Chapter Three
Caterina
The Velvet Room lived up to its reputation.
Obscenely expensive, ruthlessly exclusive, and designed for the kind of conversations that ended careers or lives.
I’d chosen it specifically for that last quality.
The lighting was low enough to hide expressions but bright enough to read intent.
Red leather booths lined the walls, each spaced far enough apart that conversations couldn’t bleed from one to another.
The bar itself stretched along the back wall, all black marble and gold fixtures, manned by bartenders who’d perfected the art of selective deafness.
I’d arrived thirty minutes early, which felt both deliberate and desperate. Probably because it was both.
The hostess, a woman in her forties with the kind of face that suggested she’d seen everything and been impressed by none of it, had barely glanced at my ID before leading me to the booth I’d requested.
The farthest from the entrance, tucked into a corner where I could watch the door without being immediately visible to anyone entering.
I’d slipped her three hundred for her discretion. She’d pocketed it without comment.
Now I sat in the shadows of that booth, my back against the wall, trying to project a confidence I absolutely did not feel.
The dress I’d chosen was Versace in a deep burgundy. The cut was sharp, businesslike despite the color. I’d paired it with understated jewelry, nothing that screamed Lombardi wealth. This wasn’t about flaunting what I had. This was about negotiating for what I needed.
A server appeared at my elbow -- male, young, attractive in that generically polished way that suggested he’d been hired as much for decoration as service. “What can I get you?”
“Macallan 25.” I didn’t look at him. “Neat.”
He disappeared without acknowledgment. Efficient. Good. I needed people around me who didn’t ask questions or make small talk.
The scotch arrived in a crystal tumbler that probably cost more than the bottle itself. I wrapped my fingers around it but didn’t drink. Just needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t obviously anxious.
My thumb traced the rim of the glass. Once. Twice. I forced myself to stop and placed both hands flat on the marble tabletop instead. That lasted maybe ten seconds before my fingers started drumming.
I checked my phone. Twenty-three minutes until the meeting time I’d arranged through Isabella’s cousin. Dante might show early. Might show late. Might not show at all, though Isabella had seemed confident he’d be intrigued enough to at least hear me out.
“He doesn’t take meetings with Lombardis,” she’d said when I’d finally gotten her on the phone yesterday. “But he’s been asking about you.”
That last part had sent a chill down my spine that I still couldn’t quite shake. Asking about me. What the hell did that mean?
I watched the door. A couple entered -- older, wealthy, the man’s hand possessive on the woman’s lower back.
They were led to a booth on the opposite side of the room.
Two men in expensive suits came in next, heading straight for the bar.
One of them glanced toward my booth, his gaze lingering just long enough to be noticed before his companion said something that redirected his attention.
Good. I didn’t need anyone recognizing me.
Papa had spies everywhere, and while The Velvet Room was known for discretion, money talked louder than professional ethics.
If it hadn’t been for an emergency at home, I might not have slipped away unnoticed.
But thanks to an altercation, I’d managed to escape without guards following me or confining me to the property.
My phone buzzed. A text from Luca: Where are you? Papa’s on a rampage.
I turned the phone face-down without responding. Luca would worry, but he’d also understand. He always understood, even when he didn’t approve.
Fifteen minutes now.
I risked a sip of the scotch. It burned exactly the way I needed it to, heat spreading through my chest and steadying my pulse. Not enough to dull my edge. Just enough to stop my hands from shaking.
The door opened again.
Everything changed.
I felt it even before I saw him -- the way conversations seemed to quiet, the subtle shift in posture from the other patrons, the bartender’s spine going straighter.
Power did that. Real power, not the inherited kind that came with a family name.
The kind that was earned through blood and brutality and the sort of reputation that made grown men nervous.
Then I saw him.
Dante De Luca moved through The Velvet Room like he owned it.
Maybe he did. The De Lucas had their fingers in enough businesses that it wouldn’t surprise me.
He was taller than I remembered, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, like he took up more space than his actual physical form required.
His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders and a frame that suggested violence barely leashed beneath expensive fabric.
Dark hair, dark eyes that scanned the room with the efficiency of someone who’d survived by never missing a threat. Sharp features that would have been handsome if they weren’t so hard. A jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite and set in permanent disapproval.
His gaze swept past my booth, then back. Locked on.
My breath caught.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at by him. Or maybe I’d never fully experienced it before, those previous encounters too brief and too public for this kind of focused attention. Now, with nothing between us but dim lighting and expensive air, I felt the full weight of it.
He started toward me.
The couple who’d been seated earlier shifted in their booth, the man tracking Dante’s movement with the wariness of prey watching a predator pass.
One of the suits at the bar turned away entirely, suddenly very interested in his drink.
Even the servers seemed to fade into the shadows, giving him clear passage.
He moved with the kind of grace that came from training, from years of being the one who did the dirty work rather than ordering it done. Each step was deliberate, controlled. Nothing wasted. Nothing uncertain.
My pulse kicked up. I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in my temples. The air in the booth suddenly felt too warm despite the bar’s carefully maintained cool temperature.
He reached the table. Stood there for a moment, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Then, with movements as deliberate as his approach, he unbuttoned his suit jacket. The gesture should have been innocuous. Wasn’t.
He sat.
The booth seemed to shrink. He wasn’t even that close -- the table between us provided a buffer -- but his presence filled the space in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness. The expensive cologne he wore mixed with something else. Leather and metal and danger.
“Caterina Lombardi.” His voice matched everything else about him. Low, controlled, with an edge that suggested violence was always an option.
I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes even though every instinct screamed at me to look away. “Thank you for coming.”
“You have five minutes to tell me why I shouldn’t walk out.” He leaned back, one arm draped along the top of the booth, the other resting on the table. Relaxed posture that was anything but relaxed. “I don’t take meetings with Lombardis.”
“I’m aware.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. Small victory. “Which is why I’m hoping you’ll make an exception.”
His gaze never left my face. Didn’t drift to the neckline of my dress or the way my fingers had curled around the scotch glass again. Just studied me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously exposed and invisible.
“Four minutes,” he said.
A server materialized at the table’s edge, setting down a drink I hadn’t seen Dante order. Bourbon, from the color. Neat. The server vanished again without a word.
Right. This was happening. No more time for second thoughts or careful planning. Just the pitch I’d rehearsed a hundred times in my head and the desperate hope that I hadn’t miscalculated everything.
I took a breath. “I have a proposal for you. One I think you’ll find mutually beneficial.”
His expression didn’t change. Didn’t encourage or discourage. He just waited, patient as death.
“My father wants to marry me off to Marco Vitale.” The words tasted bitter. “I’m here to offer you an alternative arrangement.”
Still nothing. He could have been carved from stone for all the reaction he showed.
I pressed on. “I need a husband my father can’t refuse. You need legitimacy with the old families. I’m proposing we give each other exactly what we need.”
Dante De Luca lifted his bourbon to his lips. Took a slow, deliberate sip. Set it down again with precision.
Then he smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Go on,” he said. “You have my attention.”
I spread my hands on the table, fingers splayed against cool marble.
A gesture meant to convey openness, honesty.
All the things I definitely wasn’t feeling.
But this was negotiation, and negotiation was performance.
Papa had taught me that much, even if he’d never intended for me to use those lessons against him.
“My father informed me that I’m to marry Marco Vitale in three months.
” I kept my voice level, professional. Like I was discussing a business transaction rather than my life.
Which, I supposed, was exactly what this was.
“Marco is ambitious, violent, and has a documented history of abusing women. Papa knows this. Doesn’t care.
The alliance with the Vitale family is worth more to him than my safety. ”
Dante’s expression remained unreadable. He could have been listening to a weather report for all the reaction he showed.