Page 33 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)
The admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than our physical joining earlier. I don't know how to respond, what to do with this glimpse of vulnerability from a man I've only ever seen as invulnerable.
"The water's getting cold," I say instead, a weak deflection but the best I can manage.
He accepts the evasion with grace, reaching for a large, fluffy towel. "Stand up."
I do, allowing him to wrap the towel around me as I step from the tub. He uses a second towel to gently pat my hair dry, his movements as careful as if I were made of glass.
"You don't have to do this," I say quietly.
"I know." He meets my gaze steadily. "I want to."
The simple statement undoes me more effectively than any grand declaration could have. I want to. Not duty, not obligation, not strategy. Want. Perhaps the most honest thing he's ever said to me.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Instead of answering with words, he leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss so gentle it barely qualifies as one. A whisper of contact, gone almost before I can register it.
"Get dressed," he says, stepping back. "I'll wait for you in the bedroom."
He leaves the bathroom, giving me privacy I no longer feel I need after everything we've shared.
I dry off, apply lotion to my skin, wrap my hair in the towel.
My movements feel dreamlike, disconnected from reality.
How can this be the same day that started with a shooting, continued with an encounter in a church, escalated to angry sex on the dining room table, and has now transformed into. .. whatever this tender moment is?
I pull on clean pajamas—soft cotton shorts and a tank top rather than the silk nightgowns Vito had stocked his closet with for me—and make my way across the hall to his bedroom.
After what happened earlier, returning to his room feels different now.
No longer just a command to be followed, but a choice I'm making, however complicated that choice might be.
He's sitting on the edge of the massive bed, scrolling through his phone. His room is exactly as I remember it—immaculate, everything in perfect order, the large windows showcasing the glittering Manhattan skyline.
He looks up when I enter, setting the device aside. "Better?"
I nod, suddenly shy despite everything we've shared. "Thank you. For... that."
"You're welcome." He stands, and for a moment I think he might direct me to the opposite side of the bed where I've been sleeping. Instead, he pulls back the covers on the side closest to me. "You should rest."
I hesitate, then slide between the sheets, acutely aware of his presence looming over me. He tucks the covers around me with the same careful attention he showed while bathing me, then perches on the edge of the bed.
"Will you be alright?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.
"I think so." I search his face, still trying to reconcile this gentle caretaker with the ruthless don who kills without hesitation, who ordered a man tortured just hours ago. "This is all very... strange."
A faint smile touches his lips. "Agreed."
"What happens now?" I ask, the question encompassing far more than just the immediate future.
"Now you sleep," he says simply. "Tomorrow is soon enough to figure out the rest."
He moves to the opposite side of the bed, and I find myself watching him, studying the graceful efficiency of his movements. As he begins to turn away, my hand darts out, catching his wrist. The silver bracelet he gave me glints in the low light.
"Wait," I say, surprising both of us.
He turns back, raising an eyebrow in question.
"I just... thank you, again." The words feel inadequate for what I'm trying to express.
He studies me for a long moment, searching for something in my expression. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, because he nods once, then stands to remove his jeans and shirt.
In just his boxers, he slides into bed beside me, maintaining a careful distance between our bodies. I turn to face him, studying the planes of his face in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," I feel compelled to clarify. "For any of it."
"I know." He reaches out, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear. "I wouldn't expect you to."
"And I still have questions. About the shooter. About what's happening."
"I know that too." His expression softens slightly. "And perhaps, in time, you'll have answers."
It's not a promise, but it's more than I had before. I nod, accepting the implicit compromise. "Goodnight, Vito."
"Goodnight, bambola ."
He reaches over to turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For several minutes, we lie in silence, neither touching nor speaking, yet somehow more connected than we've ever been.
As I drift toward sleep, my thoughts turn to the Irish, to Liam, to the plans Elena warned me about. Plans that once represented my best hope for escape, but now feel like a looming catastrophe.
Because the truth—the terrible, undeniable truth—is that I no longer want Vito Rosso dead.
Not just because I've given him my virginity, or because he's shown me unexpected tenderness tonight.
But because I'm beginning to see him as a person, complex and contradictory, capable of both cruelty and gentleness.
And perhaps, more frighteningly, because I'm beginning to see a version of the future where being married to him might not be the hell I assumed it would be.
The realization should terrify me, should feel like a betrayal of everything I've believed, everyone I've aligned myself with.
Instead, it brings an unexpected sense of clarity.
I need to end whatever the Irish are planning.
Before more people get hurt, before Vito discovers my involvement, before I lose this fragile new understanding we've found.
But how? I've made a deal with Liam Costello—a man who clearly doesn't forgive easily, who sent gunmen after Vito in broad daylight, who might now see me as a traitor rather than an ally. How do I extricate myself without putting everyone I care about in even more danger?
Beside me, Vito's breathing deepens, suggesting he's fallen asleep.
I turn carefully to study his profile in the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
In sleep, the hard lines of his face soften, making him look younger, more vulnerable.
It's difficult to reconcile this man with the Don who inspires fear throughout New York.
Yet both are real. Both are Vito. And somehow, impossibly, I find myself caring what happens to him.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his cheek before I lose my nerve and withdraw. This is madness. Stockholm syndrome, just as Elena suggested. It has to be. There's no other explanation for the confusion of emotions swirling inside me.
And yet, as sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is that I need to find a way to warn him, to stop what's coming, to protect both him and my family from the storm I helped create.