Page 6 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

I digest this, filing away the information for later. "Did he tell you not to touch me?"

The abrupt question catches Dante off guard. "What?"

"Yesterday. And again this morning. I heard him say 'not a hair on her head.'" I watch his reaction carefully. "Did he give you specific instructions not to touch me?"

Dante shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "The boss is... particular about your safety."

"That's not what I asked." I step closer. "Did he specifically tell you not to put your hands on me?"

"Yes." The admission seems dragged from him.

"In what context?"

"Jesus, princess." He runs a hand through his hair. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

He sighs. "Fine. He said if I touched you in any way that wasn't absolutely necessary for your safety, he'd remove my hands. Permanently."

I can't help the small smile that forms. "Interesting."

"It's not interesting. It's standard." Dante looks annoyed now. "You're the future Donna. No one touches the Donna except the Don."

"So if I were to, say, trip and you caught me?—"

"I'd probably catch you because that's necessary for safety." His eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Just curious about the parameters." I tap my fingers against the counter thoughtfully. "Did he specify what 'touch' means?"

"Huh?"

"Did he say 'don't put your hands on her' or did he use the word 'touch' specifically?"

Dante stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Why does that—" He stops, realization dawning. "No. Whatever you're thinking, stop it."

"I'm not thinking anything."

"Bullshit." He points a finger at me. "I see exactly what you're doing, trying to find loopholes. It won't work."

"Maybe," I shrug. "Or maybe Vito's the type who means exactly what he says. If he said 'don't touch her,' that means hands, right? But what about, for example, if I dropped something and you had to use your foot to push it back to me? That's not touching, technically."

"This is insane." But I can see the seed of doubt I've planted. Dante knows better than anyone how literal and precise Vito can be.

"Is it?" I raise an eyebrow. "You've worked for him for years. Would he punish you for something he didn't explicitly forbid?"

Dante's jaw works as he thinks it through. "You're playing a dangerous game, princess."

"I'm just trying to understand the rules." I smile innocently. "Adapting, like you suggested."

He shakes his head, but I can tell I've created exactly the uncertainty I wanted. "Let's change the subject."

"Fine." I finish my coffee. "What's there to do around here besides stare at the walls?"

"TV. Books. Gym." He gestures vaguely. "Boss said you're free to use any of the common areas."

"What about his office?"

"Off-limits." Dante's response is immediate. "Absolutely not."

"Just checking." I keep my expression neutral, but inside, a plan begins to form. "I think I'll go read for a while."

"Knock yourself out." He looks relieved at the change of subject. "I'll be around if you need anything."

I spend the morning strategically establishing patterns.

I read in the library for an hour, then workout in the gym, then shower.

Lunch with minimal conversation. More reading.

By late afternoon, Dante has relaxed his vigilance slightly, settling into what appears to be a routine check of his phone every twenty minutes while I pretend to be engrossed in a novel.

"I'm going to take a nap," I announce around four o'clock.

Dante glances up. "Sure thing, princess."

I retreat to my room, leaving the door cracked just enough to see the hallway. I watch as Dante makes himself comfortable on the sofa, phone in one hand, remote in the other. He channel surfs for a few minutes before settling on what sounds like a basketball game.

Perfect.

I slip back into my room, closing the door normally. Then I wait, counting the minutes. At exactly 4:20, Dante's phone buzzes—I've timed it perfectly based on his pattern all day. I hear him answer, voice low.

"Yeah?... No, all quiet here... Chicago situation?... Got it... Will do."

The call is brief, but it's the distraction I need. I ease my door open and move silently down the hall, away from the living area, toward the forbidden wing—Vito's private domain.

His office door is locked, as expected—though the additional deadbolt is new.

Apparently yesterday's unauthorized visit earned me enhanced security measures.

Fortunately, I've had practice with locks.

I pull two bobby pins from my hair, bending them into the shapes I need.

It takes longer than I'd like—this is a serious lock, not some household privacy doorknob—but after about forty seconds of careful manipulation, I feel the mechanism give.

The door swings open silently on well-oiled hinges. I slip inside and close it behind me, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Vito's office is exactly what I expected—impeccably organized, intimidatingly masculine, radiating power.

A massive mahogany desk dominates the space, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city.

Everything is arranged with military precision—pens perfectly aligned, papers in precise stacks, computer monitor positioned at exactly the right angle.

I move quickly to the desk, scanning the documents laid out. Most are in Italian, but I recognize financial statements, property deeds, and what appears to be a contract with a construction company. Important stuff, obviously. Perfect.

The desk drawer slides open smoothly. Inside, I find more papers—these marked with red tabs and "CONFIDENTIAL" stamps.

Even better. I pull them out, examining them just long enough to confirm they're significant, then move to the corner of the room where a high-end shredder waits like an answer to my prayers.

I feed the first document in, relishing the mechanical whir as it devours Vito's precious papers.

The petty destruction feels like victory, small as it is.

I grab more papers from the desk, not even bothering to look at what they contain.

The shredder growls hungrily, transforming Vito's meticulously organized world into confetti.