Page 44 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

The ceiling plaster swirls in patterns I've memorized over the past two hours.

Vito's breathing beside me has finally settled into the deep, even rhythm of genuine sleep.

I've been waiting, counting every exhale, listening for the subtle change that signals his transition from wakefulness to slumber.

The man sleeps like he does everything else—with disciplined efficiency. No tossing, no turning. Just controlled stillness, as if he's alert even in unconsciousness.

The hallway is dark, but I've mapped every square inch of this penthouse in my weeks of captivity. I navigate without needing light, moving toward the kitchen where the city glow through the windows will be enough to see by.

I turn on a single small lamp, its soft illumination creating a bubble of light in the darkness. My hands tremble slightly as I dial the number Elena programmed into the phone earlier today, hidden in the moment when Sofia left us alone to retrieve her artwork.

"This is your lifeline," she'd whispered, pressing the small device into my palm. "Use it only when you're absolutely certain you're alone."

The phone rings once, twice, three times before connecting.

"Hello?" A male voice, alert despite the hour, the Irish lilt unmistakable even in that single word.

My throat constricts, words momentarily failing me.

"Hello, Liam?" I finally manage, voice barely above a whisper.

A pause, then: "Caterina Gallo." His tone holds surprise, a hint of amusement, and something darker underneath. "This is... unexpected."

"We need to talk," I say, straightening my spine, gathering my courage.

"I believe we had an arrangement for that." The edge in his voice sharpens. "Before you disappeared with Vittore Rosso."

"I didn't disappear with him. He took me after he killed my father."

"Semantics." The dismissal in his tone makes my teeth clench. "The result is the same. You made a promise to me, Caterina. A binding agreement."

I close my eyes briefly, steeling myself. "That's why I'm calling. The arrangement—it needs to end."

His laugh is cold, without humor. "End? That's not how this works."

"Liam, please. I'm asking you to call off whatever you're planning against Vito." The words tumble out in a desperate rush. "This will only lead to bloodshed, to war between the families."

"War is coming regardless," he states flatly. "You're simply the excuse we needed."

The confirmation of Elena's assessment sends ice through my veins. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

"And yet, here we are." A pause, the sound of liquid being poured. "You promised yourself to me, Caterina. Your hand in marriage in exchange for your father's death."

"A death Vito handled," I counter.

"That doesn't nullify our agreement." His voice hardens. "You belong to me now. Rosso stole what was mine."

The possessive claim makes my skin crawl. "I don't belong to anyone."

"We both know that's not true." Something shifts in his tone, becoming almost gentle. "Do you think he truly cares for you? The great Vittore Rosso? You're a political pawn to him, nothing more."

The words strike closer to my doubts than I care to admit. "This isn't about Vito. It's about stopping unnecessary violence."

"Violence is necessary sometimes, darling." The endearment sounds wrong in his mouth. "It's how our world maintains balance."

"Not this violence. Not over me." I grip the counter edge, knuckles whitening. "Please, Liam. Call it off. I'll—I'll figure something out. Another arrangement."

"The only arrangement I'm interested in is the one we already made." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "You're my betrothed, Caterina. Mine by right and by agreement."

"An agreement made under duress," I argue, desperation edging into my tone. "I was trying to escape my father. I'd have promised anything."

"And now you've made another promise to Rosso." Bitterness colors his words. "You seem to have a habit of pledging yourself to powerful men when it suits your purpose."

The accusation stings. "That's not fair."

"Life rarely is." He pauses, and I can almost see him leaning forward, intense and focused. "Here's what's going to happen, Caterina. You have three days to leave Rosso and come to me. Willingly."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we take you anyway." The matter-of-fact delivery chills me. "After we've eliminated the competition."

"You can't kill Vito," I protest, shock making me careless with my volume.

"Can't we?" His amusement is audible. "We've been planning this for months, darling. The shooter was just a warning—a message to let him know what's coming."

Horror washes over me as I realize the depth of what I've set in motion. "This is madness."

"This is business." His tone turns clinical. "Rosso's elimination serves multiple purposes. It removes our primary competition in the territory, it avenges the slight against our family honor, and it delivers you back where you belong."

"With you," I state flatly.

"Precisely." A pause. "Though I admit, I find myself curious about what's transpired between you and Rosso to make you so... protective of him."

Heat floods my face, shame and anger mingling. "That's none of your concern."

"Everything about you is my concern." The possessiveness in his voice mirrors Vito's, yet lacking the undercurrent of respect I've come to recognize in the latter. "Has he touched what's mine, Caterina? Claimed what was promised to me?"

I swallow hard against the revulsion his words inspire. "I won't be traded between men like property."

"Three days," he repeats, ignoring my declaration. "Either you come to me willingly, or we come for you. And Rosso dies either way."

"Liam—"

"The coffee shop across from St. Patrick's. Seven PM, three days from now. Come alone." He pauses. "Or don't come at all, and accept the consequences."

"Please," I try one last time. "This isn't what I wanted."

"It's what you agreed to." His voice turns final. "Three days, Caterina. Choose wisely."

The line goes dead, leaving me clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip, panic rising in my chest like floodwater.

"Who was that?"

The voice—Vito's voice—comes from behind me, and I whirl around, the phone clattering to the counter as my hand flies to my throat.

He stands in the shadows of the hallway, his expression unreadable in the dim light. How long has he been there? How much did he hear?

"Vito," I breathe, mind racing for an explanation, an excuse, anything to deflect the thunder I see building in his eyes.

He steps forward into the circle of lamplight, and the cold fury on his face steals my breath. This isn't the controlled displeasure I've witnessed before—this is rage barely contained, all the more terrifying for its quiet intensity.

"I asked you a question." His voice is deadly soft. "Who was that on the phone?"

"No one," I manage, the lie pathetic even to my own ears.

"Don't." The single word cracks like a whip. "Don't lie to me, Caterina. Not now."

He moves closer, his gaze falling to the burner phone on the counter. With deliberate slowness, he picks it up, examining it.

"Where did you get this?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

I remain silent, calculating options that rapidly dwindle under his scrutiny.

"Your cousin," he concludes, setting the phone down with precision. "Elena Messina. At the Greenhouse today."

Still, I say nothing, fear and defiance warring within me.

Vito's laugh is cold, mirthless. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't notice?"

"Notice what?" I lift my chin, clinging to the rapidly disintegrating pretense.

His hand slams down on the counter beside me, making me flinch despite myself. "Enough games! Who were you talking to?"

The demand echoes in the silent kitchen, leaving no room for evasion. I consider my options—continue denying, attempt distraction, or confess a partial truth. None seem likely to succeed against Vito's apparent certainty.

"It doesn't matter," I try. "It was personal."

"Personal," he repeats, the word dripping with disdain. "There is nothing personal in our world, Caterina. Everything is business. Everything is strategy."

"Not everything," I whisper, thinking of the moments we've shared, the connection that's grown despite our circumstances.

"Clearly." His expression hardens further. "Who. Was. It."

Something in his tone—the finality of it, the dangerous edge—tells me this is my last chance for honesty before consequences I can't predict.

"Liam Costello," I admit finally, the name falling like a stone between us.

Vito goes perfectly still, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His eyes never leave mine, searching for confirmation of what he must have already suspected.

"The Irish," he says flatly. "You've been conspiring with the Irish."

"Not conspiring," I protest. "I was trying to stop them."

"Stop them from what, exactly?" His voice is calm now, deceptively so.

I swallow hard. "From coming after you. From starting a war."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a cold fury that makes me take an involuntary step back. "You knew about the hit. The shooter at the restaurant."

"Not specifically," I clarify quickly. "I didn't know when or how they would move against you."

"But you knew they would." He steps closer, his height suddenly intimidating as he towers over me. "How long, Caterina? How long have you been in contact with Liam Costello?"

The question I've been dreading. The truth I can't hide any longer.

"Since before you killed my father," I whisper.

Something flickers in his eyes—not just anger now, but a deeper emotion. Betrayal, perhaps. It cuts through me more sharply than I expect.

"Explain," he demands. "All of it. Now."

The command brooks no argument. The time for half-truths and evasions has passed.

"I made a deal with Liam," I begin, voice steadier than I feel. "My hand in marriage in exchange for my father's death."

Vito's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking at his temple. "When?"

"Three weeks before you came to the restaurant. Before you... took over." I force myself to maintain eye contact, to own the truth I've hidden. "My father was planning to marry me off to Carlo Bianchi. I was desperate."

"So you turned to the Irish." His tone is flat, judgmental. "Our enemies."

"I had nowhere else to turn!" The words burst out, raw with remembered desperation. "My father was a monster. You've seen what he did to my mother. What he was doing to Sofia. What choice did I have?"

"And your arrangement with Costello? The details."

I close my eyes briefly. "Simple. He kills my father. I marry him. My mother and Sofia get protection."

"And then I killed your father instead." Vito's laugh is hard, humorless. "Throwing a wrench in your perfect plan."

"Nothing about it was perfect," I snap. "It was survival."

"Yet you never thought to mention this small detail during our time together." His voice drops dangerously. "During our intimacy."

Heat floods my face, shame and defiance mingling. "Would it have mattered? Would you have cared that I'd made a desperate bargain before I even knew you existed?"

"You lied to me," he states, the simplicity of the accusation cutting deeper than elaborate reproach.

"I didn't lie," I counter. "I just didn't tell you."

"A lie of omission is still a lie." He steps closer, until I'm caught between his body and the counter. "And now the Irish are moving against me because they believe I've stolen what's theirs."

I flinch at the phrasing—so similar to how Liam referred to me. "I'm not property to be stolen."

"Yet you sold yourself quite effectively," Vito observes coldly. "First to Costello, then to me."

The accusation lands like a slap. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, the sound sharp as broken glass. "You've been playing both sides, Caterina. Warming my bed while conspiring with my enemies."

"I wasn't conspiring! I was trying to stop them!" I push against his chest, frustrated by his refusal to understand. "I called Liam to call off the hit, not to encourage it!"

His hands capture my wrists, pinning them against the counter behind me. "And why would you do that? Why protect the man who killed your father, who forced you into this engagement?"

The question hangs between us, demanding a truth I'm not ready to acknowledge even to myself.

"Because I don't want more bloodshed," I answer, the partial truth all I can offer.

"Lies," he hisses, leaning closer until his breath fans my cheek. "Try again."

"Because it would endanger my family," I attempt, another fragment of truth.

His grip tightens on my wrists, not enough to hurt but enough to underscore his power. "One more time, Caterina. The truth."

I meet his gaze, defiance warring with the impossible honesty he demands. "Because I don't want you dead," I admit finally, the words barely audible. "Despite everything... I don't want you dead."

Something shifts in his expression—the fury still present but now layered with something more complex. "And why is that?"

"You know why," I whisper, unable to articulate the confusion of emotions he inspires.

"Say it." His command is relentless, inexorable.

"Because I feel something for you," I confess, the admission torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "Something I shouldn't."

His eyes darken, hunger momentarily eclipsing anger. "And yet you still lied. Still kept me in the dark while my enemies plotted against me."

"I was afraid," I admit. "Afraid of what you'd do if you knew."

"You should be afraid now." His voice drops to a dangerous murmur. "You've betrayed me, Caterina. After everything I've given you."

"I haven't betrayed you!" I struggle against his grip, frustration building. "I'm trying to protect you!"

"From a threat you helped create," he points out ruthlessly. "How convenient."

"There's nothing convenient about any of this!" My voice rises despite my effort to control it. "I'm caught between two powerful men who both think they own me. Who both treat me like a prize to be won rather than a person with choices!"

"And what choice have you made?" He leans closer, his body pressing mine against the counter. "Which man do you belong to, Caterina?"

"I belong to myself," I insist, though my body betrays me, responding to his proximity with a heat I can't control.

"No." His lips brush my ear, sending shivers down my spine despite my anger. "You belong to me. You've belonged to me since the moment I claimed you."

"Claiming isn't owning," I argue, breathless despite myself.

His hand releases one of my wrists, moving to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "In our world, they're one and the same."