Page 27 of Savage Union
Let her rebellion continue. Let her think she's maintaining her independence. In the end, she'll realize what I already know: resistance only works when the other side wants you to stop fighting. And I'm finding her fight far too interesting to want it to end just yet.
Sleep comes easily, bringing with it dreams of dark eyes filled with defiance and lips that taste of fire.
CHAPTER 8
Rina
Time becomes elastic in captivity.Hours stretch like taffy, minutes drag into eternity, and yet somehow it's already noon and I've accomplished nothing except pacing the perimeter of my luxurious prison cell approximately fifty-seven times.
I press my ear against the door for the hundredth time today, straining to hear any movement in the hallway beyond. Nothing. The penthouse might as well be empty for all the signs of life I've detected.
A knock startles me back from the door. I compose myself quickly, not wanting to appear as desperate as I feel.
"Yes?" I call, aiming for bored indifference.
The door opens to reveal Antonia, Vito's housekeeper, carrying a tray with what appears to be lunch. She's an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that reveal nothing.
"Your lunch, Miss," she says, her accent thick but her English clear.
"Thank you, Antonia." I try for friendly, hungry for human interaction after hours of isolation. "How are you today?"
She places the tray on the desk by the window and turns to leave without responding.
"Wait!" I step toward her. "Please, can you tell me how long this is supposed to last? Has Vito said anything?"
Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest moment, then away. There's something there—pity, perhaps—but her expression remains professionally blank.
"I'm not permitted to speak with you beyond necessities, Miss." She moves back to the door.
"That's ridiculous." Frustration bubbles up. "I'm not contagious. I just shredded some papers."
"Don Vittore's orders are clear." She pauses at the threshold. "Enjoy your lunch."
The door closes with a soft click, followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock. Not just confined to my room—actually locked in. My punishment feels increasingly disproportionate to my crime.
I examine the lunch tray: some kind of pasta with a light cream sauce, a small salad, crusty bread, and sparkling water. Despite my annoyance, my stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday.
The food is delicious, of course. Everything in Vito's world is perfect, controlled, excellent. I eat mechanically, staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. So close to freedom, yet impossibly far.
After lunch, I try reading, but the words swim on the page. I attempt meditation, but my thoughts skitter like panicked mice. I even try napping, but every time I close my eyes, I feel the phantom pressure of Vito's hand on my back, the shocking contact on my backside, and my body's traitorous response.
Around two o'clock, I hear footsteps in the hallway—deliberate and measured. Vito. I recognize his gait by now, the confident stride of a man who owns everything he surveys.
I rush to the door, pressing against it. "Hey!" I call out. "How long do you plan to keep me locked up in here?"
The footsteps pause briefly, then continue past without response.
"This is childish, you know!" I yell louder. "What happened to 'you'll be my wife'? Is this how you treat family?"
Nothing. Not even a pause this time.
"Coward!" I slam my palm against the door, frustration boiling over.
Silence answers me, maddening in its completeness. I slide down to the floor, resting my forehead against the cool wood. The isolation is worse than the confinement—at least when Vito was punishing me, he was acknowledging my existence.
Hours crawl by. Antonia returns with a mid-afternoon snack that I ignore out of spite. She takes away my lunch tray without comment. More silence. More solitude. My mind begins to play tricks on me, fabricating sounds in the hallway, imagining conversations just beyond my hearing.
By the time evening approaches, I'm ready to apologize just to end the isolation, which is probably exactly what Vito wants. The thought stiffens my resolve. I won't give him the satisfaction. I'd rather rot in this gilded cage than submit.
