Page 68 of Savage Union
"The shooter?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're going to interrogate him now?"
"This surprises you?" Vito studies me carefully, his expression hardening. "Someone just tried to kill me—kill us. Did you expect me to let that pass without consequence?"
I look away, unable to hold his scrutiny. "I just thought you'd want to... I don't know, regroup first. Process what happened."
"I process by acting." He signals to Dante, who opens the car door for me. "The man who shot at us works for the Costellos. I want to know why they're moving against me now, and what exactly they hope to gain."
The mention of the Costello name sends a chill through me, but it's overshadowed by the odd emptiness I feel at being dismissed so quickly. Minutes ago we were as intimate as two people can be, and now he's sending me home like a child being put away for safekeeping.
"You're not coming back to the penthouse with me?" I ask again, though I already know the answer. My voice sounds smaller than I intend, and I hate myself for it.
Vito's expression softens fractionally, just enough for me to notice. He steps closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear."What happened between us doesn't change what needs to be done." His hand brushes mine briefly, the touch soothing after what we just shared. "I'll return when I have answers."
Before I can respond, he gestures for me to get into the car. I slide in, a confusing mix of emotions swirling through me—lingering pleasure, uncertainty, and an unexpected hurt at being so easily left behind.
Vito closes the door, separating us with a definitive click. Through the window, I hear him say to Dante, "Take her home. No one goes in or out."
"You got it, boss."
As the car pulls away, I watch Vito through the rear window. He stands there, powerful and imposing in the afternoon light, not even looking at me as he speaks into his phone. Already focused on his next move, while I'm left with the ghost of his touch on my skin and questions I'm afraid to ask myself about what just happened between us.
CHAPTER 21
Vito
The warehouse sitslike a hulking shadow against the darkening sky, its weathered exterior revealing nothing of what happens inside. As I approach the entrance, Marco emerges to meet me, his expression grim.
"He's secured in the back room," he reports, matching my stride as we enter the building. "Hasn't said much beyond cursing your name and the entire Rosso family."
"Has he been persuaded to be more forthcoming?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Marco's methods are efficient, if not always subtle.
"We've been... encouraging him." A thin smile crosses Marco's face. "Nothing permanent yet. I thought you'd want first crack at him yourself."
"You thought right." I remove my suit jacket, handing it to one of my men as we walk through the warehouse's cavernous main floor. "What do we know about him so far?"
"Ryan Sullivan. Mid-level enforcer for the Costellos. Been with them about seven years." Marco pulls out his phone, checking his notes. "No family to speak of. Unmarried. Livesalone in a shithole apartment in Queens. Perfect profile for expendable muscle."
"Not entirely expendable if he was chosen for this job." I pause at a heavy metal door, behind which waits our guest. "Attempting to kill me in broad daylight isn't an assignment you give to just anyone."
"True. Which makes me wonder why they sent him alone." Marco's brow furrows. "It wasn't a serious attempt—at least, not one with a real chance of success."
"Unless success wasn't measured by my death." The thought has been nagging at me since the attack. Something about it felt performative, almost like a message rather than a genuine assassination attempt. "Let's find out what Mr. Sullivan has to tell us."
Marco nods to the guards flanking the door, who step aside as he unlocks it. The room beyond is purposefully stark—concrete floors, cinder block walls, a single drain in the center of the floor. Sullivan sits tied to a metal chair bolted to the ground, his face already showing signs of Marco's "encouragement"—swollen eye, split lip, bruises darkening along his jaw.
He looks up as I enter, his one good eye narrowing with hatred. "Rosso," he spits, blood staining his teeth. "Come to do your own dirty work for once?"
I study him calmly, taking measure of the man. Mid-thirties, solidly built, with the hardened look of someone who's lived his life through violence. Not the brightest, judging by the tattoos that clearly mark him as Costello muscle, but not stupid either. Just loyal enough to be dangerous.
"Mr. Sullivan." I pull up another metal chair, positioning it directly across from him. "I'd like to have a conversation about your activities this morning."
"Fuck you."
I smile slightly. "Original. But not particularly helpful to your situation."
"My situation?" He laughs, the sound wet and pained. "I'm already dead. We both know it."
"That remains to be determined." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees in a posture of casual conversation. "Why don't we start with why Mickey Costello suddenly feels bold enough to move against me?"
