Page 47 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

The cathedral's vaulted ceilings soar overhead, stone and stained glass defying gravity in testament to faith and human ambition.

My footsteps echo on marble as I walk the perimeter, cataloging exits, sightlines, vulnerabilities—the assessment automatic after years of survival in a world where moments of ceremony are also moments of exposure.

St. Patrick's Cathedral wasn't my first choice. Too public, too prominent, too difficult to secure. But tradition demands certain concessions, and a Rosso wedding requires the appropriate setting. The Commission would accept nothing less.

"The west entrance will have four men," Marco says beside me, tablet in hand as he tracks security deployments. "Two visible as ushers, two concealed."

I nod, eyes tracking the path from entrance to altar. "The balcony?"

"Cleared and secured. Dante's team will have sniper positions with full coverage of the interior."

"External perimeter?"

"Three layers deep. Plus NYPD presence—they think it's for a high-profile political wedding.

" Marco's efficiency is reassuring, familiar in a day that feels increasingly unmoored from normal operations.

"We've got men on every rooftop within range, and the subway entrance is temporarily closed for 'maintenance. '"

"The Irish?" I keep my voice neutral, though the name alone sends heat coursing through my veins.

"No unusual movement yet." Marco swipes through surveillance reports on his tablet. "Our sources say Costello's gathering his captains, but they're staying on their territory for now."

"They'll make a move." Of this, I'm certain. "The question is when."

"We're prepared," Marco assures me, his confidence well-earned. "If they're stupid enough to try something at the cathedral, they'll be met with overwhelming force."

I nod, though my instincts whisper caution. Liam Costello isn't his father—more volatile, less strategic. But he's not stupid. The cathedral would be a poor tactical choice for an attack, which makes it a possibility precisely because of its irrationality.

"Double-check the route from the penthouse," I instruct. "Multiple motorcades, decoys in each."

"Already arranged." Marco hesitates, then adds, "Boss... about the ceremony itself. Father Alessandro received your message about the accelerated timeline, but he's concerned about the canonical requirements."

"His concerns have been addressed." My tone permits no further discussion. "The necessary dispensations were obtained."

Money, influence, and the occasional threat—the unholy trinity that greases the wheels of even the holiest institutions. Father Alessandro will perform the ceremony as instructed, his theological concerns soothed by a generous donation to the cathedral restoration fund.

"And Miss Gallo?" Marco asks. "Is she... prepared for today's events?"

The question carries layers. Is she ready? Is she willing? Is she trustworthy after last night's revelations?

"She will be." The conviction in my voice masks the uncertainty I refuse to acknowledge. Caterina's connection to the Irish complicates everything, yet changes nothing about today's necessity. "Her dress?"

"Delivered to the penthouse an hour ago, along with a stylist and security detail."

I nod, satisfied with the practical arrangements while deliberately avoiding deeper questions.

Last night's confrontation in the kitchen replays in my mind—her confession, my anger, the explosive aftermath that left us both raw and exposed.

The memory of her body beneath mine, around mine, sends heat coursing through me even now, in this sacred space.

"The rings?" I ask, redirecting my thoughts.

"Secured." Marco's expression remains professionally neutral, though I sense his curiosity about my accelerated timeline. "Everything is in place, boss. The ceremony can proceed as scheduled."

"Good. Continue the perimeter check. I'll join you shortly."

Marco nods, withdrawing to coordinate with the security teams positioned throughout the cathedral. I remain alone in the nave, surrounded by centuries of tradition and faith—concepts that have always seemed distant from my world of pragmatic violence and calculated control.

Yet today I will participate in one of the oldest traditions, binding Caterina to me through vows spoken before God and witnesses. The irony doesn't escape me.

"Don Vittore." A voice breaks into my thoughts—aged, respectful, familiar.

I turn to find Don Federico Mantini approaching slowly, his cane tapping a measured rhythm against marble. At eighty-three, he's the oldest surviving member of the Commission, retired from active leadership but still commanding respect from all Five Families.

"Don Federico." I incline my head in deference to his age and position. "I didn't expect to see you before the ceremony."

"These old bones rise with the sun, whether I wish it or not." His smile is genuine despite the political complexities between us. He gestures to a nearby pew. "Walk with an old man?"

It's not truly a request, despite its phrasing. I fall into step beside him, matching my pace to his deliberate progress toward the altar. We stop before the first row of pews, and he lowers himself carefully, motioning for me to join him.

"A wedding," he muses, gazing up at the crucifix above the altar. "And the timeline accelerated. The Commission is... intrigued."

I maintain careful neutrality. "Circumstances demanded it."

"Yes, I've heard about these 'circumstances.'" His shrewd eyes move from the crucifix to my face. "The Irish. Making moves they wouldn't dare if your father still lived."

"My father's methods were different," I acknowledge. "But equally effective."

"Your father understood balance," Don Federico says, the observation carrying no judgment. "The delicate equilibrium between strength and restraint."

"Times have changed," I reply. "The old equilibrium no longer serves."

He nods slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we old men cling too tightly to the ways that kept us alive.

" He taps his cane thoughtfully against the floor.

"I knew your grandfather, you know. Francesco was a visionary—saw the need for the Commission when the rest of us were still shooting each other in the streets. "

I remain silent, respecting the reminiscence of a man who has witnessed the evolution of our world from bloody chaos to structured enterprise.

"He also married for alliance," Don Federico continues. "Though in time, it became more. Much more."

"My circumstances are different."

"Are they?" His gaze is too perceptive, too knowing. "A marriage rushed forward to solidify position. A bride with... complicated connections."

My jaw tightens. "You're well-informed."

"I may be old, Vittore, but my ears still work." He smiles faintly. "The Irish have never kept their ambitions quiet, and Costello's boy lacks his father's subtlety."

"The situation is under control," I state flatly.

"I'm sure it is." He stares up at the stained glass, colored light playing across his weathered features. "But control is a curious thing, isn't it? The tighter we grasp, the more slips through our fingers."

I recognize the attempt at wisdom, but have little patience for it today. "With respect, Don Federico?—"

"You misunderstand me," he interrupts gently. "I'm not criticizing your methods. Each Don must find his own way to lead." He shifts slightly, age-spotted hands resting on his cane. "I'm merely observing that some things cannot be controlled, only guided. Like rivers."

"I prefer certainty."

"As did I, at your age." His chuckle holds no mockery, only the perspective of decades. "Yet the older I grow, the more I realize how little is certain in this life."

I remain silent, unwilling to engage in philosophical debate on today of all days.

"Your bride," he says, changing tack. "Tomasso's daughter. I met her once, years ago at a family function. Spirited, if I recall correctly."

"That's one word for it," I acknowledge, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite my mood.

Don Federico's eyes catch the expression, his own crinkling with unexpected warmth. "Ah, so it's like that."

"Like what?"

"She's gotten under your skin." It's not a question. "Rare, for a man like you."

I consider denial, then opt for truth with this man who has seen three generations of my family. "She's... not what I expected."

"They never are, the ones who matter." He nods sagely. "My Maria—God rest her soul—refused my proposal four times before accepting. Said she wouldn't marry a man who thought of her as a transaction."

Despite myself, I'm curious. "What changed her mind?"

"I did." His smile turns wistful. "Or rather, I allowed her to see what I kept hidden from everyone else. The man beneath the Don."

The parallels to my situation with Caterina are uncomfortably precise. "And that was enough?"

"Not at first." He laughs softly. "But it was a beginning. The rest took time, patience, and more vulnerability than I thought myself capable of."

"Vulnerability is a luxury I can't afford," I say automatically. "Especially now."

"So I told myself, for many years." He regards me with something approaching compassion. "Until I realized that without it, I would win every battle but lose the war."

"What war?"

"The one against solitude, my boy." His voice gentles. "The one every man like us fights, whether he admits it or not."

I fall silent, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation yet unable to dismiss his words entirely.

The image of Caterina rises unbidden—her defiance in the face of my anger last night, the raw honesty of her confession, the way she gasped my name rather than submit to my demand of ownership.

"The Commission supports this union," Don Federico says, returning to practical matters. "Stability serves everyone's interests. But I wonder if you've considered what comes after the vows are spoken."

"Security. Alliance. Continuation of the line." The answers come automatically, rehearsed.

"Yes, yes." He waves a dismissive hand. "The practical considerations. I meant beyond that. What kind of marriage you intend to build."

"That seems presumptuous, given the circumstances."

"Perhaps." He struggles to his feet, waving away my offered assistance. "But in my experience, even marriages begun as business arrangements become something else entirely when two strong-willed people share a life. And a bed."

Heat rises in my neck at the pointed addition. Don Federico's knowing smile suggests he notes my reaction but is gentleman enough not to comment directly.

"You have everything well in hand, as always, Don Vittore." He straightens, suddenly formal again. "I look forward to witnessing the ceremony. The Commission will be represented in full, despite the shortened notice."

"Thank you for your support," I respond with equal formality.

He begins to turn away, then pauses. "One last piece of advice, if you'll permit an old man his indulgence."

I incline my head respectfully.

"Trust is like bone, not muscle," he says, his gaze intent. "Once broken, it heals slowly and is never quite the same. But heal it can, with proper care and time."

The observation lands uncomfortably close to the wound of Caterina's deception. "She lied to me."

"Yes." He nods, unsurprised by my bluntness. "As we have all lied when survival demanded it. The question is not whether trust was broken, but whether what remains is worth rebuilding."

With that, he taps his cane against the marble and makes his way slowly toward a side chapel, leaving me alone with thoughts I've been avoiding since last night's revelation.