Page 2 of Savage Union
"You mean fucking him." Both men laugh.
My stomach turns. Of course. My father's mistress is just another tool in whatever game he's playing.
"What about the Irish?" Vince asks, his voice dropping even lower. "Tomasso's been edgy about them pushing into our territory."
"He's not worried. Says they're too disorganized without old man Mickey calling the shots." Roberto scoffs. "His son's a hothead with more balls than brains."
I feel a chill run through me. Liam Costello isn't as clueless as they think. And he certainly isn't disorganized. Not when it comes to our arrangement.
"Miss," a voice says behind me. Shit.
I turn to the waitress, forcing my face to look innocent. "Yeah?"
"Your father asked me to bring you back to the table."
"Of course he did. My father gets what he wants." The bitterness slips out before I can catch it.
"Excuse me?" The waitress blinks, confused.
"Forget it." I move past her without looking at Vince or Roberto, praying they didn't see me.
As I approach our table, my father's booming laugh grates against my nerves.
I slide back into my seat next to my little sister. Sofia, sixteen now but still possessing that careful wariness that comes from living in our house. Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and though she's grown taller this past year, she still has a tendency to make herself small around our father.
"Are you okay?" Sofia asks, her voice quiet but steady—she's learned to read the room as well as I have.
"I'm fine. Try and eat something," I tell her, noticing her untouched plate.
"I'm not hungry," she protests, her jaw set with the stubborn streak that's been getting stronger lately.
"Just a little. Dad will be upset if you don't eat."
She nods and reluctantly picks up her fork, the gesture more mature than it would have been even a year ago.
Today had been brutal at home. My father was on one of his rampages about my mother not giving him a son. The screaming, the names—useless, fat, worthless. My mother thinks I don't see the bruises on her arms, but I see everything. Things are escalating quickly. I don't know how much longer I can take this.
I glance at my watch, wondering if Liam has made his move yet. He promised it would be quick, clean. Said we would be free before the month was out. Just one more week, he'd told me when we last met in that little coffee shop across from St. Patrick's. I'd offered him everything I had—my future, my body, my loyalty to his family instead of mine—in exchange for my mother and sister's safety. A fair trade. If only he would hurry.
The dinner drags on. War stories. The good old days with Don Giuseppe. I tune them out, focusing instead on counting the minutes until we can leave—not that we can go until my father allows it. Control freak doesn't even begin to cover it.
An hour passes before something in the air changes. A prickle at the back of my neck. The sudden twist in my gut that says danger is coming.
The restaurant goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Like everyone's collectively holding their breath.
He walks in like death dressed in Armani. The air changes—becomes electric, dangerous. Don Vittore Rosso. The eldest son of Don Giuseppe. I've never seen him in person, but the rumors don't do him justice. Dark hair swept back from a face that belongs in a Renaissance painting of fallen angels—all sharp angles and cold intention. His movements are fluid, predatory, every step calculated. The restaurant parts for him like the sea before Moses.
I hate that I can't look away. Hate even more the strange flutter in my stomach as his gaze sweeps the room. Power radiates from him in waves—not the borrowed, desperate kind my father clings to, but something innate, something that's been bred into his bones for generations.
There's something mesmerizing about the way he commands space without saying a word. His shoulders, broad beneath the tailored jacket, taper to a narrow waist. His hands—I notice them immediately—strong, with long fingers that look equally capable of violence or gentleness. I swallow hard and force my expression to remain neutral. The last thing I need is for anyone to see how he affects me.
My father stands too quickly, fear flashing across his face before he can mask it. I've never seen him afraid of anyone before.
"Don Vito, what brings you here tonight?" my father asks, his voice suddenly rough.
Vito doesn't answer immediately. His gaze sweeps over our table, lingering on each person before landing on me. The wayhe looks at me sends ice down my spine—like I'm the reason he's here. What would the Don of the Italian Mafia want with me?
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Liam? Now, of all times? My heart races, but I can't check. Not with Vito Rosso staring at me like he can see every secret I've ever kept.
