Page 36 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The car glides through Manhattan traffic, a sleek black Bentley that draws glances from pedestrians as we pass. Vito sits beside me, his posture deceptively relaxed, though I notice the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings through the tinted windows.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, watching as his gaze tracks a black SUV that's been two cars behind us since we left the penthouse.

"No." His answer is clipped, automatic. He turns from the window briefly, his expression softening slightly when he meets my eyes. "Nothing for you to worry about."

I'm not convinced. "You seem on edge."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I'm always on edge, bambola . It's how I've stayed alive this long."

I study his profile as he returns to his vigilant observation of the world outside our vehicle.

Dante drives, his eyes similarly alert in the rearview mirror.

Another of Vito's men, whose name I don't know, sits in the passenger seat.

A second vehicle follows closely behind us, containing more security personnel.

This seems excessive, even for Vito, whose paranoia I've come to accept as part of his nature. Is he expecting trouble? Something related to the shooter, perhaps? Or is this precaution specifically because I'm with him?

"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, attempting to break the tense silence.

"Kleinfeld." He says it like I should recognize the name.

I don't. "What's that?"

Now he does turn to look at me, surprise evident in his expression. "You don't know Kleinfeld Bridal?"

"Should I?"

"It's only the most exclusive wedding dress boutique in New York City." There's a hint of amusement in his tone. "I assumed someone with your background would be familiar with it."

I shrug. "My father didn't exactly encourage me to dream about white dresses and fairytale weddings."

Something darkens in Vito's eyes. "No, I imagine he didn't."

We lapse back into silence, the mention of my father hanging between us like a specter. Vito killed him. I witnessed it. And now here we are, on our way to pick out a wedding dress as if we're just another engaged couple looking forward to their big day.

The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh, though there's nothing funny about our situation.

When we arrive, the security detail moves with practiced efficiency, positioning themselves at strategic points before Dante opens our door. Vito exits first, then offers me his hand. The gesture is courtly, at odds with the tension evident in his scanning gaze as he surveys the street.

"What's going on?" I ask quietly as he guides me toward the boutique entrance, his hand resting at the small of my back. "You're acting like you're expecting an ambush."

"Just taking precautions." His voice drops so only I can hear. "After the other day, it pays to be careful."

The shooter. Of course. Someone tried to kill him less than forty-eight hours ago. It makes sense that he'd be hypervigilant now, especially in public.

But there's something more in his demeanor, something that makes me suspect this outing isn't just about finding me a wedding dress.

The boutique interior is a sanctuary of white and cream, elegant chandeliers casting a warm glow over displays of exquisite gowns.

The staff greet Vito by name, which doesn't surprise me—a man of his wealth and influence would have made arrangements well in advance, likely with a substantial deposit to ensure their full attention.

"Mr. Rosso, we're so honored to have you and your fiancée with us today." A slender woman with an impeccable French twist approaches, her practiced smile revealing nothing about what she might know or think about the man before her. "I'm Vivienne, and I'll be your consultant."

"Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice," Vito responds, the perfect picture of a wealthy client accustomed to exceptional service.

"Of course." Vivienne turns her professional smile to me. "And you must be Miss Gallo. We're delighted to help you find the perfect gown for your special day."

I manage a smile that I hope doesn't look as forced as it feels. "Thank you."

"We've prepared the VIP suite for your appointment." She gestures toward a private area separated from the main salon. "If you'll follow me?"

The VIP suite is even more luxurious than the main boutique—plush seating, private fitting rooms, and a raised platform with a three-way mirror for viewing gowns from all angles. A champagne bucket sits on an elegant side table, alongside a tray of delicate pastries.

"Please make yourselves comfortable." Vivienne indicates the seating area. "Miss Gallo, would you like to tell me about what you're envisioning for your gown?"

I freeze, caught off guard by the question. I haven't envisioned anything. This wedding was forced upon me, a political arrangement I had no say in. What does it matter what dress I wear to formalize my captivity?

Vito, sensing my discomfort, smoothly intervenes. "My fiancée has exquisite taste. Why don't you show her your finest selections, and we'll narrow it down from there?"

Vivienne nods. "Of course. I'll bring in a range of our most exclusive designs." She turns to me. "Would you prefer to begin your fitting privately? Many brides consider it bad luck for their grooms to see the dress before the wedding day."

Before I can respond, Vito answers for me. "I don't believe in luck. I'll be staying."

His tone brooks no argument, though his expression remains pleasant for Vivienne's benefit. The consultant looks between us, clearly sensing some tension, but professionalism wins out.

"As you wish. I'll return shortly with some options."

When she's gone, I turn to Vito, irritation flaring. "I told you I didn't want you watching while I try on dresses."

"Did you?" He sits elegantly on one of the plush chairs, entirely at ease in this temple of bridal fantasy. "I don't recall agreeing to that condition."

"It's tradition," I insist, though I care little for tradition myself. It's the principle—one of the few choices I thought I still had control over.

"We're hardly a traditional couple, bambola ." There's a hint of dark humor in his voice. "But if it truly bothers you, I can wait outside."

The concession, like the one this morning, catches me off guard. "Really?"

"Really." He studies me, head tilted slightly. "Though I'd prefer to stay."

The admission hangs between us, unexpectedly honest. I should insist he leave, assert this small bit of independence. Instead, I find myself asking, "Why?"

"Because I want to see you." His gaze holds mine, intense in a way that makes my pulse quicken. "In all those white dresses, looking like what you are—mine."

The possessiveness in his tone should offend me. It doesn't. Instead, it sends a shiver of something that isn't entirely unpleasant down my spine.

Before I can respond, Vivienne returns with two assistants, each carrying several garment bags. "I've selected a variety of silhouettes to start with," she explains, unzipping the first bag to reveal a cascade of ivory satin and lace. "Shall we begin?"

I nod, momentarily speechless at the sheer beauty of the gown—a fitted mermaid style with an intricate lace bodice and a dramatic train. Despite everything, despite the circumstances that brought me here, I find myself reaching out to touch the delicate fabric with something close to reverence.

"You can try it on in here," Vivienne gestures to the private fitting room. "My assistants will help you."

I glance at Vito, who watches me with undisguised interest. "Fine," I say finally. "You can stay. But no comments until I'm ready."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "As you wish."

The fitting room is a luxurious space with plush carpet, another three-way mirror, and hooks laden with tools of the bridal trade—clips, measuring tapes, veils of various lengths.

The assistants help me undress, their movements efficient and professional as they ease the first gown over my head, carefully arranging the fabric around my body.

The weight of it surprises me—layers of satin and tulle creating a substantial presence. As they secure the back and arrange the train, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

She looks like a bride. Not a prisoner, not a reluctant fiancée, but a woman preparing for her wedding day.

"You look stunning," one of the assistants murmurs, making final adjustments. "Are you ready to show your fiancé?"

Am I? This feels like crossing another line, playing further into the fantasy that this is a normal engagement, a wedding born of love rather than political necessity.

But I nod anyway, allowing them to guide me out to the viewing platform before the three-way mirror where Vito waits.

His reaction is immediate and unmistakable. He stands as I enter, his eyes darkening as they travel the length of my body in the gown. There's naked appreciation in his gaze, but something else too—a possessive hunger that makes my skin heat despite myself.

"Well?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his intense scrutiny. "What do you think?"

"Beautiful," he says simply, the single word carrying weight far beyond its syllables.

Vivienne and her assistants busy themselves with adjusting the train, discussing potential alterations, but I barely hear them. Vito's gaze holds mine, creating a private bubble in the midst of their professional chatter.

"Try another," he suggests, his voice lower than usual.

And so begins a parade of bridal couture—each gown more exquisite than the last. A ballgown with a sweetheart neckline and crystal beading. A sleek sheath of creamy silk that clings to every curve. An ethereal A-line with delicate cap sleeves and a cathedral train.

With each new dress, the tension between Vito and me grows thicker, charged with something neither of us acknowledges directly. His eyes follow my every movement, his approval evident in his expression, though he offers few words beyond simple appreciation.

By the fifth gown—a fitted lace creation with an open back and long sleeves—the air in the room feels electric. I turn slowly before the mirror, watching Vito's reflection as he watches me. His control is slipping; I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the slight clenching of his jaw.

"This is the one," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.

Vivienne beams. "It's absolutely perfect on you. The lace complements your skin tone beautifully, and the silhouette is divine."

I'm not looking at her, though. I'm watching Vito, whose eyes meet mine in the mirror with such intensity it steals my breath.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice rough. "This is the one."

Vivienne discusses alterations, delivery timelines, accessory options—all the practical details that suddenly seem incredibly distant and unimportant compared to the crackling energy between Vito and me.

"I'll give you a moment to discuss any final details," she says finally, professional enough to recognize the tension in the room. "Take your time. When you're ready, Jenna will help you change."

She and her assistants withdraw discreetly, leaving us alone in the VIP suite. Vito rises from his seat, approaching me slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine as I stand on the viewing platform in the wedding gown.

"You're breathtaking," he says quietly. "Every man at the ceremony will envy me."

"Is that what matters to you?" I ask, my voice not quite steady. "Others envying you?"

"No." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "What matters is that you'll be mine. Officially. Completely."

"I'm not yours," I protest, the words automatic but lacking conviction. "A ceremony doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it?" His hand rises, fingers brushing lightly against the exposed skin of my back where the dress dips low. The touch sends electricity racing along my spine. "You gave yourself to me already, bambola . The ceremony merely confirms what we both already know."

I should step away. Should remind him of all the reasons this wedding is a sham, all the ways he's forced this situation upon me. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly into his touch, my body betraying my mind's protestations.

"This isn't real," I whisper, though I'm no longer sure what I mean by "this"—the wedding? The dress? The growing attraction between us?

"It feels real." His fingers trail up my spine, coming to rest at the nape of my neck. "You, in this dress. Me, unable to look away from you. That's as real as anything in this world."

The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. How can this be the same man who killed my father without hesitation? Who ordered a man tortured for information? Who keeps me essentially prisoner in his penthouse?

Yet here he is, looking at me like I'm something precious, something desirable beyond the political advantage our marriage represents.

A door opens somewhere in the main salon, voices rising briefly before subsiding. Vito's head turns sharply toward the sound, his posture immediately tensing. The momentary vulnerability vanishes, replaced by the vigilant predator I glimpsed in the car.

"What is it?" I ask, suddenly alert to his change in demeanor.

"Nothing," he says, but I don't believe him. His attention returns to me, but the intensity has shifted from desire to something more calculating. "We need to finish up here."

But before I can respond, his expression changes again, determination replacing caution. In one fluid movement, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the fitting room, his movements swift and purposeful.

"What are you doing?" I whisper as he pushes open the door, guiding me inside before following and closing it behind us.

The space feels impossibly small with his large frame filling it, the white dress surrounding me in a cloud of fabric between us. Vito's eyes are dark, intent, as he backs me against the mirrored wall.

"Vito, what?—"

"Shh." He places a finger against my lips, his gaze moving rapidly between my eyes and the closed door. "Trust me."

And despite every rational reason not to, I find that I do.