Page 25 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

The way he looks at me makes my heart stutter unexpectedly.

Behind us, sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. Dante shifts anxiously. "Boss, we need to move. Now."

Vito nods, then gently but firmly takes my elbow. "Come, Caterina. Our car is waiting."

As he guides me to the Bentley, now repositioned by one of his men for a quick escape, I find myself watching him with new eyes. He killed my father without hesitation. He kidnapped me, forced me into an engagement, upended my entire life. By any reasonable measure, he's the villain in my story.

And yet, when bullets were flying, his first instinct was to push me to safety, even at the risk of his own life. He chose to protect me over allowing his bodyguard to take the hit.

What kind of monster risks his life for others?

What kind of villain values the lives of those who serve him?

As we slide into the Bentley and pull away from the chaos, police cars screaming past us in the opposite direction, I find myself stealing glances at Vito's profile. His expression is calm, collected, as if we're simply continuing our morning outing rather than fleeing a crime scene.

"You're staring," he observes without looking at me.

"You almost died." The words come out more accusatory than I intend.

Now he does turn, his dark eyes meeting mine. "But I didn't. And neither did you. That's what matters."

"Is it?" I search his face for something—I'm not even sure what. "Why did you save me? You could have just let me get hit. Problem solved. No unwilling bride to deal with."

His expression hardens. "Is that what you think of me? That I would let you die to solve an inconvenience?"

"I don't know what to think of you." The admission comes without my permission. "You kill my father, kidnap me, force me into marriage—and then save my life and take me to my favorite breakfast spot. None of it makes sense."

He's silent for so long I think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost gentle. "The world is rarely as simple as we want it to be, Caterina. People even less so."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

We lapse into silence as the car weaves through Brooklyn streets, heading toward the church where Father Alessandro waits to counsel us on our impending marriage. My mind keeps replaying the attack—the screech of tires, the crack of gunshots, the way Vito moved without hesitation to protect me.

And beneath it all, the sickening realization that the gunman wore Costello colors. Liam's family tried to kill Vito today, apparently unconcerned that I might be collateral damage. What does that say about the deal I made? About Liam's supposed feelings for me?

Worse yet, what does it say about me that I'm sitting here, breathless with confusion, because the man I've been plotting against saved my life without a second thought?

"Would it matter to you?" Vito asks unexpectedly. "If I died?"

I turn to face him, startled by the directness of the question. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "A week ago, I would have celebrated. Now..."

I trail off, unable to articulate the confusion of emotions coursing through me. Relief that he survived? Gratitude for his protection? Or simply the disorienting realization that the man I've painted as pure evil in my mind is proving to be far more complex?

To my surprise, Vito nods as if my non-answer makes perfect sense. "Fair enough."

"You're not angry?"

"At your honesty? No. It's refreshing." The ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Most people tell me what they think I want to hear."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, that intense gaze of his seeming to see right through me. "You certainly are not."

The car pulls up to a modest church tucked between brownstones, ending our conversation. Dante is already waiting beside the entrance, having apparently arrived ahead of us with the security team. His posture is alert, vigilant, but he offers a respectful nod as Vito exits the car.

Vito comes around to my door and opens it, extending his hand to help me out. I hesitate for just a moment before taking it, his palm warm and solid against mine. The simple human contact grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of shock that's been threatening since the shooting.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"No," I answer honestly. "But does it matter?"

Something like regret flickers across his face. "It matters to me."

Before I can process the implications of that statement, he's guiding me toward the church, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. The gentle pressure is both reassuring and confusing—just like everything about this man I'm being forced to marry.

A man who might be a monster, who might be more, who just risked his life to save mine.

As we enter the cool dimness of the church, I realize with growing unease that the clean lines I've drawn between good and evil, between captor and captive, between villain and victim, are blurring more with each passing day.

And I'm no longer certain which side of those lines I stand on myself.