Page 30 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

"No."

The single word hangs between us, her defiance as clear as the hand still gripping my arm. I should be furious. I am furious. In my world, no one says no to me. Not my men, not my enemies, and certainly not the woman who will be my wife.

And yet, there's something magnetic about her rebellion—that unwavering fire that refuses to be extinguished despite everything. It's why I chose the bracelet, with its pattern reminiscent of eternal flames. Caterina Gallo burns even when she should be reduced to ash.

"No?" I repeat, my voice dangerously soft. "You're treading on thin ice, bambola."

Her eyes flash at the pet name, but she doesn't back down. "I don't care. I deserve answers."

I study her—the flush of anger coloring her cheeks, the determined set of her jaw, the slight tremble in her hand still clutching my sleeve. She's afraid, but pushing past it. Always pushing, always challenging.

"Let go of my arm," I say again, one final warning.

Her grip tightens instead. "Make me."

Something snaps inside me—control, reason, restraint, all swept away by the current of rage and desire that's been building since the church. Since before that, if I'm honest. Since the moment this fierce, impossible woman entered my life.

I move forward, backing her against the wall in one fluid motion. Her eyes widen in surprise, but there's no fear in them—only that same defiant fire that's haunted me for weeks.

"Is this what you want?" I demand, my face inches from hers. "To see what happens when you push me too far?"

Instead of answering, she does the unthinkable—she surges forward, closing the distance between us, her mouth crashing against mine with a hunger that matches my own.

For a heartbeat, I'm too shocked to respond.

Then instinct takes over, and I'm kissing her back with all the pent-up fury and desire that's been simmering beneath the surface.

There's nothing gentle about it—this is battle, not seduction.

Teeth clash, hands grasp, her nails digging into my shoulders as mine tangle in her hair.

I expect her to pull back, to come to her senses and recoil from what she's initiated.

The resistance I anticipate is there, a momentary tension in her body—then it melts, transforms into something else entirely as she presses closer, deepening the kiss with a soft sound that's half frustration, half need.

"I hate you," she gasps against my mouth, even as her hands work at my tie, yanking it loose with frantic movements.

"The feeling is mutual," I growl, though we both know it's a lie. What burns between us is far more complicated than hate.

My hands find the hem of her sweater, tugging it upward until she's forced to break the kiss long enough for me to pull it over her head. She retaliates by attacking the buttons of my shirt, several popping free in her haste.

"Careful," I warn, though I'm already beyond caring about ruined clothing.

"Shut up," she commands, and I almost laugh at the reversal—her giving orders, me following them. But there's nothing humorous about the sight of her flushed skin, her dark eyes glittering with challenge and desire.

I silence her retort with another kiss, lifting her easily and carrying her across the room. The dining table is set for dinner, places meticulously arranged by Antonia for a meal neither of us cares about now.

With one sweep of my arm, I clear the surface, crystal and china crashing to the floor in a cacophony of destruction. The bracelet's box falls too, silver links spilling across marble in a glittering cascade.

I set Caterina on the table's edge, standing between her legs as she works the last buttons of my shirt free, pushing it from my shoulders with impatient hands. Her touch burns against my skin, igniting nerve endings long deadened by years of rigid control.

"Is this your answer to everything?" she asks breathlessly as my mouth trails down her neck. "Silencing opposition with sex?"

I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?"

Instead of answering, I unhook her bra with practiced ease, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts as they spill free.

The sharp intake of her breath, the way her head falls back, the flush spreading down her neck to her chest—there's nothing calculated in these responses. Nothing strategic or manipulated.

"Tell me to stop," I challenge, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin. "Say the word, and this ends now."

Her eyes lock with mine, conflict warring in their depths—pride against desire, anger against need. For a moment, I think she might actually do it—might push me away, reclaim the moral high ground, preserve the narrative that everything between us is force and subjugation.

Instead, she whispers, "Don't stop."

Something shifts in my chest at those words—something dangerously close to tenderness. I push it aside, focusing instead on the physical, on the undeniable chemistry that's been crackling between us since the beginning.

I lower my mouth to her breasts, licking, sucking, dragging my teeth along her sensitive skin until she moans, her nails scraping over my scalp like she doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.

“Vito,” she breathes, the syllables turning my name into something reverent. Her fingers tangle in my hair, neither pushing away nor pulling closer—simply holding on as if anchoring herself against a storm.

I look up, finding her watching me with an expression I've never seen before—vulnerability mixed with wonder, as if she's surprised by her own response. It stirs something protective in me, something at odds with the anger that drove us to this point.

"Tell me what you want, Caterina," I murmur against her skin.

"I want—" She breaks off, frustration crossing her features. "I don't know. Everything. Nothing. I want to stop thinking."

I understand the sentiment more than she knows. Thinking is dangerous—it leads to doubts, to questions neither of us is ready to answer. Far better to lose ourselves in sensation, in the undeniable truth of our bodies' response to each other.

My hands move to her leggings, easing them down along with her underwear. She helps, lifting her hips, then reaching for my belt with unsteady fingers. I let her work the buckle free, the button, the zipper, each movement bringing us closer to a point of no return.

When we're both finally bare, I take a moment to simply look at her—really look at her.

Beyond the obvious beauty, I see the strength in her frame, the determination in the set of her shoulders even now.

This is no cowering victim nor calculating seductress.

This is a warrior, meeting me as an equal on the battlefield of our mutual desire.

"Are you just going to stare?" she challenges, though I hear the uncertainty beneath the bravado.

"I'm committing you to memory," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "Every detail."

A flush spreads across her skin at my words. "Why?"

"Because you're mine." I step closer, reclaiming the space between her legs. "And I want to remember the moment you finally accepted it."

Anger flashes in her eyes. "I haven't accepted anything."

"Your body disagrees." I run my hands up her thighs, feeling the slight tremor beneath my touch. "As does mine."

I lower my head, trailing kisses down her stomach, then lower still.

Her surprise is evident in the sharp gasp she makes, in the sudden tension in her thighs.

But she doesn't stop me, doesn't push me away as I worship her with lips and tongue, drawing sounds from her that will haunt my dreams for years to come.

I drag my tongue through her folds, slow and deep, savoring the way her thighs tremble around my head. She gasps, high-pitched and shocked, her hand shooting out to grip the edge of the table.

“Vito—oh my god?—”

I growl against her, licking her again and again, tongue flattening against her clit before sucking it into my mouth, teasing it with slow, rhythmic flicks. Her hips jerk. I hold her down, gripping her thighs so hard she might bruise.

I want her marked. Want her to feel this tomorrow and think of me.

She’s panting now, wild and wrecked, her body twitching as I circle her entrance with the tip of my tongue and slide two fingers inside her. She clenches down so tight I nearly lose it.

“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Please—please don’t stop.”

I don’t. I eat her like it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, tongue and fingers working in tandem until she’s thrashing against my hold, crying out, breath breaking in sobs of pleasure.

When she's trembling on the edge, I raise my head, meeting her dazed expression. "Still hate me?"

"Yes," she gasps, though the word holds no conviction. "God, don't stop."

I smile against her skin. "So demanding."

"Please," she whispers, the word clearly costing her proud soul dearly.

I rise to my full height, positioning myself between her thighs, cock heavy and aching against her slick heat. I press the tip just barely against her entrance, not pushing— waiting . Testing. “Look at me,” I say, low and rough. “I want to see your eyes.”

She does.

God, she does—and it guts me.

Her gaze locks on mine, wide and unblinking. There’s no hatred in it. No resentment. Only hunger and fear—not of me, but of what comes next. The unknown. The surrender.

And something about it—about her —shreds through my walls like they were made of paper.

“Caterina—” I start, warning, question, plea all tangled in my voice.

“Don’t,” she breathes, shaking her head. “Just... just do it.”

I push forward carefully, slowly, watching her face like a man watching the edge of a cliff. The moment I breach her, she sucks in a breath, her whole body going rigid beneath me.

Then I feel it.

The catch. The resistance.

The pain she tries to hide.

I freeze, hand braced on the table beside her head, my jaw tight as realization crashes through me.

She’s never done this before.

My voice is little more than a whisper. “You’re a virgin.”

She turns her face away, and fuck if the sight of her flushed cheeks doesn’t make me want to both destroy and protect her in the same breath. “Was,” she mutters, her pride bleeding through the shame she doesn’t need to carry.

A curse claws its way up my throat, swallowed before it escapes.

She gave this to me.

Not because she had to. Not because she was claimed or caged.

Because she wanted to.

Something primal cracks open inside me—possessiveness sharpened to a blade, dark and sacred. My fingers brush her cheek, turning her back to face me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her lashes flutter, throat working. “Would it have changed anything?”

“Yes,” I growl. “I would’ve worshipped you slower. I would’ve made you fall apart on my tongue ten more times before I even thought about pushing inside you.”

A bitter laugh escapes her. “So… foreplay, but make it gentle?”

“No,” I murmur, my thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “So I could remember the exact moment you stopped being untouched—and became mine .”

That stuns her. I see it in the way her lips part, in the way her breath stalls like I’ve knocked the wind from her lungs.

“You’re not a fucking gift,” I add, voice softer now, but no less intense. “You’re a goddamn reckoning. And I’m going to earn every fucking inch of you.”