Page 5 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Rina

My head pounds with each precise click of Vito's Italian leather shoes against the marble floor. We've been back in the penthouse for less than five minutes, and he hasn't spoken a word since we left the restaurant. The silence is worse than shouting.

"Go to your room," he finally says, voice controlled but barely containing the rage simmering beneath.

"Gladly." I kick off the ridiculous heels I'd been forced to wear with the red dress. They skitter across the polished floor, landing at odd angles that would normally drive him insane. Tonight, he doesn't even flinch.

That's how I know I've truly fucked up.

I make it halfway up the stairs before he speaks again. "We'll discuss your behavior in the morning."

"Can't wait," I mutter, not turning around.

I slam my bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame, then press my back against it, sliding down until I hit the floor. The dress bunches around me, a pool of crimson silk that matches the absolute bloodbath of a dinner we just endured.

What was I thinking? The Commission members were exactly as terrifying as I'd imagined—old men with dead eyes who've ordered more hits than most people order coffee. Yet there I was, challenging Vito's authority, questioning decisions, refusing to play the adoring fiancée.

"You have a death wish, Caterina," I whisper to myself, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.

I don't know how long I sit there before exhaustion drives me to change.

I hang up the dress—it costs more than a semester of college tuition—and pull on the softest pajamas I can find.

Sleep evades me, though. Every time I close my eyes, I see Vito's face as Carlo Bianchi asked if I was "properly trained yet.

" The way his jaw tightened when I laughed and said no man could train me.

The dangerous stillness that settled over him when I deliberately knocked over my wine glass, staining the pristine tablecloth.

By morning, I've convinced myself Vito might actually kill me after all.

I wake to the sound of voices in the hallway. One is Vito's—controlled and commanding as always. The other is familiar from yesterday—Dante. I press my ear to the door.

"The situation at the pier requires my personal attention," Vito is saying.

"Understood, boss," Dante replies.

"Remember what I told you."

"Not a hair on her head. No one goes near her. And definitely no?—"

"Exactly." Vito cuts him off. "I'll check in regularly."

"She'll be safe."

"She's not the one I'm worried about." Vito's voice drops even lower. "After last night's performance at Bianchi's, the Commission has... concerns."

"About your control over her?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Want me to scare her straight?"

Another pause, longer this time. "No. Just keep her contained. And Dante? If she tries to leave, call me immediately. Don't try to handle it yourself."

"Got it, boss."

Footsteps retreat, followed by the distant ding of the elevator. I wait, counting to thirty, before emerging from my room.

Dante lounges at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand while eating an apple with the other. He doesn't look up when I enter.

"Morning, princess. Sleep well after your dinner party rebellion?"

I grab a mug from the cabinet. "You were there?"

His mouth quirks. "I'm usually lurking. And I couldn't miss such a spectacle. Especially not one where Don Vito's beautiful new fiancée tells Carlo Bianchi that the Commission's traditions are 'patriarchal bullshit.'"

I wince despite myself. "I may have gotten carried away."

"You think?" He finally looks up, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "You also told Giuseppe Ricci that his tie made him look like a discount funeral director."

"It did," I mutter, searching for coffee.

Dante laughs, the sound unexpectedly genuine. "Left cabinet, second shelf."

I find the coffee and busy myself making a cup. "Where's Vito?"

"Chicago. Business."

"What kind of business?"

Dante raises an eyebrow. "The kind you don't ask about."

"Right. The family business." I roll my eyes. "Drugs? Gambling? Murder for hire?"

"All of the above and then some." He tosses his apple core into the trash. "Though these days it's mostly legitimate. Real estate, shipping, import/export."

I take a sip of coffee, considering. Dante seems more willing to talk than anyone else in Vito's orbit. Maybe I can use that.

"So," I say casually, "how was last night's dinner, really? From an outsider's perspective?"

Dante smirks. "You mean from someone who wasn't actively trying to commit suicide by Don?"

"I wasn't that bad."

"Princess, I've seen men shot for less than what you pulled last night." He shakes his head. "The wine glass thing? Inspired. I thought Vito was going to have a stroke right there at the table."

"He's too controlled for that."

"That's what makes it worse." Dante hops onto the counter, legs dangling. "The more quiet he gets, the more dangerous he is. And he was library-at-midnight quiet by the time you finished."

I suppress a shiver, remembering the cold fury in Vito's eyes. "How long will he be gone?"

"Three days. Maybe four." Dante studies me. "So it's just you and me, princess. Try not to make my job harder than it needs to be."

"And what exactly is your job? Babysitting?"

His expression darkens. "Protection. The boss has enemies. Lots of them."

"And they'd come after me to get to him?"

"In a heartbeat." He's not joking now. "Especially after last night. Word's out that Don Vito Rosso's future wife has a rebellious streak. Makes you a target."

I hadn't considered that angle. "From who?"

"Everyone who wants a piece of what Vito has." Dante jumps down from the counter. "The Calabrese family would love to get their hands on you. The Russians too. Hell, even some of the Commission members might take a shot if they thought they could get away with it."

My stomach tightens. "Like Bianchi?"

"Especially Bianchi." Dante's voice drops. "That man has a special kind of hatred for women with opinions. You challenged him in front of his peers."

"So I'm in danger whether I'm with Vito or not."

"Welcome to our world, princess." He gestures around the penthouse. "This cage? It's as much for your protection as it is to keep you from running."

I absorb this, turning the mug in my hands. "Did Vito tell you that, or did you figure it out yourself?"

"Both." He tilts his head, assessing me. "You're smart. Too smart to waste energy fighting the inevitable."

"The inevitable being my marriage to a man who murdered my father?"

"The inevitable being your new life." He spreads his hands. "Look, I get it. This isn't what you signed up for. But it's happening either way. The question is whether you make it harder on yourself than it needs to be."

I set down my mug with a little too much force. "That sounds suspiciously like you're telling me to submit."

"I'm telling you to adapt." His eyes meet mine. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Submission is breaking. Adaptation is surviving while keeping your core intact." He says it like someone who knows from experience. "Don Vito doesn't want to break you. If he did, you'd already be broken."

The thought sits uncomfortably in my mind. "How do you know what he wants?"

"Years at his side. I've seen how he operates." Dante shrugs. "Trust me, if he wanted a doormat, he'd have chosen someone else. The fact that you're still breathing after last night's performance tells me everything I need to know."

"Which is?"

His smile is knowing. "He likes your fire."

I scoff. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"The boss isn't exactly warm and fuzzy." Dante grabs a water bottle from the fridge. "But he respects strength. Even when it's aimed at him."

"So what—I should keep challenging him?"

"I didn't say that." Dante uncaps the water. "There's a line between challenge and disrespect. You crossed it last night. Hard."

I think back to the dinner—the old men with their cold eyes and colder hearts. The way they spoke about women, about territory, about loyalty. The suffocating weight of tradition pressing down like a boot on my neck.

"They're dinosaurs," I mutter. "Living in some fantasy version of the 1950s where women are property and men are gods."

"They're the Commission," Dante corrects. "The most powerful criminal organization on the East Coast. And yes, they're dinosaurs. But they're dinosaurs with armies."

"And Vito is what? T-Rex in Chief?"

The unexpected joke startles a laugh out of Dante. "Something like that."

"Tell me about him," I say, seizing the opportunity. "What's he really like? When he's not terrorizing innocent women into marriage?"

Dante narrows his eyes. "Nice try, princess."

"Come on," I press. "I'm stuck here anyway. Might as well know what I'm dealing with."

He considers this, then shrugs. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you start working for him?"

"I was a street kid. Got caught stealing from one of his clubs." Dante's eyes grow distant. "Instead of having me killed, he offered me a job. Said he recognized something in me."

"What?"

"Hunger. The good kind." He taps his temple. "The kind that drives you to be more than your circumstances."

"And now you're his... what? Bodyguard?"

"Sometimes. Enforcer, usually." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. Some things are better left unsaid.

"What's he like as a boss?"

"Fair, but ruthless." Dante takes a drink of water. "Makes his expectations clear. Rewards loyalty. Punishes betrayal with extreme prejudice."

"Sounds terrifying."

"Only if you cross him." Dante studies me. "Which you seem determined to do."

I change tactics. "What sets him off? Besides me, obviously."

Dante's lips twitch. "Disorder. Disloyalty. Disrespect to those under his protection."

"He's a control freak."

"At an Olympic level." Dante nods. "Everything has its place in Vito's world. Including people."

"And what's my place supposed to be?"

His expression turns serious. "Higher than you think."