Page 51 of Savage Union
"Vito," I say softly, my hand finally making contact with his skin. It's burning hot, almost feverish. "Wake up. You're dreaming."
He doesn't respond, still caught in whatever horror his mind has conjured. I tighten my grip slightly, giving him a gentle shake.
"Vito," I repeat, louder this time. "It's just a dream."
His reaction is explosive. One moment I'm leaning over him, the next I'm pinned beneath him, his hand at my throat, his eyes wild and unfocused. I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs, suddenly very aware of the strength in his body, the danger I've placed myself in.
"Vito," I manage, the word barely audible through his grip. "It's me. Caterina."
Recognition slowly dawns in his eyes. The pressure on my throat eases, though he doesn't release me completely. For long seconds, we stay like that—me beneath him, his body caging mine, both of us breathing hard in the silent room.
"Caterina," he finally says, my name a rasp in his throat.
"You were having a nightmare," I explain, keeping my voice steady despite the rapid beat of my pulse. "I tried to wake you."
He blinks, seeming to fully register our position. His hand slides from my throat, though he doesn't move away. "I could have hurt you."
There's something in his voice I've never heard before—regret? Concern? Whatever it is, it sounds genuine, another crack in the perfect facade he maintains.
"You didn't," I say simply.
His eyes search mine in the darkness, looking for what, I'm not sure. Fear? Judgment? I keep my expression neutral, aware of the strangeness of this moment—the intimacy of it, the sudden shifting of the dynamic between us.
"You should know better than to wake a man like me from a nightmare," he says, but there's no real admonishment in his tone.
"A man like you," I repeat quietly. "What does that mean, exactly?"
He doesn't answer, but I feel the slight tensing of his body above mine. He's still so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can smell the faint traces of his cologne mingled with the scent that is uniquely his.
"Everyone has nightmares," I continue when he remains silent. "Even great Dons, apparently."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at my lack of mockery. "Go back to sleep, Caterina."
He starts to move away, and without thinking, I reach up, my hand catching his arm. "Wait."
He goes still, looking down at where my fingers press against his skin. I'm as surprised by the gesture as he seems to be. Why am I stopping him? What am I doing?
"Do you..." I hesitate, uncertain why I'm even asking. "Do you want to talk about it?"
His expression shifts from surprise to something more guarded. "No."
Of course not. What was I expecting? That the great Vito Rosso would suddenly confide in me, share his deepest fears and traumas? I release his arm, embarrassed by my momentary lapse in judgment.
"Fine. Forget I asked."
He studies me for another long moment before finally shifting away, returning to his side of the bed. I expect him to turn his back to me, to rebuild the wall between us that momentarily crumbled. Instead, he remains facing me, his expression thoughtful in the dim light.
"Why did you try to wake me?" he asks. "You could have just moved to the other room."
It's a fair question, one I'm not sure I have an answer for. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do." His voice is quiet but insistent. "Tell me."
I look away, uncomfortable with his scrutiny and my own confusing impulses. "You sounded... in pain. I just reacted."
"Compassion for your enemy?" There's a hint of bitterness in his tone. "That's dangerous, Caterina."
"Is that what you are? My enemy?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
