Page 71 of Savage Union
I shower for the second time today, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, his mouth, the commanding tone that sent shivers through me even as I hated myself for responding. But the hot water does nothing to cleanse the guilt or confusion.
As I dress in simple leggings and an oversized sweater, I try to make sense of the morning's attack. It had to be Liam's people—Dante confirmed the shooter wore Costello colors. But did they know I was with Vito? Did they care that their bullets could have hit me too? And what does it mean for the larger plan Elena warned me about?
A terrible thought occurs to me: what if the attack wasn't just aimed at Vito, but at me as well? What if Liam has decided I've betrayed him by not finding a way to escape, by not contacting him sooner? What if he sees me as collaborating with the enemy now?
The possibility sends a chill through me. I've been counting on the Irish as my exit strategy, my salvation from this forced marriage. If they no longer intend to "rescue" me but instead view me as a traitor to be eliminated alongside Vito...
I need to contact Elena again, find out what she knows. But how? The burner phone Dante gave me is surely monitored, and I no longer have Elena's phone to use.
A soft knock at my bedroom door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Antonia stands there, her expression carefully neutral.
"Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, Miss Rina," she informs me. "Don Vito called to say he's on his way back."
My stomach tightens. "Thank you, Antonia."
She hesitates, then adds, "There's a package for you as well. I've left it on the dining table."
A package? I didn't order anything beyond the Kindle. "Did you see who it's from?"
"No, Miss. But it passed security screening." With that, she turns and leaves, her footsteps fading down the hallway.
Curious despite my anxiety, I make my way to the dining table. A small box wrapped in elegant silver paper sits at my usual place setting. No card, no indication of its sender. Dante must have approved it, which means it's unlikely to be from Elena or anyone associated with the Irish.
I carefully unwrap it, lifting the lid to find a delicate silver bracelet nestled inside. Its links are intricately designed, forming a pattern that reminds me of waves or perhaps flames. It's beautiful, understated yet clearly expensive.
And confusing as hell.
As I lift it from the box, a small note falls out, handwritten in a strong, slanted script I immediately recognize as Vito's.
For the fire that doesn't burn out. -V
I stare at the note, then at the bracelet, trying to decipher its meaning. Is this a gift? A reward for what happened in the church? A bribe to ensure my continued compliance? Or something more sinister—a shackle disguised as jewelry, another symbol of his ownership?
Whatever its intent, the timing is unsettling. After what happened this morning—both the attack and what followed in the church—a gift feels wildly inappropriate. Almost manipulative.
I set the bracelet back in its box without putting it on, just as the elevator announces Vito's arrival with a soft ding. I turn to face him, steeling myself for whatever comes next.
He steps into the penthouse looking exactly as he did when he left me—perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. If not for the subtle shadows beneath his eyes, I'd never guess he spent the afternoon interrogating the man who tried to kill him.
His gaze lands on me immediately, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes before his expression smooths back to neutral.
"Caterina." He removes his suit jacket, handing it to Antonia who materializes silently to take it. "I trust your afternoon was uneventful."
The casual greeting after everything that's happened today—the shooting, the church, him sending me home alone—sparks an unexpected flare of anger.
"Uneventful. Right." I cross my arms. "Unlike yours, I imagine."
He studies me for a moment, then moves toward the bar, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid. "Would you like a drink?"
"I'd like answers."
He takes a slow sip, then turns to face me fully. "About?"
"Don't play games, Vito." I step closer, emboldened by a mixture of anxiety and irritation. "What happened with the shooter? Did you find out who sent him?"
Something shifts in his expression—a subtle tightening around the eyes, a calculating assessment I've seen before when he's deciding how much to reveal.
"He was Irish. Working for the Costellos." He takes another sip. "Beyond that, there wasn't much to learn."
