Page 9 of Savage Union
His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something. "You'll adjust."
"Where's my mother? My sister?" I demand, changing tactics.
"Safe."
"That's not an answer."
He finally looks at me from behind his desk, dark eyes unreadable. "It's the only one you're getting today."
I want to scream. I want to throw something. But I need to be smarter than that. I need to understand the man who holds my family's lives in his hands.
"I'm hungry," I announce instead.
He raises an eyebrow. "The kitchen is fully stocked. Antonia will make whatever you request."
"I want to go out."
"No."
One word, final as a guillotine blade. I push anyway. "You can't keep me locked up forever."
"Not forever. Just until after the wedding." He adjusts his cufflinks—gold, I notice, with a small insignia I can't make out. "Then you'll be seen in public as my wife, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails."
"How generous." My voice drips venom.
"More than you know." He checks his watch, then stands from behind the desk. "I have meetings. Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."
"Or what?"
His eyes meet mine, cold and precise. "Don't test me, Caterina."
He moves toward the elevator, but I step into his path in the main living area. "My family?—"
"Will remain unharmed as long as you behave." He steps around me as if I'm nothing more than an inconvenient piece of furniture. "Eight o'clock."
The elevator doors swish closed behind him, leaving me alone in the vast, sterile space. I exhale, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath.
I spend the day exploring my cage. Three floors of obscene luxury—upstairs there's a gym with equipment I've never seen before and what looks like a private spa area. The main floor houses the formal living spaces, kitchen, his office, and a library that would make most universities jealous. And then there's the lower level—a movie theater that would make AMC jealous, a wine cellar that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime, and what appears to be additional entertaining space. Everything perfect. Everything cold.
The more I see, the more I understand about Vito Rosso. Control obsession radiates from every corner. Books organized not just by height but by subject, then alphabetically. Kitchencupboards with labels. Clothes in his walk-in closet (which I shouldn't have entered, but what's he going to do, kill me twice?) arranged by color, then fabric. Even the remote controls sit at perfect right angles on the coffee tables.
By evening, I'm claustrophobic despite the endless space. I shower in a bathroom bigger than my childhood bedroom, letting scalding water turn my skin pink. In the closet attached to my room on the second floor, I find clothes in my size—dozens of outfits, all of them expensive, none of them my style. How long has he been planning this?
At 7:58, I enter the dining room on the main floor wearing the plainest thing I could find—black pants and a white silk blouse. Still, the outfit probably costs more than I've spent on clothes in the past year.
Vito is already seated at the head of an absurdly long table. He stands when I enter, another surprise. The monster has manners.
"You're punctual," he notes, as if conferring a great compliment.
"You didn't leave much choice." I take the seat furthest from him.
He sighs. "Caterina." My name sounds like a warning in his mouth.
I roll my eyes but move closer, taking the chair to his right. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," he says dryly.
A woman appears—Antonia, I assume—setting down plates with some kind of pasta that smells divine. My stomach growls traitorously.
