Page 106 of Savage Union
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 theevasiveness 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?"
CHAPTER 34
Rina
The ceiling plasterswirls 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.
When the bedside clock reads 1:37 AM, I carefully ease myself up, pausing to check if the movement disturbs him. Nothing. I slip from the bed with slow, deliberate movements, retrieving Elena's burner phone from where I've hidden it in my drawer beneath layers of clothing.
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.
