Page 52 of Savage Union
"What else would I be?"
What else indeed? Not a friend, certainly. Not a lover, despite the physical attraction neither of us can fully deny. Not a truefiancé, despite the ring and the approaching wedding date. What is Vito Rosso to me?
"I don't know," I admit. "But right now, you just seem like a man with nightmares, same as anyone else."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight easing of the tension in his jaw. "We all have our demons."
"Even you?" I can't help pushing, curious despite myself.
"Especially me." He says it simply, without self-pity or dramatic effect. Just a statement of fact.
We lapse into silence, neither of us quite ready to retreat completely, caught in this strange moment of almost-connection. I should turn away, put an end to whatever this is. The Irish are coming for him. Days, not weeks. I can't afford to start seeing him as human, as someone with pain and fears and a past that haunts him.
And yet, I find myself asking, "Does it happen often? The nightmares?"
He's quiet so long I think he won't answer. Then, "Often enough."
"What are they about?" I expect him to shut down the question immediately.
Instead, he surprises me again. "The past. Things I've done. Things done to me. The usual demons."
"Your father?" I venture, remembering his cries in the midst of the nightmare.
His eyes sharpen, a reminder that even in this moment of relative vulnerability, Vito Rosso is still dangerous. "You heard."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "You called out to him."
"My father was..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "a complicated man."
"Complicated." I can't keep the edge from my voice. "Is that what we're calling abusive these days?"
His expression hardens slightly. "You know nothing about my father."
"I know the sound of a child begging a parent to stop," I say quietly. "I've made that sound myself."
The admission hangs between us, another piece of myself revealed that I hadn't intended to share. Vito's gaze intensifies, studying me with that unsettling perception that makes me feel transparent.
"Your father," he says after a moment. "He hurt you too."
"You already know that."
"I know what he did to your mother. I suspected he was equally cruel to you, but you never confirmed it."
I look away, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Why would I tell you anything about my life?"
"Because I'm asking." His tone makes it clear this isn't a command, but a genuine request. "Because perhaps we understand each other better than either of us wants to admit."
The suggestion is disturbing in its plausibility. What does it say about me if the man who killed my father, who forced me into this engagement, is someone who might truly understand certain parts of me?
"My father was a monster in a designer suit," I finally say, the words bitter on my tongue. "He treated my mother like property, my sister like an afterthought, and me like a disappointment for being born female. Happy?"
"No." The simple response catches me off guard. "I'm not happy about any of it."
Something about his tone, the quiet sincerity of it, makes my eyes burn unexpectedly. I blink rapidly, determined not to show weakness.
"Was yours the same?" I ask, diverting attention from my momentary vulnerability. "A monster in a suit?"
Vito is silent for so long I think the conversation is over. Then, softly, "Worse. Mine was a monster who believed he was doing God's work. Making me stronger. Making me worthy of the Rosso name."
