Page 89 of Savage Union
"It's only the most exclusive wedding dress boutique in New York City." There's a hint of amusement in his tone. "I assumed someone with your background would be familiar with it."
I shrug. "My father didn't exactly encourage me to dream about white dresses and fairytale weddings."
Something darkens in Vito's eyes. "No, I imagine he didn't."
We lapse back into silence, the mention of my father hanging between us like a specter. Vito killed him. I witnessed it. And now here we are, on our way to pick out a wedding dress as if we're just another engaged couple looking forward to their big day.
The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh, though there's nothing funny about our situation.
When we arrive, the security detail moves with practiced efficiency, positioning themselves at strategic points before Dante opens our door. Vito exits first, then offers me his hand. The gesture is courtly, at odds with the tension evident in his scanning gaze as he surveys the street.
"What's going on?" I ask quietly as he guides me toward the boutique entrance, his hand resting at the small of my back. "You're acting like you're expecting an ambush."
"Just taking precautions." His voice drops so only I can hear. "After the other day, it pays to be careful."
The shooter. Of course. Someone tried to kill him less than forty-eight hours ago. It makes sense that he'd be hypervigilant now, especially in public.
But there's something more in his demeanor, something that makes me suspect this outing isn't just about finding me a wedding dress.
The boutique interior is a sanctuary of white and cream, elegant chandeliers casting a warm glow over displays of exquisite gowns. The staff greet Vito by name, which doesn't surprise me—a man of his wealth and influence would have made arrangements well in advance, likely with a substantial deposit to ensure their full attention.
"Mr. Rosso, we're so honored to have you and your fiancée with us today." A slender woman with an impeccable French twist approaches, her practiced smile revealing nothing about what she might know or think about the man before her. "I'm Vivienne, and I'll be your consultant."
"Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice," Vito responds, the perfect picture of a wealthy client accustomed to exceptional service.
"Of course." Vivienne turns her professional smile to me. "And you must be Miss Gallo. We're delighted to help you find the perfect gown for your special day."
I manage a smile that I hope doesn't look as forced as it feels. "Thank you."
"We've prepared the VIP suite for your appointment." She gestures toward a private area separated from the main salon. "If you'll follow me?"
The VIP suite is even more luxurious than the main boutique—plush seating, private fitting rooms, and a raised platform with a three-way mirror for viewing gowns from all angles. Achampagne bucket sits on an elegant side table, alongside a tray of delicate pastries.
"Please make yourselves comfortable." Vivienne indicates the seating area. "Miss Gallo, would you like to tell me about what you're envisioning for your gown?"
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. I haven't envisioned anything. This wedding was forced upon me, a political arrangement I had no say in. What does it matter what dress I wear to formalize my captivity?
Vito, sensing my discomfort, smoothly intervenes. "My fiancée has exquisite taste. Why don't you show her your finest selections, and we'll narrow it down from there?"
Vivienne nods. "Of course. I'll bring in a range of our most exclusive designs." She turns to me. "Would you prefer to begin your fitting privately? Many brides consider it bad luck for their grooms to see the dress before the wedding day."
Before I can respond, Vito answers for me. "I don't believe in luck. I'll be staying."
His tone brooks no argument, though his expression remains pleasant for Vivienne's benefit. The consultant looks between us, clearly sensing some tension, but professionalism wins out.
"As you wish. I'll return shortly with some options."
When she's gone, I turn to Vito, irritation flaring. "I told you I didn't want you watching while I try on dresses."
"Did you?" He sits elegantly on one of the plush chairs, entirely at ease in this temple of bridal fantasy. "I don't recall agreeing to that condition."
"It's tradition," I insist, though I care little for tradition myself. It's the principle—one of the few choices I thought I still had control over.
"We're hardly a traditional couple,bambola." There's a hint of dark humor in his voice. "But if it truly bothers you, I can wait outside."
The concession, like the one this morning, catches me off guard. "Really?"
"Really." He studies me, head tilted slightly. "Though I'd prefer to stay."
