Page 12 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

I check my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed. As expected, Dante hasn't messaged me about escorting Caterina back to her room. She made the obvious choice. She's stubborn, not stupid.

The sound of approaching footsteps confirms my assessment. I remain seated in the armchair by the window, a book open in my lap though I haven't read a word. Appearances matter. Control matters. She needs to understand who sets the terms in this arrangement.

The bedroom door opens without a knock. Caterina stands in the threshold, chin high, eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

Her hair is slightly disheveled, as if she's been running her hands through it.

The rumpled clothes she's been wearing all day hang on her frame, somehow still managing to highlight her curves despite their wrinkled state.

Beautiful, even in defiance. Perhaps especially in defiance.

"So this is your next move?" she says, voice dripping with disdain as she surveys my bedroom. "Forced cohabitation?"

I close my book and set it aside. "You made a choice."

"Between two terrible options you forced on me." She remains in the doorway, as if crossing the threshold would constitute a surrender.

"Life is full of difficult choices." I stand, gesturing to the bathroom door. "You'll shower before bed."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"

"You've been in those clothes for over twenty-four hours." I keep my tone matter-of-fact. "Shower, then bed."

"I'm not your child. Don't tell me when to bathe."

I meet her gaze steadily, saying nothing. Silence is often more effective than words. The minutes stretch between us, a battle of wills.

Finally, she throws up her hands. "Fine. Whatever. Where are my things?"

"You'll find everything you need in the bathroom."

"I want my own clothes."

"What you want is irrelevant." I move toward my closet, deliberately turning my back on her. "What you need is provided."

I hear her sharp intake of breath, the muttered curse that follows. Then footsteps crossing the room, the bathroom door opening and closing with unnecessary force. Small victories. Let her slam doors if it makes her feel better. The outcome remains the same.

Water runs. More curses, muffled by the door and the sound of the shower. I smile slightly, imagining her frustration at finding the bathroom stocked with my preferred products rather than her own. Another reminder that she's in my world now, playing by my rules.

I finish reviewing security reports on my tablet while I wait, keeping one ear attuned to the sounds from the bathroom. The water stops. Drawers open and close. More muttered profanity. Then silence that stretches long enough to pique my interest.

When the door finally opens, I look up to find Caterina wrapped in a towel, her hair piled atop her head in another towel.

Water droplets cling to her bare shoulders, tracing paths down to disappear beneath the white terry cloth.

Her skin is flushed from the hot water, giving her a glow that makes my mouth go dry.

"There's no nightgown," she announces, clearly expecting me to fix this oversight.

I set my tablet aside. "On the bed."

Her eyes follow my gesture to where a silk nightgown lies spread across the covers—black, elegant, expensive. I had Antonia purchase it after texting Dante about the new arrangements.

"I'm not wearing that."

"Then you'll sleep naked." I keep my expression neutral. "Your choice."

She stares at me, incredulous. "Do you get off on forcing people into impossible situations?"

"There's nothing impossible about putting on sleepwear and you'll find out soon enough what gets me off."

Her eyes go wide. "That's not sleepwear. That's lingerie."

I stand, approaching her with measured steps. "That distinction matters to you because...?"

"Because I know what you're doing." She clutches the towel tighter. "This is about humiliation. Control."

"This is about establishing our new reality." I stop within arm's reach, close enough to smell the scent of my soap on her skin. "You are to be my wife. The Donna to my Don. There are expectations that come with the role."

"Like being your personal dress-up doll?"

"Like recognizing where the boundaries of your rebellion lie." I reach past her, my arm brushing hers as I take the nightgown from the bed. The contact makes her stiffen, but she doesn't step away. "This can be easy or difficult, bambola . That's entirely up to you."

I hold the nightgown out to her, the silk shimmering in the low light. Her eyes flick from the garment to my face and back again. Calculation, defiance, resignation—emotions cross her features in rapid succession.

"Turn around," she finally says.

"No."

The single word hangs between us like a gauntlet thrown. Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow.

"I am not changing in front of you."

"Then don't change at all." I don't lower the nightgown. "But understand the consequences of that choice."

Something shifts in her expression—not surrender, but a tactical retreat. She snatches the nightgown from my hand.

"You're a bastard."

"So I've been told." I turn and walk to my closet, giving her the privacy she demands, though not because she demanded it. Because it suits me to do so. She needs to understand the difference.

I take my time selecting what I'll wear, listening to the soft sounds of fabric rustling, the muted thud of dropped towels.

When I emerge, she's wearing the nightgown, arms crossed over her chest as if to hide how the silk clings to her curves.

The effect is the opposite of what she intends—the defensive posture only emphasizes her vulnerability, her femininity.

"Get in bed," I instruct, moving toward the bathroom.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

I pause, looking back at her with a raised eyebrow. "Will you?"

"Yes." Her chin lifts in that now-familiar gesture of defiance.

"Then you will be uncomfortable, and I will sleep well. Your choice, as always." I close the bathroom door behind me, cutting off whatever retort she was preparing.

The shower helps clear my head, washing away the unexpected heat that seeing her in that nightgown generated.

Control. Distance. These are the principles that have guided me for years.

Caterina Gallo will not change that, no matter how she looks standing barefoot in my bedroom, wrapped in silk I provided.

I dry off efficiently, pulling on the black silk boxers I sleep in. No need to dress differently than usual—this is my domain, my routine. She's the intruder here, not me.

When I emerge, the bedroom is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp on my side. Caterina stands by the window, looking out at the city below, her silhouette outlined by the nighttime skyline. She doesn't turn at my approach.

"It's late," I say. "Come to bed."

"I told you, I'm sleeping on the floor."

"And I'm telling you to get in the bed." I move to my side and pull back the covers. "Now."

She turns, arms still crossed. "Or what? You'll bend me over your desk again?"

The memory sends an unexpected surge of heat through me. "Don't tempt me."

Something flashes in her eyes—fear? Interest? Both? She looks away quickly. "I won't sleep beside you."

"Yes, you will." I keep my voice level, reasonable. "Because the alternative is spending another day alone in that room, without books, without television, without any contact whatsoever."

"You can't break me."

"I'm not trying to break you." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I'm trying to teach you where the boundaries are."

She scoffs. "And sharing your bed is a 'boundary'?"

"Get in the bed, Caterina." My patience wears thin. "It's nearly midnight."

"No."

The defiance is becoming tiresome. Time for a different approach. I walk around to her side of the bed, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. She holds her ground, though I see the subtle tensing of her body as I approach.

"Last chance," I warn.

"Or what?" she challenges.

I move quickly, backing her against the window. Her eyes widen, but she doesn't cry out or try to escape. Brave, even when cornered.

"Or I put you there myself." My voice drops lower. "And I assure you, you won't like the method."

For a moment, I think she'll continue fighting. Then her shoulders slump slightly—not in defeat, but in tactical retreat. She sidesteps me and moves to the bed, sliding under the covers with as much dignity as she can muster. She stays perched on the edge, as far from the center as possible.

I circle back to my side and join her, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight. She immediately tenses, every muscle rigid as if preparing to flee.

"I won't touch you," I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. "Not unless you give me reason to."

"How reassuring," she mutters, still facing away from me.

"It should be." I settle against my pillows. "Sleep, Caterina. Tomorrow will be a long day."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"Wedding preparations begin. The Commission expects results."

She sits up abruptly, turning to face me with fresh outrage. "You can't be serious."

"Entirely serious." I observe her carefully, noting the way the silk strap of her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder. "Three weeks until the ceremony. Arrangements must be made."

"I haven't agreed to any of this!"

"Your agreement isn't required."

"I won't do it." She scrambles to the edge of the bed as if to leave. "You can't force me to say vows."

My patience snaps. I move with the speed that has kept me alive in a world of predators, catching her before she can escape. In one fluid motion, I pin her beneath me, my weight carefully distributed to immobilize without harming.

"This is my domain," I say, voice deadly quiet. "My home. My bed. My rules. And I will not tolerate further disobedience."

Her eyes are wide, her breath coming in quick gasps that press her chest against mine with each inhale. The thin silk between us does nothing to mask the heat of her body, the racing of her heart.

"You will be my wife," I continue, holding her gaze. "You will play your role. And you will do so without these constant, pointless rebellions."

"Or what?" she whispers, the challenge in her voice undercut by its breathless quality.

"Or I'll give you something real to rebel against." I shift my hips deliberately, letting her feel the evidence of how this confrontation is affecting me physically. "Go to sleep, or I'll fuck you to sleep right here."

The crude language is calculated, designed to shock. Her pupils dilate, a flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her gown. Fear, yes—but not only fear. There's something else there, something that mirrors the heat building in my own blood.

For a moment, we remain locked together, breath mingling, bodies pressed tight in a parody of passion that feels dangerously close to the real thing. Then I roll off her in one smooth movement, turning onto my side away from her.

"Your choice," I say, voice deliberately dispassionate. "As always."

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of her rapid breathing gradually slowing. The mattress shifts as she settles back into place, keeping to her edge of the bed. I don't turn to look at her. Don't acknowledge the tension still crackling in the air between us.

Minutes pass. Her breathing eventually evens out, suggesting sleep or a convincing pretense of it. Only then do I allow myself to relax marginally, though sleep remains distant.

This arrangement is proving more complicated than anticipated. Having her in my space, in my bed, wearing silk I selected—it creates a dangerous intimacy I hadn't fully calculated. The way her body responded to mine, the flash of heat in her eyes that wasn't entirely fear...

These are variables I hadn't adequately factored into my equations. Dangerous variables.

But then, danger has always been my natural habitat. If desire becomes another weapon in this battle between us, so be it. I've never lost a war yet.

And I don't intend to start with Caterina Gallo.