Page 28 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The warehouse sits like a hulking shadow against the darkening sky, its weathered exterior revealing nothing of what happens inside. As I approach the entrance, Marco emerges to meet me, his expression grim.

"He's secured in the back room," he reports, matching my stride as we enter the building. "Hasn't said much beyond cursing your name and the entire Rosso family."

"Has he been persuaded to be more forthcoming?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Marco's methods are efficient, if not always subtle.

"We've been... encouraging him." A thin smile crosses Marco's face. "Nothing permanent yet. I thought you'd want first crack at him yourself."

"You thought right." I remove my suit jacket, handing it to one of my men as we walk through the warehouse's cavernous main floor. "What do we know about him so far?"

"Ryan Sullivan. Mid-level enforcer for the Costellos. Been with them about seven years." Marco pulls out his phone, checking his notes. "No family to speak of. Unmarried. Lives alone in a shithole apartment in Queens. Perfect profile for expendable muscle."

"Not entirely expendable if he was chosen for this job." I pause at a heavy metal door, behind which waits our guest. "Attempting to kill me in broad daylight isn't an assignment you give to just anyone."

"True. Which makes me wonder why they sent him alone." Marco's brow furrows. "It wasn't a serious attempt—at least, not one with a real chance of success."

"Unless success wasn't measured by my death." The thought has been nagging at me since the attack. Something about it felt performative, almost like a message rather than a genuine assassination attempt. "Let's find out what Mr. Sullivan has to tell us."

Marco nods to the guards flanking the door, who step aside as he unlocks it.

The room beyond is purposefully stark—concrete floors, cinder block walls, a single drain in the center of the floor.

Sullivan sits tied to a metal chair bolted to the ground, his face already showing signs of Marco's "encouragement"—swollen eye, split lip, bruises darkening along his jaw.

He looks up as I enter, his one good eye narrowing with hatred. "Rosso," he spits, blood staining his teeth. "Come to do your own dirty work for once?"

I study him calmly, taking measure of the man. Mid-thirties, solidly built, with the hardened look of someone who's lived his life through violence. Not the brightest, judging by the tattoos that clearly mark him as Costello muscle, but not stupid either. Just loyal enough to be dangerous.

"Mr. Sullivan." I pull up another metal chair, positioning it directly across from him. "I'd like to have a conversation about your activities this morning."

"Fuck you."

I smile slightly. "Original. But not particularly helpful to your situation."

"My situation?" He laughs, the sound wet and pained. "I'm already dead. We both know it."

"That remains to be determined." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees in a posture of casual conversation. "Why don't we start with why Mickey Costello suddenly feels bold enough to move against me?"

Sullivan spits blood onto the floor. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Marco moves forward, hand raised to deliver another lesson in manners, but I stop him with a slight gesture. Violence has its place in interrogation, but sometimes a different approach yields better results.

"I intend to." I keep my voice conversational. "But I'm curious why you were chosen for this particular task. It's not every day someone volunteers for a suicide mission."

Something flickers across his face—doubt? Fear? It's gone too quickly to identify with certainty.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" Sullivan shifts in his restraints. "The great Don Vittore Rosso. King of New York. But you don't know shit."

"Then enlighten me."

He smirks despite his injuries. "You stole what didn't belong to you. Now you're going to pay."

The statement hangs in the air, deliberately vague yet carrying clear weight. "What exactly did I steal, Mr. Sullivan?"

"You know what." His one good eye burns with conviction. "He said you'd pretend not to know. Said it would prove how little you respect us."

"He?" I press. "Mickey?"

Sullivan's smile widens, revealing more bloodstained teeth. "Not the old man. Liam. Liam Costello sends his regards."

The name triggers something in my memory—a report from one of my informants about Mickey's son taking a more active role in the family business. Young, ambitious, with a reputation for being more volatile than his father. But there's something else—something I'm missing.

"And what message does the younger Costello have for me?" I keep my expression neutral, though my interest is thoroughly piqued now.

"That you can't keep what isn't yours." Sullivan leans forward as much as his restraints allow. "That there are consequences for theft."

"I haven't stolen anything from the Costellos." I maintain eye contact, searching for tells. "Unless they've suddenly laid claim to territory I'm unaware of."

"Not territory." His lips curve into a knowing smirk. "Something more... personal."

A cold suspicion begins to form in my mind. "Be specific, Mr. Sullivan. What exactly does Liam Costello believe I've taken from him?"

He laughs again, the sound more like a wheeze through damaged ribs. "Why don't you ask your pretty little fiancée?"

The mention of Caterina sends a shock of ice through my veins, though I maintain my carefully neutral expression. "My engagement is none of the Costellos' concern."

"That's where you're wrong." Sullivan's voice drops lower, taking on the cadence of someone delivering a rehearsed message. "You stole what didn't belong to you, and now you're going to pay. That's the message. Word for word, from Liam himself."

I stand slowly, processing this unexpected development. Could there be a connection between Caterina and the Costellos I'm unaware of? Some history I've missed despite my thorough research into her background?

"Marco," I call, turning away from Sullivan. "A word."

Marco follows me to the corner of the room, keeping his voice low. "What do you make of this?"

"I'm not sure yet." I glance back at Sullivan, who watches us with a smug satisfaction that sets my teeth on edge. "Could be referring to the weapons shipment we recovered last week. The Irish have been trying to expand their arms dealing."

"Possible." Marco doesn't sound convinced. "But why mention your fiancée?"

"Psychological tactics. Trying to create doubt." Even as I say it, I'm reviewing everything I know about Caterina Gallo, searching for any hint of a connection to the Irish that I might have overlooked. "What else did your men find on him? Phone records? Contacts?"

"Nothing useful. Burner phone, wiped clean." Marco shakes his head. "Whoever planned this was careful."

"Too careful for a simple hit." The pieces aren't fitting together properly, and I dislike few things more than incomplete information. "This wasn't an assassination attempt. It was a message delivery."

"An expensive way to send a note," Marco observes dryly.

"Unless the message itself was worth the cost." I turn back toward Sullivan, only to freeze at the sight that greets me.

Sullivan's head is thrown back, body convulsing, foam forming at the corners of his mouth. His one good eye bulges as he chokes on something.

"Shit!" Marco rushes forward, but it's already too late. By the time he reaches Sullivan, the man's convulsions are slowing, his body going slack in the restraints.

"Cyanide," I observe, noting the distinctive almond scent now permeating the air. "Check his mouth."

Marco pries open the dead man's jaw, revealing the remains of what appears to be a capsule embedded in a hollow molar. "Suicide tooth. Old school."

"And effective." I study Sullivan's now-still form with a mixture of frustration and grudging respect. The Costellos equipped their messenger with an exit strategy, ensuring he couldn't reveal more than the specific message he was sent to deliver.

"What now, boss?" Marco asks, stepping away from the body.

"Clean this up." I retrieve my jacket from the man holding it by the door. "And get me everything we have on Liam Costello. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem."

"You think this is genuinely about your engagement?" Marco's expression is skeptical. "Seems more likely they're using that to distract from whatever business conflict they actually have with us."

"Perhaps." I straighten my cuffs, mind already racing through possibilities. "But I dislike coincidences, and the timing of this attack—so soon after my engagement became public knowledge—bears investigation."

Marco hesitates, then adds, "And Miss Gallo? Should we increase security around her?"

The question sends a surge of possessiveness through me that I don't bother to disguise. "Double the detail. No one gets near her without my explicit approval."

"Consider it done."

As I walk out of the warehouse into the cool evening air, Sullivan's message replays in my mind. "You stole what didn't belong to you." The weapons shipment is the obvious interpretation.

But the mention of Caterina nags at me. What possible connection could my fiancée have to Liam Costello?

Her father was firmly embedded in the Italian hierarchy, despite his mediocre standing.

The Gallos have never had ties to the Irish, at least none that appeared in my extensive background investigation.

Unless...

I pause by my car, a disturbing thought taking shape. What if the connection is more recent? What if it formed after her father's death—or just before it?

Caterina's reaction when I mentioned the Costellos in the car comes back to me—that subtle tension in her posture, the way she couldn't quite meet my eyes. At the time, I attributed it to general distress over the shooting, but now I'm not so certain.

I get into my car, instructing the driver to take me home. As we pull away from the warehouse, I find my thoughts occupied not with the dead messenger or the potential turf war brewing with the Irish, but with the woman waiting for me in my penthouse.

Caterina Gallo—the woman I've claimed as mine, who responded so passionately to my touch just hours ago, whose body yielded to me with a desire that seemed genuine. Is she playing a deeper game than I realized? Does she have secrets that even my thorough investigation failed to uncover?

The thought should infuriate me. Instead, I find myself almost admiring the possibility. If Caterina has indeed managed to conceal something significant from me—from my network of informants, my background checks, my surveillance—then she's more formidable than I gave her credit for.

And if there is a connection between her and Liam Costello, I will discover it. I will unravel whatever web she's woven, whatever secrets she's keeping.

Because she is mine now.

Not Costello's.

Mine.