Page 15 of One Savage Union

He’s standing right in front of me.

Towering. Commanding. Unapologetic.

Mafia.

There’s something magnetic about him, something that drags the breath from my lungs and coils it into a knot at the base of my throat. I should look away. Iwantto. But I can’t.

Olive skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to hint at danger. Full lips set in a line that’s equal parts arrogance and promise. His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place—except for one rebellious curl that’s slipped forward, softening a face carved from dominance.

But it’s his eyes that shatter me.

Piercing blue. Icy. Electric. Alive with something ancient and unknowable. They don’t just look at me—theyseeme. Strip mebare. Peel back the bravado I’ve been clinging to like a shield and leave me exposed.

Helpless.

And somehow, against all logic and sense, a small part of me doesn’t mind.

Because damn it all, why does he have to look likethat?

I’ve never been into White guys. There’s too much history, expectations, and multiple ways to misunderstand each other. Hell, with my practice and performance schedule, I hardly have time to be into Black guys, either.

But this man? He looks like an orgasm. And he knows it.

I drag my gaze downward, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. My eyes trace the lines of his tailored black suit, from the curve of his broad shoulders to his trim waist. The fabric clings to him, hinting at the strength beneath. He’s dressed like a man going to war—a harbinger of death cloaked in elegance. Even his appearance is a weapon.

“Who are you?” I demand again, forcing myself to meet his gaze again. My voice sharpens, edged with the steel Mom always said I needed. “And what could you possibly want with me?”

Slowly, he kneels until we’re at eye level. I shuffle back, my thighs chafing against the floor, but his hand lands on my knee, unyielding. Heat floods me at the contact, and I hate myself for the shiver that follows. A whimper escapes before I can stop it. His lips twitch, a hint of satisfaction flickering across his face.

It’s been so long since anyone touched me that I don’t know how to feel about it.

It takes me a few seconds, but I finally find the appropriate emotion.

But then I do.

Rage.

So, I slap him.

His head snaps back, his eyes blaze, and the icy blue ignites like fire. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and I brace myself for his retaliation. But instead of anger, he seems…amused. Infuriatingly so.

“I am Rocco Fieri,” he says, his voice calm but laced with menace. “And you shouldn’t have done that, Piccola Ragazza. I had hoped this would be a calm conversation. Now, you will have to be punished.”

Both fear and fascination flood through me, but I don’t let either show. I lift my chin, defiance pulsing hot in my veins.

“Punished? For what—defending myself against some Gucci-clad gangster with delusions of Godfather grandeur?”

The words slice through the air, sharper than I intended, but I don’t flinch.

Iwantto see how far I can push him. Ineedto know what kind of monster I’m dealing with—one who burns hot with rage, or cold with calculation.

For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Then, his mouth curves—just slightly.

And that’s when I realize the most dangerous thing in this room…is how much he enjoyed being challenged.

His grip on my knee tightens, a silent warning. The pressure makes me wince, but I refuse to back down. Neither does he.

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