Page 40 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The road to the Hamptons stretches before us, Manhattan's concrete jungle gradually giving way to more verdant landscapes.

I keep my attention divided between the traffic ahead and Caterina beside me.

She's been quiet since we left the penthouse this morning, her nervous energy evident in the way she fidgets with the silver bracelet on her wrist.

I chose to drive us personally rather than have Dante handle it.

Some journeys warrant a more... intimate approach.

Marco follows in a second vehicle with additional security, but this moment—Caterina's extended visit with her family following their brief lunch together last week—feels like something I should oversee directly.

"Excited?" I ask, breaking the comfortable silence between us.

She turns from the window, expression thoughtful. "Yes. That lunch at Eleven Madison Park was wonderful, but it was so short. Public." Her fingers trace the bracelet absently. "This feels different."

"It is different," I confirm. "A full day, in private surroundings. No time constraints."

"Thank you for that." Her gratitude seems genuine, another small shift in our evolving dynamic. "Sofia barely had time to tell me about her art projects during lunch. And my mother..." She trails off, a shadow crossing her features.

"Your mother seemed well at lunch," I observe. "But I understand limited time in a restaurant isn't the same as being home together."

She nods. "Exactly. Elena and I hardly got to talk at all with everyone there. This is... better."

"We're about twenty minutes out," I inform her, changing lanes smoothly. "The Greenhouse has been prepared for your visit."

"The Greenhouse," she repeats. "Such an innocuous name for a gilded cage."

"It's hardly a cage, Caterina. The property spans fifteen acres, with gardens, a pool, tennis courts." I glance at her briefly. "Your mother has developed quite an appreciation for the rose garden since you saw her last."

This catches her attention. "She always loved roses. But my father would never give her a garden, so she could never grow them properly."

"She has free rein of the gardens now. The staff tells me she spends most mornings there."

Caterina studies me, something unreadable in her expression. "You keep tabs on them."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Of course. They're family now."

"Family," she echoes, testing the word like it's written in a foreign language.

"Yes, bambola . Family." I turn onto the private road that leads to the estate. "Which means they fall under my protection and care."

She falls silent again as the Greenhouse comes into view—a sprawling estate of glass and stone nestled among manicured grounds. Secluded, defensible, beautiful—the perfect place to keep precious things safe from the world's dangers.

Security personnel positioned discreetly around the perimeter come to attention as we approach. The main gates swing open automatically, recognition software identifying my vehicle long before we reach the entrance.

I pull to a stop in the circular driveway, cutting the engine just as Marco's SUV arrives behind us. Caterina seems momentarily frozen beside me, her eyes fixed on the front entrance where her mother now stands, Sofia beside her.

"They're waiting for you," I say gently.

She turns to me, vulnerability naked in her eyes for just a moment before she masters it. "Thank you for this."

"Go," I nod toward the door. "We have all day."

She doesn't need further encouragement. In an instant, she's out of the car and hurrying toward her family.

Sofia breaks away first, running to meet her sister halfway.

Their collision is a tangle of arms and laughter, more exuberant than the restrained greeting they'd exchanged at the restaurant.

Olga Gallo approaches more sedately, but the emotion on her face is unmistakable as she enfolds both her daughters in an embrace.

I remain by the car, allowing them this moment without intrusion. Marco approaches, positioning himself at a respectful distance.

"Everything secure?" I ask, eyes never leaving the reunited family.

"Perimeter is locked down. Elena Messina arrived an hour ago, as requested. She's waiting in the east wing sitting room."

"Any issues with the arrangements?"

Marco shakes his head. "None. Mrs. Gallo was quite emotional when we informed her of today's extended visit."

I nod, satisfied. "Maintain regular patrols, but give them privacy. I want this to feel as normal as possible."

"Understood, boss." Marco hesitates. "Will you be staying for the duration?"

"Yes." My tone indicates the conversation is over.

Marco takes the hint, moving away to coordinate with the rest of the security team. I finally approach the family reunion, noting how Caterina's entire demeanor has transformed—her shoulders relaxed, her smile unreserved in a way I've never witnessed, even during our restaurant lunch.

She turns as she senses my approach, one arm still around her sister's shoulders. "Vito, you remember my mother and Sofia."

"Of course." I nod respectfully to Olga. "Mrs. Gallo, I trust the accommodations continue to meet your needs?"

"Yes, Don Vittore." Her deference is automatic, ingrained from years of navigating life adjacent to power. "We are very comfortable. Thank you for bringing Caterina for a proper visit this time."

Sofia watches me with open wariness, pressing closer to her sister. The girl has Caterina's eyes—sharp, assessing, too perceptive for her age.

"Sofia," I acknowledge her with a nod.

"Don Vittore," she replies, the formal address sounding strange from such a young voice.

"Your cousin is waiting inside," I tell Caterina. "Perhaps Sofia could show you to her while I speak with your mother about some arrangements for today."

Understanding flickers in Caterina's eyes—she knows this separation is deliberate, but the opportunity for quality time with Elena outweighs any protest she might make.

"Of course." She squeezes her sister's shoulders. "Lead the way, Sof."

As they walk toward the house, Sofia already chattering animatedly about all she wants to show her sister, I turn my attention to Olga Gallo. The woman has aged gracefully, though strain has left its mark in the fine lines around her eyes and the premature silver threading through her dark hair.

"Walk with me, Mrs. Gallo?" I gesture toward the garden path.

"Please, call me Olga," she says as we begin walking. "And thank you again for bringing Caterina for a longer visit. Our lunch last week was lovely, but..."

"But crowded and brief," I finish for her. "I understand. This seemed appropriate."

"Their bond is strong," she observes, watching her daughters disappear into the house.

"I've noticed." I keep my pace measured to accommodate her shorter stride. "Even during your brief lunch, it was evident."

We reach a stone bench nestled among blooming roses—red, pink, white, and yellow blossoms creating a vibrant sanctuary. Olga's handiwork is evident in the careful pruning, the thoughtful arrangement.

"Your garden is impressive," I observe as we sit.

A genuine smile touches her lips. "Thank you. I've found it... therapeutic. Creating beauty after so much ugliness."

I study her profile, noting the resemblance to Caterina—the same graceful cheekbones, the same quiet dignity despite circumstances beyond her control.

"I wanted to speak with you about Caterina," I say, getting to the heart of the matter.

Olga's expression grows cautious. "Is she well? Has she been... difficult?"

The question reveals volumes about what life with Tomasso must have been like—where "difficult" was synonymous with "defiant" and inevitably followed by punishment.

"She's been exactly who she is," I reply carefully. "Strong-willed. Intelligent. Protective of those she cares about."

Relief softens Olga's features. "She's always been that way. Even as a small child, she positioned herself between danger and those she loved."

"Tell me about her," I request, surprising myself with my genuine interest. "Not what's in her file or records, but who she is. Who she's been."

Olga studies me, measuring my sincerity. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods slightly.

"Caterina was only seven the first time she stood up to her father on my behalf.

" Olga's eyes take on a faraway look. "He was in one of his rages—I'd burned his dinner, or some such trivial offense.

He had me cornered in the kitchen, his hand raised, when suddenly Caterina was there between us, her little arms spread wide. "

Something uncomfortable stirs in my chest at the image. "What happened?"

"He was so shocked that he actually stopped. Then he laughed and told her she had spirit." Olga's smile holds no humor. "Of course, that didn't last. As she grew older, her interventions only angered him more."

"Yet she continued to intercede."

"Always. She's a protector by nature." Olga touches a rose petal gently. "When Sofia was born, Caterina was just six. She strove to always make everything perfect; perfect grades, perfect behavior—anything to avoid giving Tomasso reason to focus his anger on the baby."

The picture forming of Caterina is both consistent with the woman I know and revealing of depths I'd only glimpsed.

Her defiance of me takes on new dimensions—not simply rebellion for its own sake, but the deeply ingrained response of someone who's spent her life standing between loved ones and harm.

"Even in college, she came home every night." Olga continues. "She refused dormitory housing, full scholarships that would have taken her away from us. She said her education wasn't worth what might happen in her absence."

"She sacrificed her own opportunities," I observe.