Page 21 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

A sudden movement beside me tears me from sleep. I blink in the darkness, disoriented for a moment until I remember where I am—Vito's bed, Vito's room, Vito's life that's slowly consuming mine.

Another jerk, more violent this time. I turn my head to see Vito's silhouette thrashing against the sheets, his breathing harsh and irregular.

Moonlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting his face in silver and shadow.

His expression—usually so composed, so controlled—is twisted in what can only be described as anguish.

A nightmare. The great Don Vittore Rosso has nightmares.

I lie perfectly still, watching him struggle against whatever demons haunt his dreams. This should please me, shouldn't it? To see him vulnerable, suffering. To know that beneath the cold, calculating exterior is a man capable of fear.

His arm flails out, nearly striking me before I shift away.

I should leave the bed, maybe go sleep in my old room for the night.

This isn't my problem. After everything he's done—killing my father, forcing me into this engagement, controlling my every move—why should I care if he can't sleep peacefully?

And yet, I don't move.

"No," he mutters, the word strangled and desperate. "Don't. Please."

Please? I've never heard that word from Vito's lips before. Not genuinely.

He thrashes again, his body rigid with tension.

The sheet has slipped down to his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and the scars I've pretended not to notice—a jagged line across his right shoulder, a circular mark near his collarbone that can only be a bullet wound, smaller marks scattered like a constellation of past violence across his skin.

It would be so easy to kill him now. The thought comes unbidden, startling in its clarity.

He's trapped in his nightmare, unaware of his surroundings.

There must be a weapon somewhere in this room—a gun in the nightstand, perhaps, or something heavier I could use to strike his head.

One moment of decisive action and it would be over.

Vito Rosso, the terror of New York, the man who murdered my father and upended my life, gone by my hand.

But I know what would happen next. His men would find me here, covered in his blood. My life would be forfeit. My mother and sister would pay the price for my rebellion. And without Vito's protection, who knows what would become of them in the chaos that would follow?

No, far better to let the Irish handle it. Cleaner. Safer for everyone I care about. Just a few more days, according to Elena, and this will all be over one way or another.

"Father!" Vito cries out, his voice raw with an emotion I can't quite identify. Pain? Fear? Grief? "Stop, please. I'll do better."

The words send an unexpected chill through me. I know that plea, have uttered similar ones myself in moments I try to forget. The desperate bargaining of a child trying to appease an angry parent. Was Vito once that child?

He twists violently, sheets tangling around his legs as he fights an enemy only he can see. A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin gleam in the moonlight, his face contorted in a grimace that speaks of old pain, deep and unhealed.

This powerful, frightening man who commands respect with a single glance, who orders deaths as casually as others order coffee, is trapped in a nightmare where he seems helpless, young, afraid. The realization is jarring, forcing me to see him differently than I have before.

Not just the Don. Not just my captor. A man with a past, with scars both visible and hidden, with fears that chase him into the dark.

"No more," he murmurs, his voice choked. "Please... no more."

Something in his tone breaks through my detachment.

Before I can question the impulse, I reach out, my hand hovering over his shoulder.

I shouldn't touch him. He's made it clear how much he values personal space, how carefully he controls physical contact between us.

But the raw anguish in his voice overrides my caution.

"Vito," I say softly, my hand finally making contact with his skin. It's burning hot, almost feverish. "Wake up. You're dreaming."

He doesn't respond, still caught in whatever horror his mind has conjured. I tighten my grip slightly, giving him a gentle shake.

"Vito," I repeat, louder this time. "It's just a dream."

His reaction is explosive. One moment I'm leaning over him, the next I'm pinned beneath him, his hand at my throat, his eyes wild and unfocused. I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs, suddenly very aware of the strength in his body, the danger I've placed myself in.

"Vito," I manage, the word barely audible through his grip. "It's me. Caterina."

Recognition slowly dawns in his eyes. The pressure on my throat eases, though he doesn't release me completely. For long seconds, we stay like that—me beneath him, his body caging mine, both of us breathing hard in the silent room.

"Caterina," he finally says, my name a rasp in his throat.

"You were having a nightmare," I explain, keeping my voice steady despite the rapid beat of my pulse. "I tried to wake you."

He blinks, seeming to fully register our position. His hand slides from my throat, though he doesn't move away. "I could have hurt you."

There's something in his voice I've never heard before—regret? Concern? Whatever it is, it sounds genuine, another crack in the perfect facade he maintains.

"You didn't," I say simply.

His eyes search mine in the darkness, looking for what, I'm not sure. Fear? Judgment? I keep my expression neutral, aware of the strangeness of this moment—the intimacy of it, the sudden shifting of the dynamic between us.

"You should know better than to wake a man like me from a nightmare," he says, but there's no real admonishment in his tone.

"A man like you," I repeat quietly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

He doesn't answer, but I feel the slight tensing of his body above mine. He's still so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can smell the faint traces of his cologne mingled with the scent that is uniquely his.

"Everyone has nightmares," I continue when he remains silent. "Even great Dons, apparently."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at my lack of mockery. "Go back to sleep, Caterina."

He starts to move away, and without thinking, I reach up, my hand catching his arm. "Wait."

He goes still, looking down at where my fingers press against his skin. I'm as surprised by the gesture as he seems to be. Why am I stopping him? What am I doing?

"Do you..." I hesitate, uncertain why I'm even asking. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His expression shifts from surprise to something more guarded. "No."

Of course not. What was I expecting? That the great Vito Rosso would suddenly confide in me, share his deepest fears and traumas? I release his arm, embarrassed by my momentary lapse in judgment.

"Fine. Forget I asked."

He studies me for another long moment before finally shifting away, returning to his side of the bed. I expect him to turn his back to me, to rebuild the wall between us that momentarily crumbled. Instead, he remains facing me, his expression thoughtful in the dim light.

"Why did you try to wake me?" he asks. "You could have just moved to the other room."

It's a fair question, one I'm not sure I have an answer for. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." His voice is quiet but insistent. "Tell me."

I look away, uncomfortable with his scrutiny and my own confusing impulses. "You sounded... in pain. I just reacted."

"Compassion for your enemy?" There's a hint of bitterness in his tone. "That's dangerous, Caterina."

"Is that what you are? My enemy?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

"What else would I be?"

What else indeed? Not a friend, certainly. Not a lover, despite the physical attraction neither of us can fully deny. Not a true fiancé, despite the ring and the approaching wedding date. What is Vito Rosso to me?

"I don't know," I admit. "But right now, you just seem like a man with nightmares, same as anyone else."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight easing of the tension in his jaw. "We all have our demons."

"Even you?" I can't help pushing, curious despite myself.

"Especially me." He says it simply, without self-pity or dramatic effect. Just a statement of fact.

We lapse into silence, neither of us quite ready to retreat completely, caught in this strange moment of almost-connection.

I should turn away, put an end to whatever this is.

The Irish are coming for him. Days, not weeks.

I can't afford to start seeing him as human, as someone with pain and fears and a past that haunts him.

And yet, I find myself asking, "Does it happen often? The nightmares?"

He's quiet so long I think he won't answer. Then, "Often enough."

"What are they about?" I expect him to shut down the question immediately.

Instead, he surprises me again. "The past. Things I've done. Things done to me. The usual demons."

"Your father?" I venture, remembering his cries in the midst of the nightmare.

His eyes sharpen, a reminder that even in this moment of relative vulnerability, Vito Rosso is still dangerous. "You heard."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "You called out to him."

"My father was..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "a complicated man."

"Complicated." I can't keep the edge from my voice. "Is that what we're calling abusive these days?"

His expression hardens slightly. "You know nothing about my father."

"I know the sound of a child begging a parent to stop," I say quietly. "I've made that sound myself."

The admission hangs between us, another piece of myself revealed that I hadn't intended to share. Vito's gaze intensifies, studying me with that unsettling perception that makes me feel transparent.

"Your father," he says after a moment. "He hurt you too."

"You already know that."

"I know what he did to your mother. I suspected he was equally cruel to you, but you never confirmed it."

I look away, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Why would I tell you anything about my life?"

"Because I'm asking." His tone makes it clear this isn't a command, but a genuine request. "Because perhaps we understand each other better than either of us wants to admit."

The suggestion is disturbing in its plausibility. What does it say about me if the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement, is someone who might truly understand certain parts of me?

"My father was a monster in a designer suit," I finally say, the words bitter on my tongue. "He treated my mother like property, my sister like an afterthought, and me like a disappointment for being born female. Happy?"

"No." The simple response catches me off guard. "I'm not happy about any of it."

Something about his tone, the quiet sincerity of it, makes my eyes burn unexpectedly. I blink rapidly, determined not to show weakness.

"Was yours the same?" I ask, diverting attention from my momentary vulnerability. "A monster in a suit?"

Vito is silent for so long I think the conversation is over. Then, softly, "Worse. Mine was a monster who believed he was doing God's work. Making me stronger. Making me worthy of the Rosso name."

I've never heard him speak like this—reflective, almost introspective. It's a glimpse behind the mask he presents to the world, and despite everything, I find myself drawn in, curious about the man beneath the Don.

"Is that why you're so..." I gesture vaguely.

"So what?" he prompts.

"Controlled. Precise. Everything in its place."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very observant, Caterina."

"It's not hard to notice."

"And yet most people see only what I want them to see."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, his eyes holding mine with unexpected warmth. "You certainly are not."

We fall silent again, the air between us charged with something I can't quite name. Not just tension or the usual animosity, but something more complex—a reluctant recognition, perhaps. Two people shaped by similar pain, following different paths but carrying the same scars.

"We should sleep," Vito finally says, though he makes no move to turn away.

"We should," I agree, equally reluctant to break this strange, fragile moment.

Slowly, tentatively, he raises his hand. I tense, unsure of his intention, but he simply brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch whisper-light against my skin.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For waking me."

The simple gratitude, so at odds with his usual commanding demeanor, catches me off guard. I nod, not trusting my voice.

He turns away then, settling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. I do the same, both of us lying side by side, not touching but somehow less separate than before.

As his breathing gradually evens out, signaling his return to sleep, I find myself staring into the darkness, mind racing.

This glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity, has complicated everything.

It's easier to plan someone's destruction when you see them as a monster, as something other than human.

But tonight, I saw Vito Rosso the man, not just Vito Rosso the Don.

And that man, with his nightmares and scars and carefully hidden pain, is far harder to hate than I want him to be.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth settling in my chest. If the Irish are truly coming for him—if these are truly Vito's last days—why does the thought bring me less satisfaction than it should?

And if I'm starting to see him differently, to feel something other than hatred and fear, what does that make me?

A traitor to my father's memory? A fool being manipulated by a master at the game? Or simply a woman recognizing that the lines between villain and victim, captor and savior, are rarely as clear as we want them to be?

Sleep claims me eventually, but my dreams are troubled, filled with shadowy figures and difficult choices. And through it all, the persistent sensation of Vito's touch against my skin, gentle in a way I never thought him capable of being.