Page 28 of Savage Union
Footsteps approach again around seven o'clock. I recognize Vito's stride, but this time I refuse to rush to the door or call out. Let him think I'm broken. Let him think I'm subdued. I curl up on the window seat with a book, forcing my expression into studied nonchalance.
The lock turns. The door opens. Vito fills the frame, impeccably dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. The casual elegance only heightens my awareness of my own rumpled appearance after a day of confinement.
"Oh, how nice of you to visit," I drawl without looking up from my book. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Dinner," he says simply, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I turn a page I haven't read. "Not hungry."
"That wasn't a question." He remains in the doorway, immovable. "We're having dinner together."
Now I do look up, eyebrows raised. "Why would I want to have dinner with my jailer?"
"Because if you don't come to dinner," he says with infuriating calm, "you won't eat for the foreseeable future."
"That's inhumane."
"That's consequence." His eyes hold mine, implacable. "Your choice, Caterina."
My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, betraying my hunger despite the afternoon snack I'd ignored. I snap the book closed.
"Fine." I stand, smoothing my wrinkled clothes. "Lead the way to the gallows."
His lips twitch almost imperceptibly. "Dramatic as always."
"I try."
I follow him through the penthouse to the formal dining room, where the table is already set for two at one end. The lights are dimmed, candles flickering in silver holders. It looks almost... romantic. The thought sends a surge of panic through me.
"What is this?" I gesture to the elaborate setup.
"Dinner." Vito pulls out a chair for me with old-world courtesy.
I hesitate, then sit, if only because my legs suddenly feel wobbly. "You didn't need to go to all this trouble just to feed your prisoner."
"You're not a prisoner." He takes his seat at the head of the table. "You're my future wife."
"Same difference."
Antonia appears with the first course—some kind of delicate soup that smells divine. She serves us silently, her eyes downcast, then disappears back to the kitchen.
An oppressive silence descends. I spoon the soup into my mouth mechanically, too hungry to maintain my food strike but determined not to show enjoyment. Vito eats with precise movements, his attention seemingly focused entirely on his meal.
The main course arrives—perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, some sort of potato creation that would make a French chef weep with joy. Still, not a word passes between us.
The silence becomes a third presence at the table, growing more substantial with each passing minute. I find myself stealing glances at Vito, trying to read his expression, his intentions. His face remains impassive, giving away nothing.
By the time Antonia clears our plates and brings dessert—a sinfully dark chocolate tort—I'm ready to scream just to break the tension.
"Is this my punishment?" I finally burst out. "Death by silence?"
Vito takes a small bite of his dessert before answering. "Not everything is punishment, Caterina."
"Then what is this?"
"Dinner."
"With the world's worst conversationalist, apparently."
