Page 32 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The silver bracelet catches the light as Vito clasps it around my wrist, the cool metal warming quickly against my skin. I trace the intricate pattern with my fingertips, momentarily transfixed by its beauty.

"It's beautiful," I admit, surprised by my own honesty. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I'm acutely aware of my body in a way I've never been before—the unfamiliar tenderness between my thighs, the pleasant ache in muscles I didn't know I had, the lingering sensation of Vito's hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me.

Physical evidence of a line crossed that can never be uncrossed.

"I should go clean up," I say, needing space to process what just happened. "And you should... do whatever it is you need to do."

He nods, understanding the unspoken request. "Dinner will keep."

"I'm not hungry anymore." I take a step toward the hallway, then pause, a question I shouldn't ask rising to my lips. "Vito?"

"Yes?"

"The shooter. What he told you. Was any of it about me?"

I hold my breath, watching his face for any sign that he knows—about Liam, about our arrangement, about any of it.

"Why would it be?" he counters, studying me with unsettling intensity.

I shrug, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "I don't know. Just a feeling."

He hesitates, then admits, "He mentioned you, yes. In passing."

My heart stutters. "What did he say?"

"Nothing of consequence." He moves closer, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "But it raises a question, Caterina. One I hope you'll answer honestly."

"What question?" I manage to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest.

"Is there something you're not telling me? Something about you and the Costellos?"

For a moment, I consider telling him everything—about Liam's pursuit at school, about our arrangement, about how desperate I was to escape my father. In the aftermath of what we've just shared, the lie feels heavier than usual on my tongue.

But the moment passes. Fear wins out over honesty. "No," I say firmly. "Nothing at all."

He studies me a moment longer, and I know he doesn't believe me. But he lets it go.

"If that changes," he says, releasing my chin, "I hope you'll come to me first."

"Why would it change?" The question sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Because secrets have a way of revealing themselves, one way or another." He steps back, giving me space. "And some revelations are less painful when they come voluntarily."

I can't hide the fear that flashes across my face. "I'll keep that in mind."

I turn and walk away, painfully conscious of the slight hitch in my movements.

Each step is a reminder of what just happened, of the irrevocable change in our relationship.

No longer just captor and captive, forced fiancé and unwilling bride.

Something more complicated has taken root between us, something I'm not ready to name.

Back in my room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My hair is a tangled mess, my lips swollen from Vito's kisses, my neck and collarbone marked by his mouth. I look thoroughly claimed in a way that should horrify me.

I should be drowning in regret, in self-loathing. I gave my virginity to the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement, who I've been actively plotting against with the help of the Irish. By any rational measure, this is rock bottom.

So why don't I feel worse? Why is there a part of me—a significant part—that's still humming with satisfaction, with a strange sense of rightness that defies all logic?

A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiral of confused thoughts. I pull a robe tight around me, expecting Antonia with fresh towels or some other household necessity.

Instead, Vito stands in the doorway, his expression uncharacteristically soft. He's changed into clean clothes—dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt, the most casual I've ever seen him. In his hands, he holds what looks like bath supplies.

"May I come in?" he asks, the formal request for permission so at odds with the man who just claimed me on the dining room table.

I nod, rendered temporarily speechless by this unexpected version of him. He enters, closing the door softly behind him.

"You'll be sore," he says without preamble. "A hot bath will help."

I stare at him, trying to reconcile this considerate gesture with the ruthless Don I've come to know. "I can manage on my own."

"I know you can." He moves toward the attached bathroom. "But you shouldn't have to."

I follow him, curious despite myself. He sets his supplies on the counter—Epsom salts, some kind of oil, a bottle of what appears to be expensive bubble bath—then leans over to start the water running in the large tub.

"What are you doing?" I ask, still off-balance from this unexpected gentleness.

"Taking care of you." He tests the water temperature, adjusting the taps slightly. "Someone should, after your first time."

The matter-of-fact way he references my lost virginity makes heat rise in my cheeks. "This seems... oddly domestic for a mafia don."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Even dons have their moments."

He adds salts and oil to the steaming water, filling the bathroom with the scent of lavender and something deeper, earthier. The mixture swirls in the tub, creating a milky opacity that's oddly comforting.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, genuinely puzzled by his behavior.

He considers the question, testing the water again before straightening up to face me. "Because I took something precious from you," he says finally. "Something that can never be given again."

"I gave it to you," I correct him, though the distinction feels semantic at this point. "You didn't take it."

"Perhaps." He steps closer, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. "But the responsibility remains."

He reaches for the belt of my robe, his movements slow and deliberate, giving me plenty of time to stop him. I don't. The robe falls open, and he eases it from my shoulders with a gentleness that nearly undoes me.

"Get in before the water cools," he instructs, offering his hand to steady me as I step into the tub.

The hot water envelops me, soothing muscles I didn't realize were tense. I sink down with a sigh of pleasure, letting my head rest against the edge of the tub.

To my surprise, Vito doesn't leave. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves and kneels beside the tub, reaching for a washcloth and soap.

"What are you doing?" I ask again, though the answer is obvious.

"Taking care of you," he repeats, his voice low and intimate in the steamy bathroom.

He soaps the washcloth, then begins washing me with slow, gentle strokes.

There's nothing sexual about it, despite my nakedness.

It's an act of caregiving, of tenderness I never expected from him.

He works methodically, starting with my shoulders, moving down my arms, lifting each one to wash underneath, before continuing down my back.

I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I find myself relaxing into his ministrations, tension melting away with each careful stroke of the cloth.

"You're good at this," I murmur, eyes half-closed in contentment.

"I'm good at many things," he responds, amusement coloring his tone.

"Modest, too."

He actually chuckles at that, the sound echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. "Modesty is overrated. False humility serves no purpose."

"Of course you'd say that." But there's no bite in my words, just lazy banter that feels strangely comfortable.

He continues washing me, moving to my legs, carefully skipping the areas still sensitive from our earlier activities. When he's finished, he sets the washcloth aside and lathers his hands with shampoo.

"Lean forward," he instructs.

I comply, allowing him to wash my hair with the same methodical care he showed my body. His fingers massage my scalp, working the shampoo into a lather before guiding me to lean back to rinse.

"Close your eyes," he says, using a cup to pour clean water over my hair.

The simple domesticity of the act brings a lump to my throat. When was the last time someone took care of me like this? My mother, perhaps, when I was a child? But even that was different—a parent caring for a child, not this intimate attention between equals.

Because that's how it feels, strangely enough. Not like a master tending to property, but like a partner caring for their lover after a significant moment.

"This isn't what I expected," I admit, eyes still closed as he works conditioner through my hair.

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Not... gentleness."

His hands pause briefly in my hair. "You thought I would be cruel? Even after..."

After he discovered my virginity. After the moment shifted from angry passion to something more careful, more tender. After he looked into my eyes and asked if I was alright, waited for me to adjust, guided me through my first experience with patience I never expected from him.

"I don't know what to think anymore," I confess. "About any of this. About you."

He resumes rinsing my hair, his silence thoughtful rather than dismissive. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost confessional.

"I'm not the monster you've painted in your mind, Caterina. Nor am I the saint some in my organization believe me to be." His hands move back to my shoulders, gently kneading the tension there. "The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between."

I open my eyes, turning to look at him. His expression is open, unguarded in a way I've never seen before. "Then who are you, really?"

"A man doing what's necessary to protect what's his." The possessiveness in his tone should bother me, but somehow it doesn't. "A man who finds himself increasingly... invested in a woman who challenges everything he thought he knew."