Page 56 of Savage Union
I can't help the slight smile that touches my lips. "Very observant, Caterina."
"It's not hard to notice."
"And yet most people see only what I want them to see."
"I'm not most people," she replies with unexpected confidence.
"No," I agree, studying her face in the dim light. "You certainly are not."
We fall silent again, the air between us charged with something unfamiliar. Not just tension or the expected animosity, but something more complicated—a reluctant recognition of the shadows we both carry.
"We should sleep," I finally say, though I make no move to turn away.
"We should," she agrees, but her eyes remain on mine.
Before I can question the impulse, I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, soft in a way that reminds me how long it's been since I've touched someone without purpose, without calculation.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For waking me."
She nods, seemingly at a loss for words. I turn away then, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, listening as her breathing gradually evens out, signaling her return to sleep.
But sleep evades me. The nightmare has left me too raw, too exposed, and our conversation has done nothing to rebuild the walls I maintain at all times. After ensuring Caterina is truly asleep, I slip from the bed and make my way to the bathroom, closing the door silently behind me.
The harsh LED light reveals a face I barely recognize—eyes haunted, jaw tense, the scar beneath my eye a stark reminder of that day so long ago. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the lingering tendrils of the nightmare and the unexpected vulnerability of the conversation that followed.
My father locked me in the cellar for three days after Isabella humiliated me. No food and barely any water. When he finally released me, I was never the same. It's one of the reasons I never allow women to sleep beside me. I can't let anyone witness my weaknesses.
And yet, Caterina has now seen me at my most vulnerable—trapped in memories, stripped of the control I value above all else. The thought should enrage me, but instead, I feel something dangerously close to relief. As if sharing the burden, even unintentionally, has lightened it somehow.
This is dangerous territory. Trust is a weapon. I learned that lesson painfully all those years ago. As long as I trust someone, they hold a knife against me. They will always have power over me.
I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. Caterina isn't Isabella. This isn't the same situation. And yet, the risk remains. She's already burrowed beneath my defenses in ways I didn't anticipate, creating vulnerabilities I can't afford.
What am I doing? This arrangement was meant to be clinical, political. A marriage of convenience to satisfy the Commission and stabilize the families. Nothing more. I never intended to let her see behind the carefully constructed facade of Don Vittore Rosso.
I dry my face and return to the bedroom. Caterina lies sleeping, her breathing deep and regular, untroubled by the demons that plague me. For a moment, I consider sleeping elsewhere—in one of the guest rooms, or on the sofa in my office.Anywhere but here, beside the woman who's beginning to see more of me than anyone has in decades.
But something stops me. Before I can overanalyze the decision, I slide back into bed, careful not to disturb her. I tell myself it's practical—I need rest, and this is my bed. I tell myself it's strategic—maintaining the appearance of a united front, even in private. I tell myself it's anything but what it might actually be—a desire for the strange comfort her presence provides.
The vulnerability she creates in me might be my undoing. The power she holds without even knowing it could destroy everything I've built. And yet, as I lie here in the darkness with her beside me, I wonder if some things might be worth the risk.
But I know better. I've spent a lifetime learning that lesson.
CHAPTER 17
Rina
Morning light streamsthrough the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the bedroom in a golden glow. I've been awake for over an hour, my mind too restless for sleep after last night's strange encounter with Vito. The memory of his vulnerability during the nightmare, the way his voice had broken when calling out to his father, our unexpected moment of connection—it all feels surreal in the light of day.
Rather than dwelling on it, I'd ordered a Kindle from Amazon using Vito's credit card information, which I'd memorized the last time Dante used it for my shopping spree. It arrived early this morning, delivered to the doorman who didn't question a package for the penthouse. Small acts of independence, that's what keeps me sane in this gilded cage.
I'm propped against the headboard, engrossed in a thriller novel that seems quaint compared to my actual life, when I feel Vito stir beside me. I don't look up, pretending to be too absorbed in my reading to notice him watching me.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Reading a book." I keep my eyes on the screen, feigning nonchalance despite the way my pulse quickens under his scrutiny.
"Where did you get it?" There's suspicion in his tone, as if expecting I've somehow managed to break into his office again.
