Page 43 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The penthouse welcomes us with silent luxury after the long drive back from the Hamptons.

Night has fallen over Manhattan, the city lights creating constellations against the darkness beyond our windows.

I watch Caterina as she moves through the space—her shoulders carrying a tension that wasn't there earlier in the day.

"Would you like a drink?" I offer, moving to the bar.

She nods, settling onto one of the leather couches. "Please."

I pour two glasses of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light as I hand one to her. She accepts it with a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"You seem preoccupied," I observe, taking the seat opposite her rather than beside her. Space sometimes yields more truth than proximity.

"It's been an emotional day." She takes a sip, wincing slightly at the strength of the liquor.

"Indeed." I study her over the rim of my glass. "Your family seemed well."

"They did," she agrees. "Better than I expected, honestly."

"The Greenhouse suits them." I keep my tone casual. "Your mother especially seems to have found some peace there."

Caterina's expression softens at the mention of her mother. "She mentioned that you visit occasionally. To check on them."

"I do." I see no reason to deny it. "They're under my protection now. That carries certain responsibilities."

She hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of her glass. "What did you and my mother talk about? In the garden?"

The directness of the question doesn't surprise me. Caterina has never been one to approach things obliquely when a direct assault will serve.

"You, primarily," I answer truthfully.

"Me?" She straightens, attention fully engaged now. "What about me?"

"Your childhood. Your protective nature." I allow a hint of admiration to color my tone. "Your habit of placing yourself between danger and those you love."

Her eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by my accuracy. "My mother has always been too willing to share."

"She's proud of you," I continue, watching the effect of these words. "As she should be."

A flush touches her cheeks, vulnerability flickering across her expression before she masters it. "I've only ever done what was necessary."

"That's precisely why it's admirable." I lean forward slightly. "Necessity reveals character, Caterina. What we do when there are no good choices defines us more than any easy decision ever could."

Something clouds her expression—a shadow of worry, perhaps, or guilt. "And what if the necessary choice is still wrong?"

The question carries weight beyond our current conversation. I consider her carefully, measuring my response. "Then we live with the consequences and try to make them right."

"Some consequences can't be fixed," she murmurs, gaze dropping to her glass.

"No," I agree. "But we face them anyway."

Silence stretches between us, comfortable yet charged with unspoken thoughts. I break it deliberately, turning the conversation back to her.

"And what about you and Elena? You two seemed deep in conversation when your mother and I returned from the garden."

Her posture shifts subtly—a tensing of her shoulders, a slight straightening of her spine. Signs most wouldn't notice, but I've made a study of Caterina Gallo's tells.

"Just catching up," she says, voice carefully neutral. "Girl talk."

"Girl talk," I repeat, making no effort to hide my skepticism. "You seemed rather intense for casual conversation."

Her eyes meet mine, defiant yet guarded. "We haven't had much time alone together since... everything changed. There was a lot to discuss."

"Such as?" I press, watching for the micro-expressions that reveal more than words.

"My engagement." She gestures between us with her free hand. "This situation. She's concerned for me, naturally."

"Naturally." I take another sip of scotch, the burn grounding me as I navigate this delicate interrogation. "Elena Messina has always been protective of you, hasn't she?"

"We're close." Caterina shifts slightly, a subtle tell of discomfort. "More like sisters than cousins."

"Close enough to share everything?" I ask, the question deliberately ambiguous.

Her eyes narrow fractionally. "What are you asking, Vito?"

"I'm curious about the nature of your relationship with your cousin." I maintain an expression of casual interest. "The depth of your trust in her."

"I trust Elena with my life," she states firmly. "She's never given me reason not to."

"Trust is a valuable commodity," I observe. "Particularly in our world."

"Our world," she echoes, the phrase sitting uncomfortably between us as it always does.

"Yes, Caterina. Our world." I set my glass down with precision. "The one we both inhabit, whether by choice or circumstance."

She stands abruptly, moving to the window. "I'm tired. It's been a long day."

I allow the subject change, watching as she stares out at the city below. Her reflection in the glass reveals the conflict playing across her features—something more complex than simple fatigue.

"I have some business to attend to in my office," I say, rising. "Don't wait up."

Relief flickers across her face, confirming my suspicion that she wants solitude. "Alright."

I cross to her, placing a light kiss on her temple—a gesture of intimacy that still seems to surprise her. "Get some rest. We can continue our conversation tomorrow."

The promise hangs between us as I withdraw to my office, closing the door behind me but not engaging the lock. Sometimes the appearance of privacy yields more information than surveillance.

Hours pass as I review reports, financial statements, security briefs—the mundane yet essential bureaucracy that maintains my empire. But my thoughts continually drift to Caterina, to the evasiveness in her eyes when I asked about Elena, to the tension that's followed her home from the Hamptons.

Marco's investigation into her potential connection with the Costellos has yielded little concrete evidence so far.

Circumstantial links at best—Elena Messina has been seen at establishments frequented by Irish associates, and there are gaps in our surveillance of Caterina during her college years that could conceivably have allowed contact with Liam Costello.

But nothing definitive. Nothing that explains the Irish shooter's claim that I "stole what wasn't mine." Nothing that explains the growing unease I feel whenever I consider what Caterina might be hiding.

Shortly after midnight, I power down my computer and exit the office silently. The penthouse is dark, quiet except for the ambient hum of the city that never truly sleeps. I move toward the bedroom, steps deliberately soundless from years of cultivated caution.

Caterina lies in bed, her breathing deep and even in the appearance of sleep. I undress and join her, maintaining enough distance not to disturb her while observing the tension in her shoulders that betrays her wakefulness.

She's waiting for something. For me to sleep, perhaps.

I close my eyes, evening my breathing to mimic slumber, curious to see what she'll do when she believes herself unobserved.

Time stretches, minutes bleeding into an hour as I maintain the pretense of sleep. Finally, when the bedside clock reads 1:37 AM, Caterina moves. The mattress shifts slightly as she eases herself up, pausing to check if the movement has disturbed me.

I keep my breathing steady, my body relaxed in practiced stillness. Satisfied that I remain asleep, she slips from the bed with remarkable quietness for someone without my training.

Through barely-opened eyes, I watch her silhouette move across the darkened room, retrieving something from a drawer before disappearing into the hallway. I count to thirty before following, my movements silent on the thick carpet.

The soft glow of a single lamp illuminates the kitchen where Caterina stands, phone pressed to her ear. Her back is to me as I position myself in the shadows of the hallway, close enough to hear but hidden from her line of sight.

"Hello, Liam?"