Page 29 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The penthouse feels like a prison again, though the walls haven't changed.

I've paced every inch of it since Dante brought me back, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Every few minutes, I check my reflection, half-expecting to see evidence of what happened in the church etched on my skin like a scarlet letter.

What was I thinking? How could I have allowed that to happen—not just allowed it, but initiated it?

I'm supposed to be plotting against Vito, not submitting to him in a priest's office. I'm supposed to be the victim in this scenario, not an eager participant in my own captivity. The Irish are planning to kill him, to "rescue" me, and here I am letting him touch me, taste me, claim me.

The worst part is that I can't even blame it entirely on the adrenaline from the shooting.

Yes, seeing him risk his life to save mine rattled something loose inside me.

But if I'm being honest—and what's the point of lying to myself now?

—the attraction has been building since the beginning, a current of unwanted desire running beneath my anger and fear.

I shower for the second time today, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, his mouth, the commanding tone that sent shivers through me even as I hated myself for responding. But the hot water does nothing to cleanse the guilt or confusion.

As I dress in simple leggings and an oversized sweater, I try to make sense of the morning's attack.

It had to be Liam's people—Dante confirmed the shooter wore Costello colors.

But did they know I was with Vito? Did they care that their bullets could have hit me too?

And what does it mean for the larger plan Elena warned me about?

A terrible thought occurs to me: what if the attack wasn't just aimed at Vito, but at me as well? What if Liam has decided I've betrayed him by not finding a way to escape, by not contacting him sooner? What if he sees me as collaborating with the enemy now?

The possibility sends a chill through me. I've been counting on the Irish as my exit strategy, my salvation from this forced marriage. If they no longer intend to "rescue" me but instead view me as a traitor to be eliminated alongside Vito...

I need to contact Elena again, find out what she knows. But how? The burner phone Dante gave me is surely monitored, and I no longer have Elena's phone to use.

A soft knock at my bedroom door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Antonia stands there, her expression carefully neutral.

"Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, Miss Rina," she informs me. "Don Vito called to say he's on his way back."

My stomach tightens. "Thank you, Antonia."

She hesitates, then adds, "There's a package for you as well. I've left it on the dining table."

A package? I didn't order anything beyond the Kindle. "Did you see who it's from?"

"No, Miss. But it passed security screening." With that, she turns and leaves, her footsteps fading down the hallway.

Curious despite my anxiety, I make my way to the dining table. A small box wrapped in elegant silver paper sits at my usual place setting. No card, no indication of its sender. Dante must have approved it, which means it's unlikely to be from Elena or anyone associated with the Irish.

I carefully unwrap it, lifting the lid to find a delicate silver bracelet nestled inside. Its links are intricately designed, forming a pattern that reminds me of waves or perhaps flames. It's beautiful, understated yet clearly expensive.

And confusing as hell.

As I lift it from the box, a small note falls out, handwritten in a strong, slanted script I immediately recognize as Vito's.

For the fire that doesn't burn out. -V

I stare at the note, then at the bracelet, trying to decipher its meaning. Is this a gift? A reward for what happened in the church? A bribe to ensure my continued compliance? Or something more sinister—a shackle disguised as jewelry, another symbol of his ownership?

Whatever its intent, the timing is unsettling. After what happened this morning—both the attack and what followed in the church—a gift feels wildly inappropriate. Almost manipulative.

I set the bracelet back in its box without putting it on, just as the elevator announces Vito's arrival with a soft ding. I turn to face him, steeling myself for whatever comes next.

He steps into the penthouse looking exactly as he did when he left me—perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. If not for the subtle shadows beneath his eyes, I'd never guess he spent the afternoon interrogating the man who tried to kill him.

His gaze lands on me immediately, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes before his expression smooths back to neutral.

"Caterina." He removes his suit jacket, handing it to Antonia who materializes silently to take it. "I trust your afternoon was uneventful."

The casual greeting after everything that's happened today—the shooting, the church, him sending me home alone—sparks an unexpected flare of anger.

"Uneventful. Right." I cross my arms. "Unlike yours, I imagine."

He studies me for a moment, then moves toward the bar, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid. "Would you like a drink?"

"I'd like answers."

He takes a slow sip, then turns to face me fully. "About?"

"Don't play games, Vito." I step closer, emboldened by a mixture of anxiety and irritation. "What happened with the shooter? Did you find out who sent him?"

Something shifts in his expression—a subtle tightening around the eyes, a calculating assessment I've seen before when he's deciding how much to reveal.

"He was Irish. Working for the Costellos." He takes another sip. "Beyond that, there wasn't much to learn."

The casual dismissal sets alarm bells ringing. "That's it? He tried to kill you in broad daylight, and all you learned was his nationality? I don't believe you."

"What you believe is irrelevant." He sets his glass down. "The matter is being handled."

"Handled how?" I press, anxiety making me bolder than is probably wise. "Are you planning retaliation? Another war between families?"

Vito's expression cools several degrees. "These are not matters that concern you."

"They absolutely concern me!" My voice rises slightly. "I was there too, remember? Those bullets could have hit me as easily as you."

"Which is precisely why you should leave such matters to me." He steps closer, his height advantage more intimidating when he's displeased. "I will ensure your safety. That's all you need to know."

The dismissal stings more than it should. After what happened between us in the church, being treated like a child who can't handle difficult information feels like a slap in the face.

"Clearly you're not telling me everything you know," I say, holding my ground despite the intimidating proximity.

"Yes." His honesty is disarming. "I'm not."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not entitled to know everything, Caterina." His voice remains even, controlled, which only fuels my growing frustration. "Some aspects of my business remain my business, regardless of our... relationship."

The hesitation before "relationship" sends a spike of something hot and angry through me. "Our relationship?" I repeat, incredulous. "You mean your ownership? Your control? Because that's all this is, isn't it? You don't see me as a partner or even a person—just another possession to be managed."

His jaw tightens fractionally. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" I gesture toward the dining table, where the bracelet sits in its open box. "What's that supposed to be? A collar with a prettier name?"

"It's a gift." For the first time, a hint of genuine anger seeps into his tone. "Though perhaps I misjudged the gesture."

"You misjudged a lot of things." The words tumble out, fueled by confusion and guilt and fear. "If you think buying me jewelry after what happened in the church somehow makes this—makes us—normal, you're delusional."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "What happened in the church was your choice as much as mine. Don't rewrite history to suit your conscience, bambola ."

The use of the pet name feels deliberately provocative. "My choice? When have I ever had a real choice with you? You've orchestrated every aspect of my life since the moment you killed my father."

"And yet, I didn't force you to your knees in that office." His voice drops lower, the words cutting with surgical precision. "That was all you."

Heat floods my face, shame and anger twisting together. "You're a bastard."

"So you've said before." He steps closer, until we're nearly touching. "And yet, here we are."

"Because I'm your prisoner!"

"Are you?" His eyes search mine with unsettling intensity. "The door isn't locked, Caterina. You could walk out right now."

"Into the arms of your men, who would just bring me back." I shake my head. "Don't pretend I have freedom when we both know I don't."

"Perhaps freedom isn't what you really want." There's a dangerous edge to his voice now. "Perhaps what you want is absolution for desiring your captor. For responding to him. For initiating what happened today."

The accuracy of his assessment lands like a physical blow. "You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" He reaches up, his fingers brushing my cheek in a touch so light it might have been my imagination. "I think I'm beginning to understand you very well, Caterina Gallo."

I step back, away from his touch. "Then you should understand that I deserve to know the truth. About the shooter. About why the Irish are targeting you now."

"Some truths are earned, not given." His expression hardens again. "Trust works both ways."

The implication hangs in the air between us—that he doesn't trust me, that he suspects I'm hiding something. And he's right, of course. I am hiding something. Several somethings, in fact. My deal with Liam. My communication with Elena. My knowledge of the Irish plans to move against him.

But how could he know that? Has the shooter said something? Does Vito suspect my connection to the Costellos?

The thought sends a wave of cold fear through me. If he knows, or even suspects, I'm as good as dead.

"What exactly are you implying?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"I'm not implying anything." His gaze remains fixed on mine, searching for something. "I'm stating a fact. Trust is built, not given freely. Especially in our world."

"It's your world, not mine." The denial feels hollow even to my own ears.

"You're a Rosso now—or you will be in three weeks." His tone softens slightly. "Like it or not, this is your world too."

"Then let me understand it." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to sound reasonable rather than desperate. "Tell me what the shooter said. Help me make sense of why someone tried to kill us today."

For a moment, I think I've gotten through to him. Something in his expression shifts, considering. Then it hardens again.

"No."

The flat refusal ignites my temper fully. "No? That's it? Just 'no'? After everything that's happened today—after what happened between us—that's all you have to say?"

"Enough." He turns away again. "This conversation is over."

"No, it's not!" I grab his arm without thinking, yanking him back to face me. "You don't get to walk away when things get uncomfortable. Not when my life is at stake too."

His gaze drops to my hand on his arm, then rises slowly to meet mine. The warning in his eyes is clear, but I don't release him. I'm tired of being managed, controlled, kept in the dark about matters that directly affect me.

"Let go of me, Caterina." His voice is deadly quiet.

I take a deep breath, and then I say the word. "No."