Page 88 of Savage Union
I finish my breakfast without tasting it, mind racing. If Vito and I are going to be out in public today, shopping and dining, it might provide an opportunity to contact Elena somehow. A moment alone in a fitting room, perhaps, with a borrowed phone from a salesperson. I need to warn her, to tell her I want out of whatever the Irish are planning.
The thought of betraying Liam sends a pang of guilt through me. He might be a dangerous man, but we had a deal. And breaking that deal could have severe consequences for me, for my family. But the alternative—letting Vito be killed—is suddenly unthinkable.
When did that happen? When did the man I hated more than anyone become someone I want to protect?
I head back to the bedroom—Vito's bedroom, where I now apparently sleep—to prepare for our outing. The closet that holds my clothes takes up an entire wall, filled with designer pieces I never would have chosen for myself. I select a simple navy blue dress with a fitted waist and A-line skirt, modest yet elegant enough for whatever high-end boutiques Vito has planned.
As I dress, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back at me looks unchanged on the surface—same dark hair, same eyes, same features. But something'sdifferent. Something in my expression, perhaps, or the way I hold myself. I'm not the same person I was before last night.
I've made my choice, for better or worse. I will find a way to contact Elena, to stop the Irish plot without revealing my own involvement. I will protect Vito—not because I've forgiven him for everything he's done, but because I can no longer bear the thought of him dead.
And maybe I'll allow myself to explore whatever this new dynamic between us might become. With clear eyes and cautious heart, knowing full well the danger of caring for a man like Vittore Rosso.
I slip on heels, apply minimal makeup, and secure my hair in a simple twist. The silver bracelet remains on my wrist, a conscious choice this time rather than an oversight. I study the pattern again—flames that never extinguish, fire that doesn't burn out.
An apt metaphor for whatever is growing between us, dangerous and unpredictable as it may be.
Precisely thirty minutes after Vito's directive, I exit the bedroom to find him waiting by the elevator, checking his watch with characteristic punctuality. His eyes travel over me slowly, appreciation evident in his gaze.
"Beautiful," he says simply.
"Thank you." I accept the compliment with as much grace as I can muster, trying to ignore the flutter of pleasure it produces.
He offers his arm, another unexpected courtesy. After a moment's hesitation, I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, the gesture feeling strangely formal after the intimacy we've shared.
"Ready?" he asks.
For shopping? Yes. For whatever game we're playing now? For the complications of caring about a man I should by allrights hate? For the dangers of betraying Liam Costello and the Irish?
No. Not even close.
CHAPTER 28
Rina
The car glidesthrough Manhattan traffic, a sleek black Bentley that draws glances from pedestrians as we pass. Vito sits beside me, his posture deceptively relaxed, though I notice the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings through the tinted windows.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, watching as his gaze tracks a black SUV that's been two cars behind us since we left the penthouse.
"No." His answer is clipped, automatic. He turns from the window briefly, his expression softening slightly when he meets my eyes. "Nothing for you to worry about."
I'm not convinced. "You seem on edge."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I'm always on edge,bambola. It's how I've stayed alive this long."
I study his profile as he returns to his vigilant observation of the world outside our vehicle. Dante drives, his eyes similarly alert in the rearview mirror. Another of Vito's men, whose name I don't know, sits in the passenger seat. A second vehicle follows closely behind us, containing more security personnel.
This seems excessive, even for Vito, whose paranoia I've come to accept as part of his nature. Is he expecting trouble? Something related to the shooter, perhaps? Or is this precaution specifically because I'm with him?
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, attempting to break the tense silence.
"Kleinfeld." He says it like I should recognize the name.
I don't. "What's that?"
Now he does turn to look at me, surprise evident in his expression. "You don't know Kleinfeld Bridal?"
"Should I?"
