Page 22 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

"Come on, Vito. Don't you want your cousin to be able to defend herself?"

"Uncle would kill me if he knew we were having this conversation."

"But I'm not a kid anymore."

"You are."

I'm annoyed by her insistence. For the past year, she's begged me to teach her how to fight every time we meet. I've put it off, but she's right. Had she been my sister, I would have already taught her how to throw a decent punch. But she's my Uncle's little princess, and I am my father's weapon.

"Please, I promise not to tell anyone." I hesitate. She's ten, and I'm twelve. If she gets hurt, I'll take the beating. "Please," she holds her palms in a prayer position.

"Fine, one move, and that is it."

She smiles, and I feel a sense of pride. Every woman should be able to defend herself—especially a Rosso. Quickly, I guide her. I know we won't have much time. My father should finish the meeting with Uncle soon.

At first, I don't take her seriously, letting my guard down.

Then she kicks me hard, right in the chest. I stagger back, surprised by her move.

Before I can catch my breath, she comes at me again.

My balance rattles. I try to block her but miscalculate and fall backward.

The impact is brutal. The worst part is that I never saw it coming.

"What the fuck?" Blood trickles down my face.

"Got knocked on his ass by a girl," one of my father's men laughs.

"You're strong but not invincible," Isabella says, her eyes glinting triumphantly.

I feel the heat rise in my chest, trembling with embarrassment and rage. It's the first time I've ever felt this kind of humiliation, the kind that cuts deep into your pride and refuses to heal. My father expects me to be ruthless like him. I am the future Don. But I failed. His men mock me.

The pain from the blow and the scar on my face will be a permanent reminder of this harsh lesson. As my nightmare shifts, my father's cold stare replaces the image of Isabella's smug face.

"You let a girl beat you. You're the heir to the Rosso Empire."

"Father, it was?—"

"You're good for nothing, but who else is supposed to take over?" He shakes his head. "Guards," he calls.

"Vito," a voice cuts through the nightmare. "Wake up. You're dreaming."

My eyes snap open, disoriented between past and present. Someone is touching me—a hand on my shoulder. Instinct takes over. I grab the wrist, flipping our positions until I have the intruder pinned beneath me, my hand at their throat.

Caterina. Her eyes wide with shock, but not as much fear as there should be.

"Vito," she says, my name barely audible through my grip. "It's me. Caterina."

Reality crashes back. My bedroom. The middle of the night. Caterina in my bed because I ordered it so. Not an intruder—my unwilling fiancée who just witnessed my weakness.

I release her throat immediately, though I don't move away. "You were having a nightmare," she explains, her voice steady despite what just happened. "I tried to wake you."

"I could have hurt you," I say, hearing the raw edge in my voice.

"You didn't," she replies simply.

I search her face for judgment, for the mockery I expect, but find only careful neutrality. It's been a long time since I've had that particular nightmare. The memory of Isabella, of my father's punishment, usually stays buried beneath layers of control I've spent decades perfecting.

"You should know better than to wake a man like me from a nightmare," I tell her, though there's no real admonishment in it.

"A man like you," she repeats. "What does that mean, exactly?"

The question catches me off guard. What am I supposed to say? A killer? A Don? A man whose nightmares are filled with real blood and real consequences?

I don't answer, but she continues anyway. "Everyone has nightmares. Even great Dons, apparently."

There's no mockery in her tone, which surprises me more than if she'd laughed outright. "Go back to sleep, Caterina."

I start to move away, to put distance between us, but her hand on my arm stops me. "Wait," she says, then hesitates. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

Talk about it? When have I ever talked about the things that haunt me? "No."

She releases my arm, a flash of embarrassment crossing her features. "Fine. Forget I asked."

I should turn away, end this strange moment of almost-connection, but something keeps me watching her. "Why did you try to wake me?" I ask. "You could have just moved to the other room."

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do." I press, curious despite myself. "Tell me."

She looks away, uncomfortable. "You sounded... in pain. I just reacted."

"Compassion for your enemy?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "That's dangerous, Caterina."

"Is that what you are? My enemy?" The question seems to surprise her as much as me.

"What else would I be?"

She has no answer for that, and I don't expect one. "I don't know," she finally admits. "But right now, you just seem like a man with nightmares, same as anyone else."

Something shifts inside me at her words—a loosening of the rigid control I maintain at all times. "We all have our demons."

"Even you?" She pushes, her curiosity evident.

"Especially me." There's no point denying what she's already witnessed.

We fall into silence, neither retreating completely. I should end this, return to the careful distance I've maintained. But instead, I find myself answering when she asks if the nightmares happen often.

"Often enough."

"What are they about?" Her boldness would be irritating if it weren't so unexpected.

"The past. Things I've done. Things done to me. The usual demons."

"Your father?" she ventures quietly.

The question strikes too close to home. "You heard."

She nods. "You called out to him."

"My father was..." I search for a suitable word, one that doesn't reveal too much, "a complicated man."

"Complicated." The edge in her voice is unmistakable. "Is that what we're calling abusive these days?"

Her perception is uncomfortable, cutting closer to truth than I like. "You know nothing about my father."

"I know the sound of a child begging a parent to stop," she says, her voice dropping. "I've made that sound myself."

The admission shifts something between us—a recognition, an understanding I didn't expect or want. "Your father," I say carefully. "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."

She looks away. "Why would I tell you anything about my life?"

"Because I'm asking." I make sure my tone conveys this isn't a command. "Because perhaps we understand each other better than either of us wants to admit."

Her expression suggests the idea disturbs her as much as it does me. Finally, she speaks. "My father was a monster in a designer suit. He treated my mother like property, my sister like an afterthought, and me like a disappointment for being born female. Happy?"

"No." The simple truth slips out. "I'm not happy about any of it."

She blinks rapidly, as if fighting back unexpected emotion. "Was yours the same? A monster in a suit?"

The question dredges up memories I've spent a lifetime burying. "Worse. Mine was a monster who believed he was doing God's work. Making me stronger. Making me worthy of the Rosso name."

Something shifts in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or unwanted sympathy. "Is that why you're so... controlled? Precise? Everything in its place?"

I can't help the slight smile that touches my 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," she replies with unexpected confidence.

"No," I agree, studying her face in the dim light. "You certainly are not."

We fall silent again, the air between us charged with something unfamiliar. Not just tension or the expected animosity, but something more complicated—a reluctant recognition of the shadows we both carry.

"We should sleep," I finally say, though I make no move to turn away.

"We should," she agrees, but her eyes remain on mine.

Before I can question the impulse, I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, soft in a way that reminds me how long it's been since I've touched someone without purpose, without calculation.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For waking me."

She nods, seemingly at a loss for words. I turn away then, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, listening as her breathing gradually evens out, signaling her return to sleep.

But sleep evades me. The nightmare has left me too raw, too exposed, and our conversation has done nothing to rebuild the walls I maintain at all times. After ensuring Caterina is truly asleep, I slip from the bed and make my way to the bathroom, closing the door silently behind me.

The harsh LED light reveals a face I barely recognize—eyes haunted, jaw tense, the scar beneath my eye a stark reminder of that day so long ago.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the lingering tendrils of the nightmare and the unexpected vulnerability of the conversation that followed.

My father locked me in the cellar for three days after Isabella humiliated me. No food and barely any water. When he finally released me, I was never the same. It's one of the reasons I never allow women to sleep beside me. I can't let anyone witness my weaknesses.

And yet, Caterina has now seen me at my most vulnerable—trapped in memories, stripped of the control I value above all else. The thought should enrage me, but instead, I feel something dangerously close to relief. As if sharing the burden, even unintentionally, has lightened it somehow.

This is dangerous territory. Trust is a weapon. I learned that lesson painfully all those years ago. As long as I trust someone, they hold a knife against me. They will always have power over me.

I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. Caterina isn't Isabella. This isn't the same situation. And yet, the risk remains. She's already burrowed beneath my defenses in ways I didn't anticipate, creating vulnerabilities I can't afford.

What am I doing? This arrangement was meant to be clinical, political. A marriage of convenience to satisfy the Commission and stabilize the families. Nothing more. I never intended to let her see behind the carefully constructed facade of Don Vittore Rosso.

I dry my face and return to the bedroom.

Caterina lies sleeping, her breathing deep and regular, untroubled by the demons that plague me.

For a moment, I consider sleeping elsewhere—in one of the guest rooms, or on the sofa in my office.

Anywhere but here, beside the woman who's beginning to see more of me than anyone has in decades.

But something stops me. Before I can overanalyze the decision, I slide back into bed, careful not to disturb her.

I tell myself it's practical—I need rest, and this is my bed.

I tell myself it's strategic—maintaining the appearance of a united front, even in private.

I tell myself it's anything but what it might actually be—a desire for the strange comfort her presence provides.

The vulnerability she creates in me might be my undoing. The power she holds without even knowing it could destroy everything I've built. And yet, as I lie here in the darkness with her beside me, I wonder if some things might be worth the risk.

But I know better. I've spent a lifetime learning that lesson.