Page 26 of Savage Union
Vito
The door closes behind her,and I remain motionless, eyes fixed on the space she just occupied. The air still feels charged, as if her defiance lingers like a scent. I wait until I can no longer hear her footsteps, then move to my desk and pull up the security feed on my laptop.
I watch her progress through the penthouse—spine straight, head high, the picture of unbroken pride despite what just happened. She enters her bedroom and slams the door with enough force to make the camera feed vibrate slightly. I switch to the feed inside her room just in time to see her slide down against the door to the floor, face in her hands.
Something tightens in my chest at the sight. Not regret—I don't do regret—but perhaps... recognition. I know that posture, that private moment of reckoning after maintaining a façade of strength. I've been there, long ago, before I learned to bury such weaknesses even from myself.
I close the laptop when she rises and moves toward the bathroom. There are limits, even for me.
Running a hand through my hair, I exhale slowly. The situation with Caterina is becoming... complicated. I expectedresistance, of course. Rebellion. Anger. These were all factored into my calculations when the Commission forced this arrangement. What I didn't anticipate was my own reaction to her.
The way my pulse quickened when she defied me, looking me straight in the eye while standing in the wreckage of my carefully ordered world. The strange satisfaction I felt at discovering an opponent worthy of my attention. The rush of heat when my hand connected with her body and she made that sound—half protest, half something else entirely.
I stand abruptly, loosening my tie with sharp, efficient movements. This line of thinking is dangerous. Caterina Gallo is a means to an end—a political alliance, nothing more. The fact that she's beautiful, fiery, and unexpectedly intriguing is irrelevant.
And yet.
I make my way to my bedroom suite, shedding clothes as I go. The day has been endless—a crisis at the pier cut short by Dante's call about Caterina's breaking and entering adventure, followed by the drive back to the penthouse, only to find my office destroyed and my authority challenged.
What I need is a clear head. Cold water. Discipline.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and glass, designed to my exact specifications. I step into the shower and turn the temperature to just shy of scalding. Hot water pounds against tense muscles as steam rises around me, and for a moment, I simply stand there, letting the heat and pressure do their work.
But instead of clarity, my mind fills with images of Caterina. The flash of defiance in her eyes. The curve of her spine as she bent over my desk. The way her breath caught when I touched her.
"Fuck," I mutter, resting my forehead against the cool tile.
I came back ready to be coldly furious, to mete out punishment with clinical detachment. Instead, I'd found myself increasingly... affected. By the ninth strike, I was hard as stone, my body reacting to her in ways my mind refused to acknowledge. That's why I stopped. Not mercy—self-preservation.
But here, alone in the steam and heat, there's no one to maintain appearances for. No need for the perfect control that defines Don Vittore Rosso.
My hand moves lower, gripping my cock with familiar pressure. I close my eyes, seeing her again—not as she was in reality, but as my mind wants her. Yielding instead of defiant. Wanting instead of resistant.
I stroke slowly at first, gritting my teeth against the surge of pleasure. It's been too long since I've allowed myself this kind of release. Most women bore me—too eager to please, too intimidated by who I am to offer anything real. But Caterina...
The image shifts. Now she's not yielding at all. She's challenging me, eyes flashing, that smart mouth of hers curving into a knowing smile as she watches me lose control. This fantasy is more dangerous, more honest, and infinitely more arousing.
My pace quickens, water cascading over my shoulders as I brace my free hand against the wall. I imagine her voice—that blend of sarcasm and intelligence, the way she says my name like it's something that leaves a bitter taste. What would it sound like if she said it differently? Would she whisper it, moan it, cry it out?
The pressure builds, each stroke bringing me closer to the edge. In my mind, she's pressed against me, no longer fighting but not submitting either—meeting me as an equal in this as she tries to in everything else.
Release hits with unexpected intensity, pleasure pulsing through me as I come with a groan that echoes off the marble. For a brief, disorienting moment, everything goes white behind my eyes, all thought suspended.
Then reality returns, the evidence of my weakness washing away down the drain. I finish washing mechanically, disgusted with myself for the momentary lapse in discipline. Desire is a weakness. Attachment is a liability. These are lessons I learned long ago, lessons written in blood.
Yet as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist, I know something has shifted. The careful distance I'd planned to maintain with my forced bride has already been compromised—not by her actions, but by my own response to them.
I dress in loose pants, leaving my chest bare as I always do for sleep, and move to the bed that dominates the center of my room. The sheets are Egyptian cotton, the mattress custom-made, every element designed for optimal rest efficiency. Like everything in my life, my sleep is disciplined, controlled, optimized.
Stretching out on my back, I stare at the ceiling, mind already racing with adjustments to the situation. The incident in my office changed things. I saw the look in her eyes, felt her response. There's an attraction there, whether she wants to admit it or not. An attraction I could use to my advantage.
The Commission wants this marriage to succeed, to create stability between factions. They didn't specify how that stability should be achieved. If physical desire creates a more effective tether than political necessity, so be it.
Decision made, I reach for my phone and send a text to Dante: "Beginning tomorrow night, Ms. Gallo will be relocated to my quarters."
His response comes seconds later: "Understood, boss."
I set the phone aside and close my eyes. Tomorrow, Caterina Gallo will learn that actions have consequences beyond a temporary spanking and room confinement. If she wants to invade my space, I'll invade hers in return—starting with where she sleeps.
