Page 80 of Savage Union
"Nothing of consequence." He moves closer, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "But it raises a question, Caterina. One I hope you'll answer honestly."
"What question?" I manage to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest.
"Is there something you're not telling me? Something about you and the Costellos?"
For a moment, I consider telling him everything—about Liam's pursuit at school, about our arrangement, about how desperate I was to escape my father. In the aftermath of what we've just shared, the lie feels heavier than usual on my tongue.
But the moment passes. Fear wins out over honesty. "No," I say firmly. "Nothing at all."
He studies me a moment longer, and I know he doesn't believe me. But he lets it go.
"If that changes," he says, releasing my chin, "I hope you'll come to me first."
"Why would it change?" The question sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Because secrets have a way of revealing themselves, one way or another." He steps back, giving me space. "And some revelations are less painful when they come voluntarily."
I can't hide the fear that flashes across my face. "I'll keep that in mind."
I turn and walk away, painfully conscious of the slight hitch in my movements. Each step is a reminder of what just happened, of the irrevocable change in our relationship. No longer just captor and captive, forced fiancé and unwilling bride. Something more complicated has taken root between us, something I'm not ready to name.
Back in my room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My hair is a tangled mess, my lips swollen from Vito's kisses, my neck and collarbone marked by his mouth. I look thoroughly claimed in a way that should horrify me.
I should be drowning in regret, in self-loathing. I gave my virginity to the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement, who I've been actively plotting against with the help of the Irish. By any rational measure, this is rock bottom.
So why don't I feel worse? Why is there a part of me—a significant part—that's still humming with satisfaction, with a strange sense of rightness that defies all logic?
A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiral of confused thoughts. I pull a robe tight around me, expecting Antonia with fresh towels or some other household necessity.
Instead, Vito stands in the doorway, his expression uncharacteristically soft. He's changed into clean clothes—dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt, the most casual I've ever seen him. In his hands, he holds what looks like bath supplies.
"May I come in?" he asks, the formal request for permission so at odds with the man who just claimed me on the dining room table.
I nod, rendered temporarily speechless by this unexpected version of him. He enters, closing the door softly behind him.
"You'll be sore," he says without preamble. "A hot bath will help."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this considerate gesture with the ruthless Don I've come to know. "I can manage on my own."
"I know you can." He moves toward the attached bathroom. "But you shouldn't have to."
I follow him, curious despite myself. He sets his supplies on the counter—Epsom salts, some kind of oil, a bottle of what appears to be expensive bubble bath—then leans over to start the water running in the large tub.
"What are you doing?" I ask, still off-balance from this unexpected gentleness.
"Taking care of you." He tests the water temperature, adjusting the taps slightly. "Someone should, after your first time."
The matter-of-fact way he references my lost virginity makes heat rise in my cheeks. "This seems... oddly domestic for a mafia don."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Even dons have their moments."
He adds salts and oil to the steaming water, filling the bathroom with the scent of lavender and something deeper, earthier. The mixture swirls in the tub, creating a milky opacity that's oddly comforting.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, genuinely puzzled by his behavior.
He considers the question, testing the water again before straightening up to face me. "Because I took something precious from you," he says finally. "Something that can never be given again."
"I gave it to you," I correct him, though the distinction feels semantic at this point. "You didn't take it."
