Page 3 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The black box sits on my nightstand like a ticking bomb. I've left it untouched since Vito's dramatic exit last night. Sleep had been impossible. Every creak and whisper in this luxury prison had me bolt upright, expecting to see his dark silhouette looming in the doorway.

Morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in gold.

I hate that it's beautiful. I hate that part of me admires the carefully curated space—pristine white bedding, modern art on the walls, furniture that probably costs more than my entire childhood home.

Nothing is accidental here. Everything serves a purpose.

Just like me.

I slip out of bed, abandoning the pretense of sleep. The marble floor is cold against my bare feet as I creep toward the door. I crack it open, listening. Silence. Taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway.

This floor of the penthouse is quieter than the main level below—personal quarters tucked away from the entertaining spaces.

I pad down the hall, noting the other bedroom doors, a sitting area with impossibly white furniture, and what looks like a smaller study area near the windows.

Everything gleams in the morning light—glass, chrome, polished wood.

Not a pillow out of place, not a speck of dust on any surface.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I head for the spiral staircase that connects the floors. If I'm going to be trapped here, I might as well understand the layout of my cage.

The main floor is even more impressive in daylight. Everything is meticulously arranged—a temple to wealth and power. I run my finger along a bookshelf, half-expecting alarms to sound at my disruption. The books are arranged by height, their spines forming a perfect gradient. Who does that?

I wander through the vast living spaces, noting the kitchen where Antonia must work, the formal dining room with its intimidating long table, the multiple sitting areas.

But it's the office tucked near the main entrance that draws my attention.

Through the partially open door, I can see the corner of a massive desk covered with papers.

I move closer, peering inside. Financial reports, from what I can tell. Numbers that would make most people's eyes water.

"I wouldn't touch those if I were you."

I whirl around, heart slamming against my ribs.

Vito stands near the elevator entrance, his massive frame blocking the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.

He wears a charcoal suit that's probably worth more than a car, not a wrinkle in sight.

His dark hair is perfectly styled, face freshly shaved.

Even at this hour, he looks ready to command armies or topple governments.

"Do you always creep up on people?" I cross my arms, hating how my voice wavers.

"It's my home. I don't creep." His eyes drift to the office doorway where I'm standing. "Those are private."

"Everything is private with you." I step away from the office anyway, moving toward the center of the main living area. "Is there anything I'm allowed to touch in this prison?"

His jaw tightens. "This is hardly a prison."

"No? What would you call a place I can't leave, with rules I didn't agree to, and consequences I didn't ask for?"

"Home," he says simply, moving away from the elevator. "For now."

"This isn't my home."

"It will be. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be." He strides past me toward his office, straightening the papers I hadn't even touched. "Did you sleep well?"

The casual question throws me. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." He doesn't look up from organizing his precious papers at the desk.

"Oh, I slept wonderfully after being kidnapped, threatened, and given a marriage ultimatum. Best night ever."

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something. "You'll adjust."

"Where's my mother? My sister?" I demand, changing tactics.

"Safe."

"That's not an answer."

He finally looks at me from behind his desk, dark eyes unreadable. "It's the only one you're getting today."

I want to scream. I want to throw something. But I need to be smarter than that. I need to understand the man who holds my family's lives in his hands.

"I'm hungry," I announce instead.

He raises an eyebrow. "The kitchen is fully stocked. Antonia will make whatever you request."

"I want to go out."

"No."

One word, final as a guillotine blade. I push anyway. "You can't keep me locked up forever."

"Not forever. Just until after the wedding." He adjusts his cufflinks—gold, I notice, with a small insignia I can't make out. "Then you'll be seen in public as my wife, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails."

"How generous." My voice drips venom.

"More than you know." He checks his watch, then stands from behind the desk. "I have meetings. Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."

"Or what?"

His eyes meet mine, cold and precise. "Don't test me, Caterina."

He moves toward the elevator, but I step into his path in the main living area. "My family?—"

"Will remain unharmed as long as you behave." He steps around me as if I'm nothing more than an inconvenient piece of furniture. "Eight o'clock."

The elevator doors swish closed behind him, leaving me alone in the vast, sterile space. I exhale, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath.

I spend the day exploring my cage. Three floors of obscene luxury—upstairs there's a gym with equipment I've never seen before and what looks like a private spa area.

The main floor houses the formal living spaces, kitchen, his office, and a library that would make most universities jealous.

And then there's the lower level—a movie theater that would make AMC jealous, a wine cellar that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime, and what appears to be additional entertaining space. Everything perfect. Everything cold.

The more I see, the more I understand about Vito Rosso.

Control obsession radiates from every corner.

Books organized not just by height but by subject, then alphabetically.

Kitchen cupboards with labels. Clothes in his walk-in closet (which I shouldn't have entered, but what's he going to do, kill me twice?) arranged by color, then fabric.

Even the remote controls sit at perfect right angles on the coffee tables.

By evening, I'm claustrophobic despite the endless space.

I shower in a bathroom bigger than my childhood bedroom, letting scalding water turn my skin pink.

In the closet attached to my room on the second floor, I find clothes in my size—dozens of outfits, all of them expensive, none of them my style. How long has he been planning this?

At 7:58, I enter the dining room on the main floor wearing the plainest thing I could find—black pants and a white silk blouse. Still, the outfit probably costs more than I've spent on clothes in the past year.

Vito is already seated at the head of an absurdly long table. He stands when I enter, another surprise. The monster has manners.

"You're punctual," he notes, as if conferring a great compliment.

"You didn't leave much choice." I take the seat furthest from him.

He sighs. "Caterina." My name sounds like a warning in his mouth.

I roll my eyes but move closer, taking the chair to his right. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he says dryly.

A woman appears—Antonia, I assume—setting down plates with some kind of pasta that smells divine. My stomach growls traitorously.

"Thank you," I tell her, making a point to be polite where Vito merely nods his dismissal.

We eat in silence for several minutes. The food is spectacular, but I'd rather die than admit it.

"You went into my office today," he says suddenly.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "How do you?—"

"I know everything that happens in this penthouse."

"Cameras?" The thought makes my skin crawl.

"Among other things." He sips his wine, watching me over the rim. "You also entered my bedroom."

Heat rushes to my face—anger, not embarrassment. "Are you spying on me?"

"Protecting my interests."

"I'm not your interest. I'm your prisoner."

"You're my fiancée." He says it so matter-of-factly that I want to stab him with my fork.

"I never agreed to that."

"Yet here we are." He cuts into his food with surgical precision. "The ring?"

"Still in the box."

"Put it on."

"No."

His eyes flash. "That wasn't a request."

"I don't care what it was."

He sets down his silverware, the soft clink somehow more threatening than a shout. "Your defiance is... unexpected. Your father painted you as more compliant."

"My father didn't know me at all." I spear a piece of pasta with unnecessary force. "And neither do you."

"I'm learning." His voice drops lower, almost intimate. "You're intelligent. Observant. Protective of your family. Stubborn to the point of self-destruction."

"Flattered," I mutter.

"You should be. I don't waste time analyzing people who don't matter."

"So I matter? Is that supposed to make me feel special?"

His expression darkens. "Don't push me, Caterina."

"Or what? You'll kill me? Then who will be your puppet bride?" The words rush out before I can stop them.

In one fluid motion, he's on his feet, towering over me. I flinch despite myself.

"I won't kill you," he says, voice dangerously soft. "There are consequences far worse than death."

"Like being married to you?" I snap back, heart racing.

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement? Respect? It's gone before I can identify it.

"Precisely." He returns to his seat, adjusting his cuffs. "Finish your dinner."

I want to refuse out of spite, but hunger wins. We complete the meal in tense silence.

As Antonia clears the plates, Vito watches me with that unnerving intensity. "Tomorrow, someone will be staying with you while I attend to business."

"A babysitter?"

"A guard."

"Afraid I'll escape?"