Page 95 of Savage Union
"Where to now?" she asks as the car pulls away from the curb.
"Dinner," I reply, watching her reaction carefully.
"Another public appearance?" Her perceptiveness is one of the qualities I find most compelling about her.
"Yes." I see no reason to deny the obvious strategy. "People should see us together."
"Why?" The directness of the question is refreshing after so many women who would never dare question my motives.
"Because perception shapes reality." I take her hand, my thumb brushing over the silver bracelet at her wrist. "And I want the reality of us to be undeniable."
She studies me, something calculating in her gaze that reminds me not to be blinded by desire or nascent affection. Caterina Gallo is not just a beautiful woman in a wedding dress. She's a player in this game, with her own agenda I've yet to fully uncover.
"What exactly are you hoping people will perceive?" she asks, her tone deceptively casual.
"That you are mine," I answer honestly. "And that anyone who thinks otherwise will face consequences."
Her expression shifts, understanding dawning. "This is about the shooter. About the Costellos."
"Among other things." I don't elaborate, curious how much she'll reveal of her own knowledge.
"You're using me as bait," she concludes, though there's no accusation in her tone—just thoughtful analysis.
"I prefer to think of it as clarifying the situation for all involved parties." I maintain eye contact, wanting her to understand the nuance. "You will be protected at all times."
"I know." The simple confidence in her response surprises me. "I've seen how your security operates."
"Then you understand the necessity?"
She nods slowly. "I understand more than you might think, Vito."
The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications I can't fully decipher. Is it a confession? A warning? A simple observation? The complexity of this woman continues tofascinate me, even as it raises alarms in the strategic part of my mind that has kept me alive and in power all these years.
CHAPTER 30
Rina
The restaurant isa study in understated elegance—soft lighting, gleaming silverware, and pristine white tablecloths. Per Se, one of the most exclusive dining establishments in New York, where reservations typically require months of advance planning. For Vito, of course, the doors simply open.
I smooth the napkin across my lap, still feeling the aftershocks of our encounter at the bridal salon. My body remains flushed with lingering awareness, a pleasant hum beneath my skin that makes every sensation more vivid—the weight of the silver bracelet on my wrist, the brush of fabric against my thighs, the intensity of Vito's gaze across the table.
"Wine?" Vito offers, signaling the sommelier who materializes instantly at our table.
"Please."
The sommelier presents a bottle for Vito's approval. After a perfunctory nod from him, wine is poured into crystal glasses that catch the candlelight like liquid rubies.
"You're quiet," Vito observes after the sommelier departs.
I take a sip of wine, savoring the complex flavors that bloom across my tongue. "Just taking it all in."
His eyes don't leave my face. "The restaurant?"
"Everything." I gesture vaguely around us. "This. Us. The surreal nature of it all."
"Surreal?" One eyebrow raises slightly.
"A month ago I was living at home, planning a future that looks nothing like..." I trail off, gesturing between us. "Nothing like this."
