Page 57 of Savage Union
I glance up with deliberate casualness. "I remembered your credit card digits. Being who you are, it wasn't hard to get it delivered without someone questioning me."
I expect anger or at least irritation, but instead, something like amusement flickers across his face. "Clever Bambola."
He sits up, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. The domestic intimacy of the moment is jarring—too normal for what we are to each other.
"Today, we are seeing the priest," he announces without preamble.
I frown, setting the Kindle down. "What for?"
He chuckles, the sound rich and unexpected. "Our wedding."
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. "We don't need to see a priest. I'm not going to marry you." The words are automatic, a reflexive resistance I can't seem to abandon even knowing its futility.
"If you were a good Catholic, you would know that meeting with the priest before marriage is customary," he says, watching me with those calculating eyes. "Pre-marital counseling. The Church requires it."
"I'm not Catholic," I counter, "and I'm not marrying you."
He moves from the bed in one fluid motion, his expression hardening. "You are going to be my wife, Caterina. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier things will be for everyone."
I want to argue, to continue this pointless resistance, but the memory of Elena's warning about the Irish stops me. If they're truly planning to move against Vito soon, I just need to play along a little longer.
"Fine," I concede with poor grace. "What time?"
"We leave in an hour." He heads toward the bathroom, then pauses in the doorway. "Wear something appropriate. A dress or skirt."
I bite back a retort about him dictating my wardrobe. One battle at a time. "Whatever."
An hour later, I'm wearing a navy blue wrap dress I found in my closet, my hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. When I emerge from my room, Vito is waiting by the elevator in one of his immaculate suits, checking his watch with typical precision.
His eyes scan me from head to toe, his expression unreadable. "You look nice."
The unexpected compliment catches me off guard. "Thanks," I mutter, uncomfortable with the approving look in his eyes.
The elevator ride to the garage is silent, tension crackling between us like static electricity. He guides me to a sleek black Bentley rather than the usual SUV with a driver.
"You're driving?" I can't hide my surprise.
"Yes." He opens the passenger door for me, another strangely gentlemanly gesture that doesn't fit my image of him.
Two black SUVs filled with his men follow as we pull out of the garage, a visible reminder that while this might look like a normal couple heading out for the day, nothing about our situation is normal.
I stare out the window as Manhattan gives way to Brooklyn, my confusion growing as we move away from the areas I'd expect to find a Catholic church or priest's residence.
"Where are we going?" I finally ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
"To breakfast." His tone is casual, as if this detour is completely normal.
"I thought we were seeing the priest."
"We are. At noon. There's time."
I study his profile as he drives, trying to decipher his game. What is he planning? Is this some new form of psychological manipulation?
My thoughts scatter when he pulls into a familiar parking lot, the unexpected sight nearly stealing my breath. I stare at the small storefront restaurant in disbelief.
"Rosie's?" The name escapes me in a shocked whisper.
Vito parks the car and turns to me, his expression satisfied at my reaction. "I understand this is your favorite breakfast spot."
