Page 35 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The kitchen is filled with morning light, turning the marble countertops to gleaming ivory. Antonia moves with quiet efficiency, placing a plate of fruit, pastries, and eggs in front of me.

I stare at the food, my appetite at war with the swirl of conflicted emotions from last night. The way Vito bathed me with such tender care, the vulnerability I showed in asking him to stay, the unsettling realization that I no longer want him dead—it all feels surreal in the harsh light of day.

"You should eat," Antonia says gently, breaking my reverie. "Don Vito was specific about you having a proper meal."

Of course he was. Still giving orders, controlling every aspect of my life, even my breakfast. Some things never change, no matter how many intimate moments we share.

I pick up my fork and begin eating mechanically, not tasting much despite Antonia's excellent cooking.

My body is sore in unfamiliar ways, a constant reminder of what transpired between Vito and me.

The weight of my virginity—gone now, given to the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement.

The same man who washed my hair with gentle hands and looked at me with something approaching tenderness.

The silver bracelet glints on my wrist as I reach for my coffee. I should take it off. It's a symbol of ownership, of control, no matter how beautifully crafted. Yet I leave it on, telling myself it's just because I haven't gotten around to removing it yet.

"Is there anything else you'd like, Miss Rina?" Antonia asks as she refills my coffee.

"No, thank you." I manage a small smile. "This is plenty."

She nods, returning to her tasks, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my thoughts once more. I need to find a way to contact Elena, to warn her about my change of heart regarding the Irish plan. But how? The phone Vito gave me is surely monitored, and I have no access to another. Perhaps I could?—

"Good morning again."

Vito's voice interrupts my plotting. He strolls into the kitchen with the easy confidence of a man who owns everything he surveys—which, in this case, he does.

He's dressed casually by his standards—dark slacks and a light gray sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, giving him an unusually approachable appearance.

"Morning," I reply, eyes dropping back to my plate. It's difficult to look at him directly without remembering the intimacy we shared.

He helps himself to coffee, leaning against the counter as he studies me over the rim of his cup. "Did you sleep well?"

"You already asked me that," I point out, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "So I did."

We lapse into silence, the air between us charged with unspoken words. What does one say the morning after losing one's virginity to one's captor? Emily Post didn't cover that particular social scenario.

"I've arranged a day for us," Vito announces, setting down his cup. "Beginning with shopping."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Shopping?"

"Yes. I believe you enjoy racking up a bill." There's a glint of amusement in his eyes, referencing my previous shopping spree.

I roll my eyes, glad for the shift to safer territory. "Shopping is boring."

"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "That's not the impression I got from your last excursion."

"That was different. That was..." Rebellion. Defiance. A childish attempt to disrupt his ordered world.

"In any case," he continues smoothly, "you need a wedding dress."

A wedding dress...oh, right. Despite everything that's happened between us, the wedding is still happening. Two weeks from now, I will legally become his wife.

"You can't go wedding dress shopping with me," I protest. "That would be bad luck."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "I don't believe in luck, bambola ." He steps closer, his hand coming to rest on the countertop near mine. "I believe in taking what I want and keeping what belongs to me."

A shiver runs through me at the possessiveness in his tone. After last night's tenderness, the return of this domineering side should repel me. Instead, I find it sending an unwelcome heat through my veins.

"I don't belong to you," I say, the words automatic though lacking their usual conviction.

"The bracelet on your wrist suggests otherwise." His gaze drops to the silver links encircling my arm. "As does the fact that you're still wearing it."

I resist the urge to hide my wrist under the table. "It's just jewelry."

"Is it?" He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over the bracelet, the brief contact sending a jolt of awareness through me. "Be ready in thirty minutes. We have appointments to keep."

"And if I refuse?" The challenge is halfhearted at best.

He studies me for a moment, something shifting in his expression. "Then I'll be disappointed, but I won't force you." He steps back, giving me space. "Consider it an invitation rather than an order."

The unexpected concession catches me off guard. "An invitation?"

"Yes." He tilts his head slightly. "After last night, I thought perhaps we could attempt a more... collaborative approach."

I blink, trying to process this shift. "You mean you're actually giving me a choice?"

"In this particular matter, yes." His expression remains neutral, but there's something in his eyes I can't quite decipher. "Though I would prefer if you accompanied me."

"Why?" The question escapes before I can think better of it.

"Because a wedding requires preparation, regardless of the circumstances that led to it." He takes another sip of his coffee. "And because I think it might benefit us both to be seen in public together."

The statement carries layers of meaning I can't fully unpack. Is this about appearances? Strategy? Or is there something more personal in his request?

"Fine," I find myself saying. "I'll go. But I'm not trying on wedding dresses with you watching."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "We'll see."

I roll my eyes as he turns to leave, then pauses. "Caterina?"

"Yes?"

"Wear something nice. We'll be dining out afterward."

With that, he's gone, leaving me staring after him in confusion.

What game is he playing now? Last night felt like a genuine connection, something real amidst all the lies and manipulation.

But this morning he's back to making plans, issuing directives—gentler than before, perhaps, but still very much in control.

And yet, he gave me a choice. A small one, but a choice nonetheless. Is this a genuine shift in our dynamic, or just another strategy to secure my compliance?

I finish my breakfast without tasting it, mind racing.

If Vito and I are going to be out in public today, shopping and dining, it might provide an opportunity to contact Elena somehow.

A moment alone in a fitting room, perhaps, with a borrowed phone from a salesperson.

I need to warn her, to tell her I want out of whatever the Irish are planning.

The thought of betraying Liam sends a pang of guilt through me. He might be a dangerous man, but we had a deal. And breaking that deal could have severe consequences for me, for my family. But the alternative—letting Vito be killed—is suddenly unthinkable.

When did that happen? When did the man I hated more than anyone become someone I want to protect?

I head back to the bedroom—Vito's bedroom, where I now apparently sleep—to prepare for our outing.

The closet that holds my clothes takes up an entire wall, filled with designer pieces I never would have chosen for myself.

I select a simple navy blue dress with a fitted waist and A-line skirt, modest yet elegant enough for whatever high-end boutiques Vito has planned.

As I dress, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror.

The woman staring back at me looks unchanged on the surface—same dark hair, same eyes, same features.

But something's different. Something in my expression, perhaps, or the way I hold myself.

I'm not the same person I was before last night.

I've made my choice, for better or worse. I will find a way to contact Elena, to stop the Irish plot without revealing my own involvement. I will protect Vito—not because I've forgiven him for everything he's done, but because I can no longer bear the thought of him dead.

And maybe I'll allow myself to explore whatever this new dynamic between us might become. With clear eyes and cautious heart, knowing full well the danger of caring for a man like Vittore Rosso.

I slip on heels, apply minimal makeup, and secure my hair in a simple twist. The silver bracelet remains on my wrist, a conscious choice this time rather than an oversight. I study the pattern again—flames that never extinguish, fire that doesn't burn out.

An apt metaphor for whatever is growing between us, dangerous and unpredictable as it may be.

Precisely thirty minutes after Vito's directive, I exit the bedroom to find him waiting by the elevator, checking his watch with characteristic punctuality. His eyes travel over me slowly, appreciation evident in his gaze.

"Beautiful," he says simply.

"Thank you." I accept the compliment with as much grace as I can muster, trying to ignore the flutter of pleasure it produces.

He offers his arm, another unexpected courtesy. After a moment's hesitation, I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, the gesture feeling strangely formal after the intimacy we've shared.

"Ready?" he asks.

For shopping? Yes. For whatever game we're playing now? For the complications of caring about a man I should by all rights hate? For the dangers of betraying Liam Costello and the Irish?

No. Not even close.