Page 27 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

I swallow, my pulse quickening at the base of my throat. "Then when?"

"When you want it as much as I do." His admission hangs in the air between us, revealing more than I think he intended. "When there's no calculation behind it. No strategy. Just desire."

His words send an unexpected heat through me.

The intensity in his dark eyes, the barely restrained power in his body as he stands so close to me—it's intoxicating in a way I'm not prepared for.

After everything that's happened today—the attack, watching him risk his life to save mine, the adrenaline still coursing through my system—my usual defenses feel paper-thin.

Before I can think better of it, I lean forward, closing the distance between us.

"What if I want it now?" The words emerge as barely more than a whisper.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating. For a moment, he's perfectly still, as if giving me a chance to retreat. When I don't, his control visibly fractures.

His mouth captures mine in a kiss that's nothing like our previous encounters—not a punishment or demonstration of power, but pure hunger.

My body responds instantly, a rush of heat flooding through me as I press against him.

His hand tangles in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss while the other slides down to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him.

I should stop this. We're in a church, for God's sake, in a priest's office. But rational thought feels distant, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me. When his lips leave mine to trail down my neck, I can't contain the soft sound that escapes me.

"Vito," I breathe, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or continue.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals my breath. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough. "No games, Caterina. Just truth."

In this moment, there's only one truth I can offer. "I want this."

Something like triumph flashes in his eyes before he claims my mouth again, walking me backward until I feel the edge of the priest's desk behind me. He lifts me easily, setting me on its surface as his hands slide up my thighs, pushing the fabric of my dress higher.

“This is why I wanted you in a dress,” he mutters, mouth dragging over my thigh like it’s silk and sin rolled into one. He doesn’t just lift the hem—he pushes it up with reverence and rage, bunching the fabric around my waist like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s about to break.

He spreads my legs with two hands and settles in like he’s got all night.

His breath is hot. Heavy. So close I can feel it ghosting over the soaked lace between my thighs.

Then his tongue presses in.

There’s no hesitation. No teasing. He licks me through the fabric, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until the lace clings to me—wet and obscene. I gasp, my spine arching, but he just chuckles.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he growls, and then he tears the panties aside and dives in properly.

His tongue is relentless. Broad strokes, then sharp, precise flicks that zero in on the nerve endings like he knows me better than I know myself.

He sucks my clit into his mouth and hums against it like he's savoring the flavor.

The vibration shoots straight through me, and I nearly sob from the pressure.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs, voice muffled as he drags his tongue through every slick, messy inch. “Take it. I want you dripping down my chin.”

And I do.

I come with a cry strangled behind my palm, my body jerking as his tongue flattens against me, drinking down everything I give him like he’s starving. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He holds me open with bruising fingers and keeps tasting me like I belong to him now.

When I finally slump back against the desk, boneless and breathless, he stands—towering over me with a dark flush in his cheeks and my slick glistening on his mouth.

“You gonna thank me properly?” he asks, voice rough, eyes hooded.

I drop to my knees without a word.

His belt’s already undone, pants shoved down just enough, and when I pull him free, he groans—low and guttural—like I’ve just touched something sacred. He’s heavy in my hand, hot and hard, and the moment I wrap my lips around him, his head hits the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That mouth—Jesus.”

I suck him slow, then hard, dragging my tongue along the vein on the underside, teasing the tip, letting spit pool at the corners of my mouth just to hear him groan again. His hands tangle in my hair, not guiding—gripping. Desperate.

“You look so pretty like this,” he rasps. “On your knees. Mouth full of me. Fucking mine.”

And I am.

Every filthy inch.

I don’t tease.

Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how. Not really. I’ve never done this before, never had a man unravel for me, never been the reason someone like him—this untouchable, cold-blooded, terrifyingly beautiful man—is breathing heavy like he might lose control.

But I want to be.

So I let instinct guide me.

I wrap my lips around him slowly, carefully, feeling the weight and heat of him on my tongue, and when I hollow my cheeks just a little, he makes a noise so guttural, so ruined, it makes my thighs clench.

“Fuck—just like that.” His voice is wrecked, rougher than I’ve ever heard it. Like I’m breaking something in him.

His hands twist in my hair—tight, possessive. Not forcing. Not yet. Just holding. Grounding himself.

I start to move, slowly at first, experimenting with rhythm, with suction, with pressure. The taste of him is bitter and hot, musk and salt and something uniquely his , and every time I take him deeper, his groans get darker. Louder. Like I’ve tapped into a part of him no one else has ever touched.

When I glance up, his eyes are locked on mine—wild and barely restrained. “You’re fucking perfect like this,” he growls. “My sweet little bride, on her knees, choking on my cock like she was made for it.”

Heat floods me again—between my legs, in my chest, in my cheeks—but I don’t stop. I can’t. Not when he’s like this. Not when I made him like this.

I swirl my tongue around the tip, letting drool mix with his pre-come as I take him deeper, feeling my throat stretch, my jaw ache.

My inexperience should show—but the way he twitches in my mouth tells me I’m doing something right.

The way he swears under his breath, hips jerking once, twice, before he forces them still.

He’s close.

I know it before he says anything. I can feel it—his cock thickening, pulsing, his hands tightening in my hair like a warning.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out. “Fuck—don’t stop. Take it. Be a good fucking girl and take every drop.”

And I do.

I brace myself as he lets go—his whole body going taut above me as he groans, deep and broken, and his hips give one final thrust forward, burying himself to the back of my throat. He holds me there as he spills down my throat, hot and thick and endless.

I wasn’t ready.

Not for the taste , not for the sheer volume , not for the shocking, overwhelming intimacy of it.

I gag once, barely, but I swallow it down—refusing to waste a drop, refusing to lose the power I feel in this moment.

Because that’s what it is.

It should feel degrading. I’m on my knees, spit-slick and used, throat raw and flooded by his essence. But all I feel is… victorious.

Because this? This is power.

He may be the one standing. He may have been the one giving orders. But I’m the one who made him come apart. I’m the one who had him swearing my name like a curse and a prayer. I’m the one who left him panting, dazed, completely wrecked.

When I finally pull back, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, I look up at him through my lashes.

And the look on his face?

Worship.

“I didn’t think you had that in you,” he says hoarsely, voice still thick with release.

I smile—small, sweet, and just a little smug. “Neither did I.”

Afterward, we straighten our clothing in silence, the reality of what just happened—and where—slowly seeping back in.

What was I thinking? What came over me? The adrenaline from the shooting, the confusion of seeing Vito risk his life for mine, the strange intimacy of him knowing my favorite breakfast spot—none of it quite explains why I just did. .. that.

Vito looks completely composed again, not a hair out of place as he adjusts his tie. The only sign of what transpired is a slight flush to his skin and the darkness of his eyes as he watches me smooth down my dress.

"Are you alright?" he asks, the question surprisingly gentle.

I nod, not trusting my voice. What could I possibly say? That I just willingly pleasured the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement, who I've been plotting against with his enemies? That despite everything, my body betrayed me with a desire I can't explain or justify?

He steps closer, tilting my chin up with one finger. "No regrets, Caterina. What happens between us is ours alone."

Before I can respond, there's a gentle knock at the door. "Don Rosso? Miss Gallo? Is everything alright?" Father Alessandro's concerned voice filters through.

"One moment, Father," Vito calls, his tone perfectly normal, as if we haven't just desecrated the priest's office. He studies my face once more, then moves to open the door.

Father Alessandro enters cautiously, his expression a mixture of concern and relief when he sees us both standing at a respectable distance from each other.

"We'll need to reschedule, Father," Vito says smoothly. "Something has come up that requires our immediate attention."

"Of course, of course." The priest nods eagerly. "These things happen. Shall we say next week?"

"My office will be in touch." Vito reaches into his inner jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope, which he passes to Father Alessandro with practiced discretion. "For the church's renovation fund."

The priest accepts the envelope without looking inside, though the thickness suggests it contains far more than a typical donation. "God bless you for your generosity, Don Rosso."

I watch this exchange with a strange detachment, as if observing a scene in a movie rather than my own life. Is this how it works in Vito's world? Money smoothing over every awkward situation, buying silence and compliance wherever needed?

And isn't that exactly what I just did—offered compliance, even enthusiasm, in exchange for... what? Protection? A momentary feeling of power? The rush of being wanted by a dangerous man?

Vito's hand at the small of my back guides me toward the door. "Good day, Father."

"Miss Gallo, it was lovely to meet you," Father Alessandro says warmly. "I look forward to helping you both prepare for your special day."

I manage a smile that feels stretched and false. "Thank you, Father."

Outside, the afternoon sun feels too bright, too exposing. Dante waits beside the car, his expression carefully neutral though I wonder if he somehow knows what just happened. Can he see it on my face? Smell it on my skin?

"Back to the penthouse?" he asks as Vito approaches.

"Yes," Vito nods. "Take Caterina home. Make sure she's safe."

I turn to him, a strange disappointment washing over me. "You're not coming with me?"

His eyes meet mine, something possessive darkening his gaze. "I need to deal with whoever thought they could shoot at what's mine." The way he says "mine" sends an unexpected shiver through me.

"The shooter?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're going to interrogate him now?"

"This surprises you?" Vito studies me carefully, his expression hardening. "Someone just tried to kill me—kill us. Did you expect me to let that pass without consequence?"

I look away, unable to hold his scrutiny. "I just thought you'd want to... I don't know, regroup first. Process what happened."

"I process by acting." He signals to Dante, who opens the car door for me. "The man who shot at us works for the Costellos. I want to know why they're moving against me now, and what exactly they hope to gain."

The mention of the Costello name sends a chill through me, but it's overshadowed by the odd emptiness I feel at being dismissed so quickly. Minutes ago we were as intimate as two people can be, and now he's sending me home like a child being put away for safekeeping.

"You're not coming back to the penthouse with me?" I ask again, though I already know the answer. My voice sounds smaller than I intend, and I hate myself for it.

Vito's expression softens fractionally, just enough for me to notice.

He steps closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear.

"What happened between us doesn't change what needs to be done.

" His hand brushes mine briefly, the touch soothing after what we just shared. "I'll return when I have answers."

Before I can respond, he gestures for me to get into the car. I slide in, a confusing mix of emotions swirling through me—lingering pleasure, uncertainty, and an unexpected hurt at being so easily left behind.

Vito closes the door, separating us with a definitive click. Through the window, I hear him say to Dante, "Take her home. No one goes in or out."

"You got it, boss."

As the car pulls away, I watch Vito through the rear window.

He stands there, powerful and imposing in the afternoon light, not even looking at me as he speaks into his phone.

Already focused on his next move, while I'm left with the ghost of his touch on my skin and questions I'm afraid to ask myself about what just happened between us.