The Enforcer’s Possession (Ruthless Alliances #1)

Chapter One

Caterina

I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some party at the Castellano estate.

I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago -- Valentino, bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift across the disaster zone my room had become.

Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive casualties.

A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame.

Three pairs of Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom.

My jewelry cases sat open on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow refractions across the walls.

“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”

“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor. “Sorry, what?”

“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her. “He wants to know if you’ll be at --”

“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund baby wants to play gangster this week.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”

She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world, to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.

“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in your voice.”

I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My father. What else?”

“What did Giuseppe do now?”

“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to the highest bidder.

” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along the row of couture gowns that lined one wall.

Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing the dutiful daughter.

“Apparently, he’s been having meetings. About my future. ”

“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that meant. We all did.

“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random -- something in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off its hanger.

Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong.

“He actually told me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling down. I’m twenty-one, not forty. ”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d rather die.”

Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”

“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface.

My reflection stared back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank.

I looked like my mother had at my age, according to the photos.

Before Papa had worn her down into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m shocked.”

“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how fucking archaic it all is.

” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open, then put on a little across my lips.

“We all know he’s doing this for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks he’s protecting me.

Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care of. ”

“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”

“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the Lombardi estate gardens.

Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year.

Beautiful. Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy. As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged.

At the same time, I know he feels women are inferior.

I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could ever take care of myself. ”

“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are for.”

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can offer.”

“What about what you want?”

“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”

“And what do you want?”

The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer.

I wanted freedom, but freedom to do what?

I’d never had to think about it before. My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer clothes, carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would strengthen family alliances.

“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to ask?”

“For Giuseppe? Probably.”

I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Maybe he does.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall, staring at the ceiling.

The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous.

Everything in this room was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless.

“I can feel it, Adi. Something’s coming.

Some decision he’s already made that’s going to change everything. ”

“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just fighting?”

“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch him do whatever he was going to do anyway.

” I sat up, running my fingers through my hair.

My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free with more force than necessary.

“He pretends to listen, nods in all the right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said. ”

“What about Sofia?”

“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still.

The restless energy was back, stronger now.

I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers over the pieces inside.

Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts from my father, purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude.

“She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it anymore.

The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess, pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs. ”

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”

The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant it with everything in me.

“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d have to wear black, which washes me out.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had. “Look, I know you don’t want advice --”

“Then don’t give it.”

“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school. You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every time.”

“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”

“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat. Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”

I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how justified -- just made him dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”

“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get yourself grounded, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming. “There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on how tense everyone’s been.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”

“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.

Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her.

She wore a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls that had been in the family for three generations.

Every dark hair sat exactly where it was supposed to.

Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.

Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room -- the scattered clothes, the open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her expression remained serene. That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.