Page 23 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the bedroom in a golden glow.

I've been awake for over an hour, my mind too restless for sleep after last night's strange encounter with Vito.

The memory of his vulnerability during the nightmare, the way his voice had broken when calling out to his father, our unexpected moment of connection—it all feels surreal in the light of day.

Rather than dwelling on it, I'd ordered a Kindle from Amazon using Vito's credit card information, which I'd memorized the last time Dante used it for my shopping spree.

It arrived early this morning, delivered to the doorman who didn't question a package for the penthouse.

Small acts of independence, that's what keeps me sane in this gilded cage.

I'm propped against the headboard, engrossed in a thriller novel that seems quaint compared to my actual life, when I feel Vito stir beside me. I don't look up, pretending to be too absorbed in my reading to notice him watching me.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Reading a book." I keep my eyes on the screen, feigning nonchalance despite the way my pulse quickens under his scrutiny.

"Where did you get it?" There's suspicion in his tone, as if expecting I've somehow managed to break into his office again.

I glance up with deliberate casualness. "I remembered your credit card digits. Being who you are, it wasn't hard to get it delivered without someone questioning me."

I expect anger or at least irritation, but instead, something like amusement flickers across his face. "Clever Bambola."

He sits up, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. The domestic intimacy of the moment is jarring—too normal for what we are to each other.

"Today, we are seeing the priest," he announces without preamble.

I frown, setting the Kindle down. "What for?"

He chuckles, the sound rich and unexpected. "Our wedding."

Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. "We don't need to see a priest. I'm not going to marry you." The words are automatic, a reflexive resistance I can't seem to abandon even knowing its futility.

"If you were a good Catholic, you would know that meeting with the priest before marriage is customary," he says, watching me with those calculating eyes. "Pre-marital counseling. The Church requires it."

"I'm not Catholic," I counter, "and I'm not marrying you."

He moves from the bed in one fluid motion, his expression hardening. "You are going to be my wife, Caterina. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier things will be for everyone."

I want to argue, to continue this pointless resistance, but the memory of Elena's warning about the Irish stops me. If they're truly planning to move against Vito soon, I just need to play along a little longer.

"Fine," I concede with poor grace. "What time?"

"We leave in an hour." He heads toward the bathroom, then pauses in the doorway. "Wear something appropriate. A dress or skirt."

I bite back a retort about him dictating my wardrobe. One battle at a time. "Whatever."

An hour later, I'm wearing a navy blue wrap dress I found in my closet, my hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. When I emerge from my room, Vito is waiting by the elevator in one of his immaculate suits, checking his watch with typical precision.

His eyes scan me from head to toe, his expression unreadable. "You look nice."

The unexpected compliment catches me off guard. "Thanks," I mutter, uncomfortable with the approving look in his eyes.

The elevator ride to the garage is silent, tension crackling between us like static electricity. He guides me to a sleek black Bentley rather than the usual SUV with a driver.

"You're driving?" I can't hide my surprise.

"Yes." He opens the passenger door for me, another strangely gentlemanly gesture that doesn't fit my image of him.

Two black SUVs filled with his men follow as we pull out of the garage, a visible reminder that while this might look like a normal couple heading out for the day, nothing about our situation is normal.

I stare out the window as Manhattan gives way to Brooklyn, my confusion growing as we move away from the areas I'd expect to find a Catholic church or priest's residence.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.

"To breakfast." His tone is casual, as if this detour is completely normal.

"I thought we were seeing the priest."

"We are. At noon. There's time."

I study his profile as he drives, trying to decipher his game. What is he planning? Is this some new form of psychological manipulation?

My thoughts scatter when he pulls into a familiar parking lot, the unexpected sight nearly stealing my breath. I stare at the small storefront restaurant in disbelief.

"Rosie's?" The name escapes me in a shocked whisper.

Vito parks the car and turns to me, his expression satisfied at my reaction. "I understand this is your favorite breakfast spot."

I can't process what's happening. Rosie's is the little hole-in-the-wall diner Elena and I discovered during our second year at NYU. We'd come here every Saturday morning, our one consistent ritual away from my father's watchful eyes. It was our secret place, our small freedom.

"How do you know about this place?" My voice comes out smaller than intended.

"I had research done on you, Caterina. Thorough research.

" He says it matter-of-factly, as if it's perfectly normal to investigate every detail of someone's life.

"I know your preferred booth is the one in the back corner.

I know you always order the blueberry pancakes with a side of crispy bacon and a vanilla latte with extra foam. "

A chill runs through me at the depth of his knowledge. "That's... unsettling."

"That's preparation." He opens his door. "Come. The priest is expecting us at noon, but there's no reason we can't enjoy breakfast first."

Numbly, I follow him into the restaurant, the familiar scent of cinnamon and coffee wrapping around me like an old friend. A young waitress I don't recognize greets Vito by name, suggesting he's been here before, and leads us to the back corner booth—my booth.

"Your usual, Miss Gallo?" she asks with a bright smile.

I nod, still too stunned to form words. Vito orders black coffee and eggs over medium, then hands back the menus with the easy confidence of a regular customer rather than someone who orchestrated an elaborate stalking operation to learn my breakfast preferences.

Once we're alone, I find my voice. "Why are we here?"

He studies me across the table, his dark eyes unreadable. "Because you're going to be my wife."

"That's not an explanation."

"Isn't it?" He leans back, his posture relaxed yet somehow still commanding. "You'll be Donna Rosso. My wife. The mother of my children someday. It makes sense that I should know what matters to you."

The casual mention of children sends a jolt through me that I refuse to examine. "This is bizarre. You kidnap me, force me into an engagement, and then take me to my favorite breakfast spot like we're on a date?"

"We are engaged," he says simply. "The circumstances are complicated, yes, but the outcome remains the same. We will be married. Is it so strange that I would want to understand the woman who will share my name and my home?"

Put like that, it almost sounds reasonable. Almost. "Most people get to know each other before the engagement."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "We're not most people."

The waitress returns with our drinks—my vanilla latte exactly as I like it, and his black coffee. I wrap my hands around the warm mug, trying to ground myself in the familiar comfort while my mind reels from the strangeness of sitting across from Vito Rosso in my favorite diner.

"The priest will explain the requirements for the ceremony," Vito says after taking a sip of his coffee. "There are traditions that need to be observed for the Commission's sake."

"The Commission," I repeat, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "The mysterious force behind all of this."

"Not so mysterious. Just old men with old ideas about power and alliances." There's something almost like disdain in his tone.

"And they're the reason you're forcing me to marry you?"

He considers me for a long moment. "Part of the reason."

"And the other part?"

His expression closes off. "Another conversation for another time."

The waitress arrives with our food, momentarily saving him from my questions. She sets a perfect stack of blueberry pancakes in front of me, the sight and smell instantly transporting me to Saturday mornings with Elena, laughing and planning our escape from our families' toxic legacies.

The irony isn't lost on me—I'd planned my escape, made a deal with Liam Costello that was supposed to free me from one cage, only to end up in another.

Except this cage has moments like this—quiet breakfasts in my favorite restaurant, a man across from me who, despite everything, has bothered to learn the small details that make up my life.

I take a bite of pancake, the familiar sweetness spreading across my tongue. Despite everything, I can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes me.

When I look up, Vito is watching me with an expression I can't quite read—satisfaction mixed with something softer, almost gentle.

"Good?" he asks.

"You know it is." I can't keep the defensiveness from my voice.

He nods, turning his attention to his own breakfast. We eat in silence for several minutes, the strange domesticity of the moment not lost on me.

If someone walked in right now, they would see a normal couple sharing breakfast—a handsome man and his fiancée enjoying a morning together before meeting with their priest.

The illusion of normalcy is both comforting and disturbing.

"Why did you really bring me here?" I ask finally, unable to contain the question.

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. "Because even in a cage, a bird should be allowed to sing sometimes."