Page 19 of Savage Union
I retreat to my room, leaving the door cracked just enough to see the hallway. I watch as Dante makes himself comfortable on the sofa, phone in one hand, remote in the other. He channel surfs for a few minutes before settling on what sounds like a basketball game.
Perfect.
I slip back into my room, closing the door normally. Then I wait, counting the minutes. At exactly 4:20, Dante's phone buzzes—I've timed it perfectly based on his pattern all day. I hear him answer, voice low.
"Yeah?... No, all quiet here... Chicago situation?... Got it... Will do."
The call is brief, but it's the distraction I need. I ease my door open and move silently down the hall, away from the living area, toward the forbidden wing—Vito's private domain.
His office door is locked, as expected—though the additional deadbolt is new. Apparently yesterday's unauthorized visit earned me enhanced security measures. Fortunately, I've had practice with locks. I pull two bobby pins from my hair, bending them into the shapes I need. It takes longer than I'd like—this is a serious lock, not some household privacy doorknob—but after about forty seconds of careful manipulation, I feel the mechanism give.
The door swings open silently on well-oiled hinges. I slip inside and close it behind me, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Vito's office is exactly what I expected—impeccably organized, intimidatingly masculine, radiating power. A massive mahogany desk dominates the space, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city. Everything is arranged with military precision—pens perfectly aligned, papers in precise stacks, computer monitor positioned at exactly the right angle.
I move quickly to the desk, scanning the documents laid out. Most are in Italian, but I recognize financial statements, property deeds, and what appears to be a contract with a construction company. Important stuff, obviously. Perfect.
The desk drawer slides open smoothly. Inside, I find more papers—these marked with red tabs and "CONFIDENTIAL" stamps. Even better. I pull them out, examining them just long enough to confirm they're significant, then move to the corner of the room where a high-end shredder waits like an answer to my prayers.
I feed the first document in, relishing the mechanical whir as it devours Vito's precious papers. The petty destruction feels like victory, small as it is. I grab more papers from the desk, not even bothering to look at what they contain. The shredder growls hungrily, transforming Vito's meticulously organized world into confetti.
CHAPTER 5
Vito Rosso
Pier 92 is an ice box.The docks stretch out with their crumbling remnants of rusted steel and concrete—rough, industrial, honest in their decay. This is where the real business happens. No glitter, no glamour. Just the raw, ugly mechanics of the underworld.
Half a million dollars in weapons, gone. This feels personal. There has to be a leak in the organization.
I stand at the edge of the dock, the cold wind slicing through the collar of my suit. My fingers twitch with that ever-present need for control—a constant, gnawing hunger. This wasn't random chance.
Beside me, my younger brother Rafa stands with his usual frown, posture rigid like he's physically holding something back. Rafa's a solid underboss—good with logistics, decent enough in a fight. But he's still too soft. He believes there's some balance in the world, some lines you don't cross. Too much of reality's bullshit still gets to him. In our world, that kind of softness isn't just a weakness—it's a death sentence. Something he stubbornly refuses to understand.
"It's fucking ten in the morning and cold. Give me an update," I say, not bothering to mask my irritation.
"The shipment is gone," Rafa states, as if I might have missed that crucial detail.
"I fucking know that. I want an update."
"Someone is declaring war." Marco Conti appears by my side, his imposing 6'4" frame drawing attention even in silence. His dark hair is styled meticulously - longer on top with the sides cut short, accentuating his sharp jawline covered with a carefully maintained scruff. When he speaks, his striking green eyes narrow with intensity, the tanned skin around them crinkling slightly. His presence commands respect without effort. I trust him implicitly.
A declaration of war. Someone making a statement with the balls to do it right under my nose. I designed our operations so shit like this couldn't happen. Information is compartmentalized—no single person knows everything. It had to be an inside man. And I can't help wondering if The Commission itself is the traitor.
The Commission. Founded in 1923 by my grandfather, Francesco Rosso, to bring order to the families. A ruling committee with the power to approve a new boss before he could officially take over. Since its creation, all Chairmenanships have been Rosso Dons—my grandfather, my father, and now me. The Chairman wields ultimate power. It's why Tommaso was planning a coup, lobbying for my position right up until the moment I put a bullet in him.
I turn to Marco, the tension in my chest tightening into something dangerous. "Who do you think is behind this? Do you think this was an inside job?"
"It had to be Tomasso before you murdered him. His followers are sending a message. They don't just want to hurtLaFamiglia, Vito. They want to overthrow you and take your place as Chairman."
"It can't be. He wasn't high enough to know the details."
"Are you thinking The Commission is behind this?" Rafa asks, his voice low.
"That is a dangerous thought for all of us," Marco adds quickly.
My fists clench at my sides. I feel my anger twist inside me like a coil ready to snap. But I keep it in check. The worst move would be rushing in blind. If the Commission is involved, this won't be an easy takedown. Many men who hold seats weren't happy when I took over. My father died suddenly, and before they could step in, I seized the reins. But I was young then. It took me time to gain the loyalty I have now, but it’s never secured.
Before I can speak again, my phone buzzes. I don't need to check the screen to know it's Dante. I answer without hesitation, already bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits.
