Page 39 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The restaurant is a study in understated elegance—soft lighting, gleaming silverware, and pristine white tablecloths. Per Se, one of the most exclusive dining establishments in New York, where reservations typically require months of advance planning. For Vito, of course, the doors simply open.

I smooth the napkin across my lap, still feeling the aftershocks of our encounter at the bridal salon.

My body remains flushed with lingering awareness, a pleasant hum beneath my skin that makes every sensation more vivid—the weight of the silver bracelet on my wrist, the brush of fabric against my thighs, the intensity of Vito's gaze across the table.

"Wine?" Vito offers, signaling the sommelier who materializes instantly at our table.

"Please."

The sommelier presents a bottle for Vito's approval. After a perfunctory nod from him, wine is poured into crystal glasses that catch the candlelight like liquid rubies.

"You're quiet," Vito observes after the sommelier departs.

I take a sip of wine, savoring the complex flavors that bloom across my tongue. "Just taking it all in."

His eyes don't leave my face. "The restaurant?"

"Everything." I gesture vaguely around us. "This. Us. The surreal nature of it all."

"Surreal?" One eyebrow raises slightly.

"A month ago I was living at home, planning a future that looks nothing like..." I trail off, gesturing between us. "Nothing like this."

"Disappointment?" His tone is casual, but I detect the razor edge beneath.

"That's not what I said." I meet his gaze directly. "Just... adjustment."

The waiter arrives with our first course—delicate morsels arranged with artistic precision on porcelain plates. We eat in comfortable silence, the flavors exquisite but barely registering against the awareness of Vito's presence across from me.

I notice how other diners glance our way, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, fear, and envy. They know who Vito is, even if they pretend not to. Power has its own gravity, pulling attention like a black hole absorbs light.

"Why here?" I ask as our plates are cleared. "Why somewhere so public?"

"I already explained that." His expression reveals nothing.

"Yes, making a statement. But there are other restaurants. Other ways to be seen."

He studies me for a moment before answering. "This is the kind of establishment befitting Don Vittore Rosso and his future wife. The right people will see us here, and word will travel."

"The right people meaning the Costellos."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Among others."

The main course arrives—perfectly seared scallops for me, venison for him. I take a bite, the flavors complex and perfect, yet I barely taste it. My thoughts drift to my mother and Sofia, wondering what they're eating tonight in their own gilded cage at the Greenhouse.

"What's wrong?" Vito asks, his perception sharper than I'd like.

"Nothing," I reply automatically.

"Caterina." My name in his mouth is both warning and entreaty. "After everything we've shared, dishonesty seems... beneath us both."

The unexpected vulnerability in his statement catches me off guard.

"I was thinking about my mother and Sofia," I admit. "Wondering how they're doing."

Something shifts in his expression. "They're well cared for."

"I know, but..." I hesitate, uncertain why I'm sharing this. "I've never been away from them for this long before. Even in college, I lived at home."

"You're very close," he observes.

"We had to be." I look down at my plate, pushing a scallop with my fork. "My father wasn't exactly the nurturing type. We protected each other."

Vito remains silent, allowing me space to continue if I choose. The lack of pressure is strangely comforting.

"Sofia's still so young. Sixteen is a difficult age even without..." I gesture vaguely, encompassing our situation. "And my mother—she's stronger than people realize, but this has been hard for her."

"And your cousin? Elena?" Vito's question seems casual, but something in his tone catches my attention.

I keep my expression neutral, remembering Elena's warnings about the Irish. "I miss her too."

Vito takes a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "Family is important."

"It is," I agree, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

"In our world, it's everything." He sets down his glass with practiced precision. "The foundation upon which everything else is built."

"Our world," I repeat, the phrase sitting uncomfortably between us.

"Yes, Caterina. Our world." His gaze intensifies. "Whether you've accepted it yet or not."

I want to protest, to insist that his world—the world of La Famiglia , of power built on violence and fear—is not mine and never will be. But the words die on my tongue, feeling hollow after everything that's transpired between us.

"I miss them," I say instead, the admission costing me more than it should. "Every day."

Vito is silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is unexpectedly gentle. "I understand."

"Do you?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

"More than you might think." He signals for the waiter to clear our plates. "Family ties shape us, for better or worse."

There's something in his tone—a hint of old pain, perhaps—that makes me curious about his own family. I know his father was a brutal man, that much he's revealed. But the rest remains a mystery.

"Tell me about yours," I venture. "Your family."

A shadow crosses his face. "Another time, perhaps."

The dessert arrives—something chocolate and decadent that I can't fully appreciate with my thoughts still tangled around my family, around Vito's non-answer, around the growing complexity between us.

"What would make this easier for you?" Vito asks suddenly.

I look up, startled by the question. "What?"

"This transition. This 'adjustment,' as you called it." His eyes remain steady on mine. "What would help?"

The question seems genuine, which throws me off balance. "I... I don't know."

"Yes, you do." His perception is unsettling. "Tell me."

"Seeing them," I admit finally. "My mother and Sofia. Elena too. Even just for an afternoon."

Vito considers this, his expression giving nothing away. "That could be arranged."

Hope flares unexpectedly. "Really?"

"Under appropriate security measures, yes." He watches me carefully. "Would that help?"

"Yes," I say simply, not wanting to overplay my hand. "It would."

He nods once, decision apparently made. "I'll make the arrangements."

"Thank you." The words feel strange on my tongue—gratitude to the man who's upended my entire existence.

"Don't thank me yet." His lips curve slightly. "There will be conditions."

Of course there would be. Nothing with Vito comes without strings attached. "What kind of conditions?"

"Nothing onerous. Your continued cooperation. Appropriate behavior in public. The usual."

"The usual for captive fiancées?" I can't help the sarcasm, though it lacks the bite it would have had days ago.

He actually chuckles, the sound surprising in its warmth. "For my future wife, yes."

The check arrives—or rather, it doesn't. Vito stands, offering me his hand with that old-world courtesy that still catches me off guard. "Shall we?"

I take his hand, allowing him to guide me through the restaurant.

As we weave between tables, I notice the other diners watching us—some openly, some trying to be subtle.

To them, we must look like the perfect power couple—Vito in his immaculate suit, me in my tasteful dress, the picture of mafia royalty.

If only they knew the complicated truth beneath the facade.

Outside, the city glitters in the darkness, lights reflecting off glass towers like stars brought down to earth. Vito's hand rests at the small of my back, a possessive gesture that feels both constraining and oddly comforting.

Dante holds the car door open. He slips me a wink as I slide into the Bentley, Vito following close behind.

As we pull away from the curb, I find myself watching Vito's profile against the backdrop of passing city lights. The strong line of his jaw, the precise cut of his hair, the hints of weariness only visible in the shadows around his eyes—details I've come to notice, to catalog almost unconsciously.

"You're staring," he observes without looking at me.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"How appearances can be deceiving." I lean back against the leather seat. "All those people watching us tonight, thinking they know exactly what they're seeing."

Now he does turn to look at me, curiosity evident in his expression. "And what do you think they saw?"

"Power. Wealth. A match made in mafia heaven." I shrug slightly. "The perfect couple."

"Aren't we?" There's a hint of challenge in his voice.

"We're many things, Vito. Perfect isn't one of them."

He reaches over, taking my hand. The casual intimacy of the gesture startles me, but I don't pull away. "Perhaps not. But we're becoming... something."

I can't argue with that. Whatever this is between us—Stockholm syndrome, genuine connection, or some complex mixture of both—it's undeniably evolving into something neither of us anticipated.

"Yes," I agree softly. "Something."

He studies our joined hands for a moment. "I meant what I said about arranging a visit with your family."

"I know." And strangely, I do know. Whatever else Vito may be, his word seems to be reliable once given.

"Tomorrow, perhaps." He glances out the window as we approach the penthouse. "I'll need to make security arrangements."

"Tomorrow would be..." I hesitate, not wanting to appear too eager. "Nice."

The car pulls into the private garage beneath the penthouse building. Vito releases my hand as Dante opens the door, but the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin.

As we ride the elevator up to the penthouse, standing close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush, I find myself wondering how we've arrived at this strange détente.

How the man I viewed as my captor, my enemy, has become someone whose touch I crave, whose approval matters more than it should.

The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse foyer. Vito steps aside, allowing me to exit first.

"It's been a long day," he says, watching me with that intensity that never seems to dim. "You should rest."

I nod, suddenly aware of the fatigue pulling at my limbs. "Yes."

But I make no move toward the bedroom. Instead, I find myself standing before him, caught in the gravity of his presence.

"Vito?" My voice is softer than intended.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For considering what I said about my family."

His expression softens fractionally. "Family is important to me too, Caterina. Never doubt that."

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. Without overthinking it, I step forward and rise on my toes, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek.

"Goodnight," I whisper, stepping back before he can respond.

I turn and walk toward the bedroom, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. At the doorway, I glance back to find him still watching me, his expression a mixture of hunger and something softer, more vulnerable.

For a moment, I consider asking him to join me, to continue what began in the fitting room. But the day has been overwhelming enough, filled with revelations and shifting dynamics I'm still struggling to understand.

So instead, I simply nod once before closing the door behind me, leaving Vito standing in the foyer—so close, yet separated by more than just a wooden door.

Tomorrow, I'll see my family. Tomorrow, I'll figure out how to navigate this increasingly complicated situation with the Irish, with Liam, with my own conflicted feelings for Vito. Tomorrow, I'll face the consequences of whatever game we're playing.

But tonight, I'll dream of white dresses and dark eyes, of gentle hands and whispered promises—and try not to think about how quickly I'm losing myself in the man I once swore to hate.