Page 37 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The space is close, intimate, mirrors reflecting Caterina from all angles as she stands against the wall in cascades of white lace. Her eyes widen with confusion, then understanding as my gaze shifts between her and the door.

"What's happening?" she whispers, concern edging her voice.

"Movement in the salon," I murmur, keeping my voice low. "Probably nothing, but..."

I don't finish the thought. Since Sullivan's attempt, I've been hyperaware of our surroundings, cataloging potential threats, escape routes, vulnerabilities.

The sudden influx of voices beyond the VIP suite—male, authoritative, disrupting the feminine hush of the bridal salon—triggered alarms honed by years of survival.

But now, with Caterina backed against the mirrored wall, swathed in white lace that makes her skin glow like alabaster, different instincts override caution. The danger, real or imagined, recedes against the immediate reality of her—breathless, uncertain, beautiful beyond description.

"Vito?" Her voice is hushed, questioning.

I should be listening for threats, planning our exit strategy if needed. Instead, I'm captivated by the rapid pulse visible at the base of her throat, the slight part of her lips, the way the wedding dress frames her body like it was created specifically for her.

"You're exquisite," I tell her, the words emerging rougher than intended.

Her cheeks flush, color blooming across her skin. "This isn't exactly the time?—"

I silence her with a kiss, gentle at first, then deepening as she responds. Her initial surprise melts quickly into reciprocation, her body arching slightly toward mine despite the voluminous dress between us.

When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for a beat longer than necessary, lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. When they open, the desire I see reflected there matches my own.

"We can't," she whispers, but her hands betray her, coming to rest on my shoulders rather than pushing me away. "Not here."

"Why not here?" I move closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. The dress rustles softly, layers of fabric creating a barrier I'm determined to navigate.

"Because—" she draws a sharp breath as my lips find the sensitive spot just below her ear "—we're in a bridal salon. Someone could walk in."

"The door is locked," I murmur against her skin. "And my security is outside."

"Still..." Her protest weakens as my hands find their way beneath the layers of her dress, seeking the warmth of her skin.

"Still?" I prompt, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.

She gestures vaguely at the dress. "It's... it would be disrespectful. To the white. To the dress."

The unexpected sentiment surprises me. This woman, who has defied me at every turn, who makes no secret of her resentment for our arranged marriage, suddenly concerned about respecting the symbolism of a wedding dress.

"I had no idea you were so traditional," I observe, unable to keep a hint of amusement from my tone.

Her eyes flash with annoyance. "I'm not. It's just—" She breaks off, seeming to search for words. "Some things should remain... I don't know. Sacred?"

The irony isn't lost on me—the woman who doesn't want this marriage still holding certain aspects of the ritual in reverence. It's another fascinating contradiction in the increasingly complex puzzle that is Caterina Gallo.

"Then we'll respect the dress," I concede, my hands shifting to her waist. "But that doesn't mean I can't worship you in other ways."

Before she can question my meaning, I begin to kneel, carefully gathering the fabric of her dress to keep it from touching the floor as I do.

The significance of the gesture—me on my knees before her—isn't lost on either of us.

In my world, I kneel to no one. Yet here I am, willingly lowering myself before this woman who has somehow breached defenses I thought impenetrable.

Her breath catches as understanding dawns. "Vito, you can't?—"

"I can," I counter, looking up at her from my position. "The question is: will you let me?"

The power dynamic shifts in that moment—me physically below her, yet still controlling the encounter; her standing above me, yet vulnerable in her desire. Her hands clutch at the fabric of her dress, knuckles white with tension or anticipation or both.

"This is madness," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice.

"Most worthwhile things are." I maintain eye contact as my hands find her ankles, then slowly trace upward along her calves. "Say no, and I'll stop."

She doesn't say no. Instead, she bites her lower lip, a gesture of uncertainty that sends heat coursing through me. Her silence is permission enough.

I take my time, savoring the journey, mindful of her concern for the dress even as I gradually ease it upward. When I reach the edge of her underwear, I pause, giving her one final chance to reconsider.

"Vito..." My name on her lips sounds like both a plea and a prayer.

“Yes or no, bambola ?” My voice is low, dangerous, but not unkind. She needs to give it to me. I won’t take it.

Her consent isn’t loud.

It’s not even verbal.

It’s in the slight widening of her stance, the way her breath catches, the way her fingers flex against the counter like she’s already bracing for impact. The barest nod. But I see it.

I feel it.

And it’s all the permission I need.

I drop to my knees behind her like a sinner worshipping at a forbidden altar.

What follows isn’t hurried. It’s not greedy. It’s ritual .

I press her open with firm hands, dragging my thumbs along the crease of her thighs, admiring the slick heat already waiting for me. “Look at you,” I murmur against her skin. “Dripping for me, bambolina . So sweet and ready, and I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

Then I do.

I devour her.

My tongue parts her folds, slow and deep, savoring the first taste like it’s the finest wine I’ve ever had—complex, addictive, uniquely hers. I moan against her, letting the vibration sink into her core as I lick her again, then again, each pass more deliberate than the last.

She gasps—quiet and sharp—and I catch her reflection in the mirror above us. She’s biting her lip, eyes wide, fingers white-knuckled on the marble edge.

“Don’t hide from me,” I growl into her cunt. “Let me hear it.”

She whimpers, a broken sound that makes my cock throb against the zipper of my pants. My hands come up to anchor her hips, holding her firm as her knees begin to tremble.

She’s trying to stay quiet. Controlled. But every time I circle her clit with my tongue and suck it between my lips, she falters—hips twitching, thighs clenching, little sounds spilling out despite her pride.

I eat her until she’s panting, forehead pressed to the mirror, fogging it with every ragged exhale.

“Vito…” she gasps, and fuck, the sound of my name on her lips like that—pleading, reverent, ruined—nearly undoes me.

I pull her back into my mouth with a groan, tongue flicking harder, faster, lips sealed around her until I feel it—the telltale quiver, the sharp breath, the desperate clench of her thighs.

“Come for me,” I command against her soaked heat. “Come on my tongue like a good girl.”

She breaks.

Her whole body shudders, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the scream she can’t hold back. “Vito— fuck ?—”

Her legs nearly give out, but I hold her steady, my hands gripping her hips like handles as I ride out every twitch, every pulse of her orgasm. Her thighs quake. Her moans are choked and frantic, her other hand slamming into the mirror to keep herself upright.

Even after she comes, I don’t stop.

Not immediately.

I ease her down from the edge with soft licks, gentler now—tracing her folds, pressing light kisses to her swollen clit, savoring the aftershock like dessert. She flinches, too sensitive, and I murmur, “Shh, I’ve got you,” as I press my palms up her sides.

Only when I feel her start to breathe again—really breathe —do I pull away, dragging my hands up her thighs, her hips, her ribs.

In the mirror, I meet her gaze.

She looks wrecked .

Hair tangled. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Her skin flushed, her eyes wild. And all of it— every last inch of it —is mine.

“You should see yourself right now,” I murmur into her ear, voice thick with pride and possession. “Painted in pleasure. And every drop of it was for me.”

She tries to speak, but her voice is gone.

And god, it’s perfect.

As I carefully stand, mindful of the dress, her expression is a study in contradictions—satisfaction warring with disbelief, vulnerability with newfound power.

I smooth the fabric of her dress back into place, restoring her to bridal perfection, though the flush on her skin and the brightness of her eyes tell a different story.

"That was..." She seems at a loss for words.

"Just the beginning," I finish for her, straightening my tie with practiced ease. "Consider it a preview of our wedding night."

Her eyes widen slightly. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're magnificent." I brush a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that feels unexpectedly tender. "We should return before they send a search party."

Reality reasserts itself—we're in a bridal salon, surrounded by strangers, with my security team waiting outside and potential threats still unidentified. The intimate cocoon we created threatens to dissolve against the harsh light of practicality.

But before it can, Caterina surprises me once more. She reaches up, drawing my face down to hers for a kiss that's neither tentative nor calculated—just pure, honest desire. When she pulls back, there's a new confidence in her expression, a certainty I haven't seen before.

"Thank you," she says simply.

"For?"

"Making me feel beautiful." The admission seems to cost her, vulnerability flickering across her features before determination replaces it. "Even if just for a moment."