I sit in fuming silence until he finishes the last bite of his dessert. When he finally sets down his utensils, I expect to be dismissed back to my room. Instead, he fixes me with a steady gaze that sends a jolt of unease through me.

"There has been a change to your arrangements," he says, voice neutral.

"What arrangements?"

"Your sleeping arrangements." He dabs his mouth with a napkin, the picture of civility. "There is something laid out for you in my bedroom. You'll be joining me there tonight."

I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "You must be kidding me."

"I don't kid." His expression remains utterly serious.

"I'm not sleeping with you." I push back my chair, ready to flee.

"The choice is simple." He doesn't move, doesn't raise his voice, yet somehow fills the room with his authority. "You sleep next to me, like a proper Donna-to-be, or you spend the rest of your days by yourself in solitary confinement."

"That's not a choice. That's coercion."

"Call it what you will. My patience has reached its limit." He stands, straightening his cuffs. "Your rebellions have consequences, Caterina. This is one of them."

A scream builds in my throat, hot and desperate. Before I can unleash it, Vito turns and walks away from the table, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

"Dinner is over," he says over his shoulder. "You have fifteen minutes to decide. After that, Dante will escort you either to my bedroom or back to your solitary confinement. Choose wisely."

He disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with impossible options and a rage so pure it burns in my chest like a living thing.

Fifteen minutes to decide between sharing a bed with the man who murdered my father or losing what little human contact I still have. Between compromising my dignity or surrendering my sanity.

Some choice.

I press my hands flat against the table, fighting for control. Vito thinks he's won, thinks he's breaking me. Maybe he is. But if I'm going down, I won't go quietly.

If I have to sleep beside the devil, I'll make sure he doesn't get a moment's rest.