Page 19 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

Dinner passes in tense silence. Vito eats with his usual precision, cutting each piece of food to the exact same size, chewing a specific number of times before swallowing. I push mine around the plate, my appetite gone after his cryptic comment about my texting.

He knows I used Elena's phone. How? Did he have someone watching us in the restaurant? Does he have some way of tracking my movements I don't know about? Are their cameras in my actual bedroom? The uncertainty is maddening.

Even more unsettling is that he hasn't mentioned it again. No accusations, no interrogation, no punishment—yet. Just this suffocating silence and the promise of "consequences" hanging over me like a guillotine blade.

When he finally speaks, it's about nothing important. "The wedding planner will be here tomorrow afternoon. She'll need your input on several details."

I set down my fork. "I thought you were handling all the arrangements."

"The Commission expects certain traditions to be observed. Your participation is required." He takes a sip of wine. "Three o'clock. Dante will bring you to my office."

"Understood." I find myself slipping into his pattern of terse responses, as if normal conversation has become impossible between us.

After dinner, he retreats to his study while I return to my old bedroom to deal with the mountain of purchases. Despite my earlier defiance, I find myself regretting some of the more outrageous selections. The feathered sunglasses are particularly ridiculous. What was I thinking?

Sorting through the items, I separate them into three piles: things I actually like, things I bought purely to annoy Vito, and things too hideous to ever wear. The first pile is embarrassingly small.

As I hang the salvageable pieces in the closet, my mind drifts to Liam and the message I sent. I've heard nothing back, which could mean anything. Maybe he didn't believe me. Maybe he's planning his next move. Maybe Vito has already intercepted the phone and blocked any incoming messages.

My history with Liam Costello is complicated, to say the least.

I met Liam Costello during my sophomore year at NYU through his younger brother Finn, who was in my Business Ethics class.

As the sheltered daughter of Tomasso Gallo, I wasn't supposed to socialize much outside the carefully vetted circle my father approved, but college gave me a small taste of freedom—even with my father's men watching from a distance.

Finn was easy to get along with—funny, smart, and refreshingly unimpressed by my family name. What I didn't expect was his older brother Liam showing up to "coincidentally" pick him up after our study sessions.

From the first time I saw him, with his piercing blue eyes and that confident swagger that screamed danger, I knew he was trouble. While Finn was still boyish at twenty, Liam was all man—nearly thirty, with broad shoulders and a presence that commanded attention when he entered a room.

"So you're the famous Caterina Gallo," he said the first time we met, his voice carrying that distinctive Irish lilt. "My brother talks about you all the time."

I remember the way he looked at me—like I was some rare treasure he'd discovered. It was unsettling and flattering all at once.

"Nothing too embarrassing, I hope," I replied, keeping my tone neutral despite my racing heart.

"Only good things." His smile never reached his eyes. "Though he failed to mention how beautiful you are."

I'd been hit on plenty before, but something about Liam's attention felt different. More intense. More... proprietary.

"We should grab dinner sometime," he suggested casually. "I know a great place in the Village."

"I don't think that's a good idea," I said, well aware of who he was—Mickey Costello's son and heir to the Irish mob. My father would have a stroke if he knew I was even speaking to him.

"Because of who I am? Or who your father is?" His directness surprised me.

"Both."

He just smiled, undeterred. "Think about it. What the old men don't know won't hurt them."

That became our routine. Liam would find excuses to be wherever I was—picking up Finn, dropping off something Finn forgot, just "happening" to be at the same coffee shop.

Each time, he'd ask me out. Each time, I'd refuse.

I didn't understand his obsession with me.

There were plenty of beautiful girls in New York who weren't the daughters of his family's enemies.

But Liam was persistent in a way that walked the line between flattering and frightening.

Notes would appear in my textbooks. Coffee would be waiting for me at my usual table in the library, prepared exactly how I liked it.

Little gestures that were easy to dismiss publicly but harder to ignore privately.

For nearly two years, I maintained my distance, even as I became increasingly curious about this man who seemed so determined to win me over.

We weren't friends—couldn't be, given our families—but there was something between us.

A recognition, perhaps, of the similar cages we occupied, gilded though they might be.

Then, everything changed. My father's behavior grew increasingly erratic, his treatment of my mother worsening from verbal abuse to physical. When I confronted him, he turned his rage on me, threatening to pull me from school just months before graduation.

"Your place is at home," he'd snarled. "Learning to be a proper wife, not filling your head with nonsense about independence."

The next day, I returned to campus with a bruise blooming on my wrist where he'd grabbed me. I was careful to wear long sleeves, but Liam—who always seemed to be watching me—noticed immediately when he saw me at the campus coffee shop.

He sat down across from me without asking, his usual charm replaced by cold fury. "Who did that to you?" He nodded toward my wrist where the sleeve had ridden up.

"No one." I quickly pulled the fabric down. "It's nothing."

"Caterina." His voice softened in a way I'd never heard before. "Let me help you."

I laughed bitterly. "How could you possibly help me?"

"You'd be surprised what I can do." His eyes held mine, and for the first time, I saw past the charming facade to the dangerous man beneath—a man not so different from those in my world.

"My father?—"

"I know about men like your father," he interrupted. "My mother had bruises too, once."

"Had?"

"Had." His meaning was clear. "You see, I can help keep you safe. Just like I did for her."

Something about his quiet certainty broke through my defenses.

We started meeting secretly after that—nothing romantic, though I sensed he still wanted more.

Just conversations, strategies, tentative plans.

I didn't love him—wasn't sure I even liked him—but his obsession with me now seemed like it could be useful.

Graduation approached, and with it, my father's insistence that I return home permanently, take my "rightful place" in the family.

The night he announced he'd arranged a marriage for me with Carlo Bianchi—a Commission member three decades my senior with a reputation for breaking his wives—I knew I had to act.

Better to marry someone who was obsessed with me than face a lifetime with Bianchi while my father continued to terrorize my mother and sister.

I called Liam from a burner phone. "Remember when you said you could help me? I'm ready."

His response was immediate. "Name it."

"My father. I want him gone." The words felt both terrible and liberating. "In exchange, I'll marry you. An alliance between our families, protection for my mother and sister."

The silence stretched for several heartbeats before he answered. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

I wasn't. Not really. But what choice did I have? "I've never been more certain of anything."

"Then consider it done." His voice held no emotion, just cool professionalism. "Give me two weeks to arrange things. After that, you'll be free."

But fate—or Vito Rosso—had other plans. Before Liam could make his move, my father made the fatal mistake of plotting against the most dangerous man in New York.

Now I find myself engaged to the very man who unwittingly disrupted my own murderous plans.

I finish organizing the clothes, my thoughts still tangled in the past. The irony isn't lost on me—I escaped one forced marriage only to end up in another. At least Vito isn't three decades older, though that's cold comfort given everything else.

Exhaustion settles over me as I get ready for bed. Despite having my old room back for organizing the clothes, I know I'm still expected to sleep in Vito's room—in his bed. The thought makes my stomach knot with a complicated mix of dread and something else I refuse to name.

When I enter his bedroom, Vito is already there, reading a book in bed, shirtless as always. He glances up briefly before returning to his page. "Did you find suitable places for everything?"

"Yes." I move to the bathroom, changing quickly into the silk nightgown he provided. It feels like surrender, wearing what he's chosen, but tonight I don't have the energy to fight that particular battle.

The bed feels enormous yet too small as I slide under the covers, keeping to my edge as always. Vito sets his book aside and turns out the light without another word.

His breathing evens out quickly, suggesting he's either asleep or very good at faking it. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. What does he know about the text? What consequences is he planning? And most pressingly, how can I contact Elena again?

I need to know if Liam responded. I need to understand what the Irish are planning.

If they're moving against Vito, I should know—both for my own safety and to.

.. what? Warn Vito? Let it happen? The thought of him being killed should bring me nothing but satisfaction after what he's done, yet something uncomfortable twists in my chest at the idea.