Chapter One #2
“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.
“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.
That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.
“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present and properly dressed by seven.”
“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us, loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and obedient? Quiet and decorative?”
“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have important guests coming.”
“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor. “Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone Papa wants to impress.”
Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment -- the only crack in her composure. “This is vital to your father.”
“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances, his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”
“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”
“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”
“No one said you weren’t.”
“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”
Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for the family, you mean.”
“Sometimes those things align.”
“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I need?”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition. “We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part of something larger than ourselves.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I didn’t choose this life.”
“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The question is what we do with it.”
I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife.
But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had made her peace with her choices a long time ago.
She’d decided that compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than fighting the script.
I’d never be able to do the same.
“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door. “Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”
I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.
“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and everything.”
Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew when I was planning something.
“Caterina --”
“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood pressure spike. “You can count on me.”
Mama studied me for another long moment. I could see her weighing her options -- push further and risk a fight or let it go and hope for the best. She chose the latter. She always did.
“Seven o’clock,” she repeated, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
I stared at the closed door, my nails still drumming. The sound echoed in the suddenly quiet room, matching the rapid beat of my heart. Part of me felt guilty for the worry I’d seen in Mama’s eyes. She’d been trying, in her own limited way, to bridge the gap between us.
But I couldn’t be what she was. I couldn’t smile and nod and pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. I couldn’t accept my fate with grace and dignity when that fate felt like a prison sentence.
I turned back to my vanity, catching my reflection again. My jaw was set, my eyes bright with defiance. This was who I was -- sharp edges and rebellion, not soft compliance.
Papa wanted properly dressed? I’d give him properly dressed.
Just not in the way he expected.
I pushed away from the vanity and headed for my closet with renewed purpose.
The restless energy that had been building all afternoon now had a direction, a goal.
If tonight was going to be a performance -- and with Papa, everything was a performance -- then I’d make damn sure I controlled my part in it.
My phone buzzed from where I’d left it on the chaise. Probably Adriana, checking to make sure I was still alive and not actually plotting anything dramatic.
Too late for that.
I ignored the phone and stepped into my closet, surrounded by clothes that were supposed to make me into the perfect Mafia princess. Time to show them what a real Lombardi looked like when she stopped playing by the rules.
The late afternoon light streamed through my bedroom windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. In a few hours, the sun would set. The guests would arrive. Papa would hold court at the head of the table, and Mama would smile her perfect smile.
And I would remind them all that I wasn’t as easy to control as they thought.
I moved through my closet with purpose now, pushing aside the gowns Mama would approve of -- modest necklines, appropriate hemlines, colors that whispered instead of screamed.
My fingers trailed over silk and satin, rejecting each one.
Too safe. Too boring. Too exactly what they expected from Giuseppe Lombardi’s obedient daughter.
Fuck that.
I pushed deeper into the closet, past the appropriate dinner dresses and charity gala gowns, toward the back where I kept the things I’d bought on impulse.
The pieces that had made my father’s jaw tighten when he’d seen them in shopping bags but that he’d never actually forbidden me from buying.
Papa’s control had limits, even if he didn’t like to admit it.
And there it was.
I pulled the dress free from where it hung between a conservative navy sheath and a pale pink cocktail dress, both of which had probably been purchased to make this one look less obvious.
The black fabric seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it -- heavy silk that would cling in all the right places.
Or all the wrong places, depending on who was looking.
The neckline plunged to a point that would make Mama clutch her pearls. The slit ran nearly to the hip. It was the kind of dress that made a statement, and that statement was “fuck your rules.”
I’d bought it six months ago on a trip to Milan, tucked it away, and waited for the perfect moment to wear it. Apparently, tonight was that moment.
Holding it against myself, I walked back to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The black fabric created a stark contrast against my skin, making my dark hair and green eyes stand out even more. I turned slightly, remembering how the slit would fall open to reveal leg all the way up.
Perfect.
I felt a smile curve across my face. Not the sweet, practiced smile I used for family photos or charity events. This was something else entirely -- sharp-edged and satisfied, with a hint of cruelty that would have made Papa proud if he wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of it.
I could already picture his face when I walked into the dining room.
The way his jaw would tighten, his eyes would narrow.
He’d want to say something, to order me to change, but he couldn’t.
Not in front of guests. Not when that would show weakness, show that his own daughter didn’t respect his authority.
He’d be furious. And I’d smile through the entire dinner, sweet as sugar, while he choked on his rage.
The thought made me feel alive in a way nothing else had all day.
I laid the dress carefully on my bed and returned to the closet, this time headed for my shoe collection.
The rack of heels stretched along one wall -- organized by designer, then by color, because even my rebellion had structure.
Most of the time. Sometimes my clothes and shoes bore the brunt of my frustration, much like they had earlier.
I skipped past the sensible pumps and elegant kitten heels, my fingers trailing over boxes until I found what I wanted.
Black Louboutins with a heel so high and sharp they could be classified as weapons.
I’d worn them once, to a club, and nearly broken my ankle on the stairs.
But they made my legs look incredible and added a dangerous edge to any outfit.
Perfect. That word again.
I set the shoes next to the dress and turned my attention to jewelry.
This required more thought. Too much and I’d look desperate for attention.
Too little and the outfit would lose some of its impact.
I needed something that would draw the eye exactly where I wanted it, that would emphasize the provocative nature of the dress while maintaining an air of sophistication.
I moved from jewelry case to jewelry case, opening each one and studying the contents. Diamonds caught the fading sunlight, throwing fragments of rainbow light across my hands. Emeralds that matched my eyes. Rubies that would bleed against the black fabric.
No. All wrong.
I wanted something simple. Something that would make Papa remember the lives he’d ruined to give me these items.
And now I was using it against him.
My fingers found the diamond choker in the back of the third jewelry case I opened.
It was one of the first pieces Papa had ever given me -- for my sixteenth birthday, I thought, though the years blurred together.
Cartier. Thousands of tiny diamonds forming a delicate chain that sat high on the throat, like a collar.
I lifted it out of its velvet box, letting it catch the light. Oh, this was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Wearing this while defying everything Papa stood for would be its own kind of poetry.
I closed the jewelry case with more force than necessary.
The lid slammed shut with a sharp crack that echoed through my bedroom, the sound satisfying in a visceral way.
It matched the anger still simmering under my skin, the frustration that had been building for weeks -- months, maybe. Years, if I was being honest.
Every choice Papa had made for me, every time he’d dismissed my opinions, every dinner where I’d been expected to sit quietly and look pretty while men discussed business I wasn’t allowed to understand -- it all crystallized in that moment. In that sound of the jewelry box slamming closed.
I returned to my bed, laying the choker next to the dress and shoes. My outfit for tonight’s performance. My armor for the battle to come.
Moving back to the full-length mirror, I studied my reflection. My hair fell in messy waves, my face bare of makeup, still wearing the casual clothes I’d thrown on this morning. I didn’t look dangerous yet. Didn’t look like someone about to declare war at a family dinner.
But I would. I let myself imagine it again -- walking down the stairs in that dress, the choker tight around my throat. Papa’s face when he saw me. Mama’s barely concealed dismay. Whatever important guests they’d invited, forced to witness a Lombardi family drama playing out in real time.
My reflection smiled back at me, and this time there was steel in my eyes. The afternoon light had shifted, casting sharper shadows across my face, making my features look more angular. More like my father’s, actually, when he was making decisions that would change lives.
I was Giuseppe Lombardi’s daughter, after all. He’d taught me to be ruthless, even if he’d never intended to be on the receiving end of it.
My expression hardened as I stood there, really seeing myself. Not the decorative daughter they wanted me to be. Not the dutiful princess who would smile and accept whatever marriage alliance Papa arranged. Not Mama’s clone, swallowing her opinions and playing her part.
This was who I really was underneath all the expectations and control -- someone who fought back. Someone who refused to be broken into the shape they wanted.
Tonight, Papa would see that. They’d all see it.
I turned away from the mirror and checked my phone. Five-thirty. An hour and a half until dinner. Plenty of time to transform myself into something that would make my father regret every controlling decision he’d ever made.
The sun continued its descent outside my windows, painting the Lombardi estate in shades of gold and crimson. Beautiful, like everything in my life. And just as deceptive.
I picked up the black dress, feeling the weight of the silk in my hands. Time to get ready for war.