Page 120 of Savage Union
Through the partially open door, I catch a glimpse of him—powerful and elegant in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his usual commanding presence amplified by the formal attire. He strides purposefully across the penthouse, Marco beside him discussing something in low, urgent tones.
I watch, expecting him to glance toward my room, to acknowledge me somehow. Instead, he passes by without a look, disappearing into his office. The door closes behind him with quiet finality.
The dismissal shouldn't hurt. After last night's revelations, after the anger and accusations between us, I should expectnothing else. Yet the ache in my chest intensifies, a hollow feeling expanding beneath my ribs.
"Don't," Elena murmurs, correctly interpreting my expression. "Don't give him the satisfaction."
I nod stiffly, returning to the vanity as the stylist reenters with my veil. The woman resumes her work, adding the final touches to my hair before carefully affixing the cathedral-length veil with pearl-tipped pins.
"Now for the dress," she announces, motioning to my mother and Elena for assistance.
They help me into the lace creation that, in another life, might have been my dream gown. It fits perfectly, hugging my curves before flowing into a dramatic train. The neckline dips modestly, the long sleeves extending to points over my hands in classic elegance.
"You're beautiful," Sofia whispers, eyes wide with genuine awe.
I stare at my reflection, trying to reconcile the sophisticated bride in the mirror with the tumultuous emotions churning inside me. I look serene, composed, ready to become Donna Rosso. No one would guess the anger, fear, and confusion warring beneath the surface.
A tear threatens, burning behind my eyes. I blink it back fiercely, refusing to let it fall. Crying would ruin the careful makeup, but more than that, it would be an admission of defeat. A surrender to circumstances rather than a choice made with clear eyes.
"Rina," my mother says softly, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror. "This is just another kind of survival," she continues, straightening my veil with gentle hands. "And you've always been a survivor."
"I'm tired of just surviving," I whisper, the admission slipping out before I can stop it. "I want more than that."
Her eyes soften with understanding. "Then find it. Even here, even with him. Find the spaces where you can be more than just a survivor."
The stylist announces that we have thirty minutes until the ceremony begins. Elena squeezes my hand, Sofia embraces me carefully, and my mother presses a kiss to my forehead. They withdraw to prepare themselves, leaving me alone with my reflection.
Donna Caterina Rosso stares back at me, regal and beautiful and utterly foreign. In less than an hour, I will speak vows binding me to Vito, to his family, to his world. Forever.
And he couldn't even look at me when he returned.
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin in the gesture of defiance that has become almost reflexive. If Vito thinks his cold dismissal will break me, he's severely underestimated the woman he's about to marry.
Let him ignore me now. Let him retreat behind his office door, nursing whatever wounds my deception inflicted on his pride.
Once I become his wife—truly, legally, irrevocably his—he'll discover what it really means to bind himself to Caterina Gallo.
If I must survive this marriage, I'll do more than merely exist within it. I'll find those spaces my mother mentioned—the moments and opportunities to be more than just a survivor.
Starting today.
CHAPTER 39
Vito
St.Patrick's Cathedral stands resplendent in afternoon light, sunbeams piercing stained glass to cast jeweled patterns across marble and wood. Security personnel disguised as ushers guide the select guests to their seats—Commission members, capos, trusted lieutenants. Marco stands at the altar beside me, eyes constantly scanning the cathedral with practiced vigilance.
I straighten my cuffs, an unconscious gesture that betrays the tension I refuse to acknowledge. The cathedral's vastness makes it strategically vulnerable, despite the three layers of security surrounding the building. This publicity, this ceremony—it's all necessary for establishing Caterina's position, for solidifying my claim against Costello's. But necessity doesn't negate risk.
"Perimeter check," I murmur to Marco.
"All clear," he confirms quietly. "Dante's men are in position on the balcony and roof. Exterior teams reporting nothing unusual."
I nod, eyes tracking the movements of two guards positioned near the western entrance. Their posture seems relaxed—too relaxed. I make a mental note to address their laxness after the ceremony.
The string quartet begins a classical piece, signaling the ceremony's start. I force my attention back to the altar, where Father Alessandro waits with appropriate solemnity.
The music shifts, and heads turn toward the back of the cathedral. My breath catches involuntarily as Caterina appears in the arched doorway.
