Page 14 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The windows of my downtown office provide a perfect view of the city I control. I stand with my back to Marco, watching rain streak the glass, distorting the Manhattan skyline. Today's weather matches my mood—dark, turbulent, and showing no signs of clearing.

"The Irish are getting bolder," Marco says from his position at the conference table, spreading photos across the polished surface. "Three of our distribution points hit in the last week. They're testing boundaries."

I turn, studying the images—bullet-riddled storefronts, bloodstained concrete, shell casings marked with evidence tags. "Liam Costello lacks his father's restraint."

"And his caution," Marco adds, his green eyes narrowing. "Old man Mickey would never have made moves this obvious."

"He's trying to provoke us." I pick up one of the photos—a wall spray-painted with a crude shamrock over our family crest. "I want to know why."

"Could be opportunistic. Your attention's been... divided lately." Marco's tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the implication.

I meet his gaze. "My engagement isn't affecting business."

His lips twitch. "I didn't mention your engagement."

I return to the window, silently conceding his point.

Caterina Gallo has been consuming more of my thoughts than I care to admit.

The enforced proximity, sleeping in the same bed, has only intensified whatever this pull is between us.

Last night was the fourth night she slept beside me, rigid as a corpse, her breathing giving away her wakefulness long after she pretended to sleep.

"How is it going?" Marco asks, breaking into my thoughts. "The engagement."

"Fine."

He exhales a laugh. "That good, huh?"

I turn back to him, abandoning the pretense. "Not well. She's still fighting every step."

"You did kill her father in front of her," Marco points out.

"I also saved her from him." The defense comes automatically, though I know it's not how she sees it. "Tomasso Gallo was selling girls Sofia's age. His own daughter could have been next."

"You think she knows that?"

"I told her." I straighten a cufflink. "Whether she believes me is another matter."

Marco leans back in his chair, studying me with eyes that see too much. He's one of the few people in my orbit who knew me before I became Don—before I had to become what the family needed.

"Permission to speak freely?" he asks.

"When do you not?"

His smile is brief. "The Commission wants this marriage to create stability, but keeping her locked up like a prisoner isn't going to achieve that. The Irish are already using it as propaganda—saying you had to kidnap a bride because no woman would willingly align with you."

My jaw tightens. "I don't care what they say."

"Maybe you should. This isn't just about you and her anymore. It's becoming a test of your leadership."

I move to the table, flipping through the surveillance reports. "What do you suggest? That I just let her go?"

"No. But maybe give her a bit more freedom." He shrugs. "Some space to breathe. Take her out. Let people see you together. Make it look more... willing."

"She'll try to escape."

"Then make sure she doesn't want to." He leans forward. "Look, you've already given her the phone, right? That was smart. A gesture. Keep going with that. Show her there are benefits to cooperation. Maybe she'll be too content to give you attitude."

I scoff. "You don't know Caterina."

"True." Marco grins. "But I know women. And I know captivity breeds resentment, not loyalty."

I consider his words, turning the logic over in my mind. There's sense in what he says. The Commission expects to see progress toward a stable alliance. Keeping Caterina under lock and key indefinitely isn't sustainable—not if I want her to eventually play the role of Donna with any conviction.

"Fine," I concede. "I'll give her more freedom. Supervised."

"Good." He nods, satisfied. "You might even discover she's not as difficult as you think when she's not fighting against a cage."

"I doubt that." But there's less conviction in my voice than I intended.

"Either way, the optics will be better." Marco gathers the photos, placing them back in a folder. "And right now, perception matters. The families are watching how you handle this. So are our enemies."

"Speaking of enemies," I redirect the conversation to more comfortable territory, "what's the latest on our missing shipment?"

Marco's expression shifts to business mode. "Rafa thinks he's traced it. Some of the guys picked up chatter about a warehouse outside the city, near Nyack. Isolated. Heavy security for a location that's supposedly abandoned."

"Irish?"

"Can't confirm yet. Could be them, could be the Russians, could be our leak selling to a third party." Marco hands me a satellite image of a nondescript industrial building surrounded by scrubby trees. "Dante's running surveillance, should have confirmation by tomorrow."

I study the image, committing the layout to memory. "If it's ours, I want it back. And I want whoever took it made an example of."

"Understood." Marco hesitates, then adds, "If it is the Irish... this could be the start of something bigger."

"It already is." I place the image back in the folder. "This isn't just about a shipment. Costello is testing me—seeing how I'll respond, looking for weakness."

"And how will you respond?"

I meet his gaze steadily. "Decisively."

Marco nods, understanding the implications.

We've both seen what happens when signs of weakness are allowed to fester in our world.

My father taught me that lesson early—strength isn't just about who has the most guns or the most men.

It's about who's willing to do what's necessary without hesitation.

"Before you go nuclear," Marco says carefully, "consider the timing. With the wedding approaching, a major conflict with the Irish could destabilize everything."

"I'm aware of the calendar." I move to my desk, running a finger along its pristine edge. "If they've taken what's mine, there will be consequences. Proportional, but unmistakable."

"Like your approach with Caterina?" The question is a calculated risk on his part. Few would dare draw that parallel.

I look up sharply. "Explain."

He doesn't flinch under my scrutiny. "Proportional consequences. Clear boundaries. But maybe what works for business doesn't work for... personal matters."

"This marriage is business," I remind him.

"Is it?" His expression remains neutral, but the question hangs between us.

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Dante. I answer immediately.

"Confirm location," I say without preamble.

"It's ours," Dante replies, voice low. "Spotted two of the crates through a window. Security is heavier than we thought—at least fifteen armed men."

"Irish?"

"Confirmed. Recognized Costello's lieutenant, Ryan Sullivan."

Marco watches my expression, reading the confirmation there. "Tell Rocco to prepare a team," I instruct him. "Recovery operation. Tonight."

He nods, already on his phone as he steps out of the office to make arrangements.

"Continue surveillance," I tell Dante. "No engagement. Move after dark."

"Understood, boss."

I end the call, my mind already shifting to tactical considerations. The Irish have made their move, crossing a line they can't uncross. Now I need to respond in a way that sends the right message—not just to Costello, but to everyone watching from the shadows.

But Marco's words linger. The comparison between my handling of Caterina and my business operations wasn't entirely off-target. I've been treating her like an asset to be secured, a problem to be managed. Perhaps that approach is flawed.

I check my watch. Nearly five. I should be home for dinner—the routine I've established over the past few days. Caterina will be waiting, beautiful and defiant as always, ready to engage in our nightly battle of wills across the dining table.

Tonight, though, I'll try something different. A gesture, as Marco suggested. A shift from jailer to... something else. What, exactly, remains to be seen.

I make a call to Antonia, giving specific instructions for dinner. Then I contact my tailor with a rush order. Finally, I send a text to Dante about adjusted security protocols for the penthouse.

The rain has stopped by the time I leave the office, the sky clearing to reveal hints of approaching evening.

As I slide into the back of my car, I find myself oddly anticipating Caterina's reaction to what I have planned.

Will it soften her resistance, as Marco suggests?

Or will it simply give her new ammunition to use against me?

Either way, something is shifting between us—something I didn't authorize but find myself unable to prevent. The captive and captor dynamic is evolving into something more complex, more dangerous.

And tonight marks the beginning of that transformation.

The car moves smoothly through Manhattan traffic, carrying me toward home—and toward Caterina. My mind should be on the impending operation to recover our stolen shipment, on the message we'll send to the Irish, on the dozen other business concerns demanding my attention.

Instead, I find myself wondering what color her eyes will be in candlelight, and whether I'll glimpse something beyond hatred in them tonight.

I've given her a phone, a connection to her family. Now I'll give her a taste of freedom. Not because I'm weak, but because Marco is right—this isn't just about controlling her anymore. It's about creating something sustainable.

Something that might, eventually, resemble a real marriage.

The thought should disturb me more than it does.