Chapter Five
Marco
The call came while I was reviewing contracts for the northern shipment routes.
Giuseppe’s number appeared on my phone screen, and I answered immediately, already calculating how I’d phrase my gratitude for officially finalizing my engagement to his daughter.
Instead, I heard words that made my pen stop mid-signature.
“The arrangement with Caterina is being reconsidered.”
I sat very still, the pen hovering above paper, my other hand gripping the phone perhaps a touch too tightly. “Reconsidered.”
“She’s brought an alternative proposal. With the De Luca family.” Giuseppe’s voice was clipped, professional, but I heard the undercurrent of rage beneath it. “I’m meeting with Dante De Luca to discuss terms.”
The words didn’t compute for several seconds. I stared at the contract in front of me, at my half-finished signature, while my brain attempted to process what I’d just heard.
“The De Lucas,” I repeated slowly. “Caterina went to the De Lucas.”
“She overstepped her bounds. This doesn’t necessarily mean --”
“When’s the meeting?”
“Within forty-eight hours. Marco, this isn’t finalized. The girl acted without permission, but I’m handling --”
I ended the call.
The phone fell from my hand onto the mahogany desk with a clatter that seemed very far away. I could hear my own breathing, sharp and too fast in the quiet of my penthouse. Could hear the blood rushing in my ears like ocean waves.
Caterina Lombardi had rejected me. Had gone behind her father’s back to arrange an alternative marriage.
The little bitch had chosen Dante fucking De Luca over me.
I stood. The movement was too fast, uncontrolled. My chair scraped back and toppled, hitting the floor with a satisfying crash. Not enough. Not nearly enough to release the pressure building in my chest, in my head, in my hands that suddenly wanted to break something. Someone.
The crystal tumbler sat on the bar cart across the room. Baccarat, purchased on a trip to Paris, worth a hefty sum. I’d been drinking eighteen-year-old scotch from it just an hour ago, celebrating the upcoming wedding that would finally give me access to the Lombardi name and network.
I grabbed it and threw it with all the strength I could muster.
It exploded against the wall in a shower of crystal and amber liquid, shards scattering across the imported Persian rug like diamonds. The sound was beautiful. Destructive. Nowhere near enough.
My hand trembled as I lowered it. Not from fear. From rage so pure it made my entire body shake.
Three years. I’d spent three years cultivating Giuseppe’s favor, proving my worth, positioning myself as the ideal match for his daughter. Three years of careful strategy and calculated moves, of swallowing my pride when the old man treated me like a subordinate rather than an equal.
And she’d thrown it away in one impulsive decision.
No. Not impulsive. The little bitch had planned this.
Had gone to Dante deliberately, knowing exactly what she was doing.
This wasn’t rebellion. This was calculation.
She’d found someone she thought would be easier to manage, someone whose reputation for violence she somehow found less threatening than mine.
The thought made me want to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Caterina thought Dante De Luca was the better option. Thought marrying the De Luca enforcer would save her from whatever fate she imagined awaited her as my wife.
She had no idea what she’d just done. No idea who she was dealing with.
Dante’s reputation for brutality made my worst actions look like childish pranks.
But Caterina saw what she wanted to see.
A powerful name, strong connections, an alliance that would satisfy her father while giving her the illusion of control.
I started pacing. The motion helped slightly, gave me something to do with the energy coursing through my veins. Five steps to the window. Turn. Five steps to the bar. Turn. Repeat.
My reflection caught in the window glass. Face flushed, jaw tight, a vein visibly pulsing at my temple. I looked unhinged. Felt unhinged. The careful composure I maintained in public had cracked entirely, leaving only the rage underneath.
“She thinks she’s won,” I muttered, my voice too loud in the empty penthouse. “Thinks she’s outsmarted me. Outsmarted her father. Thinks she’s chosen safety over --”
I cut myself off, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. The knuckles went white with pressure. I could feel my nails biting into my palms hard enough to break skin.
No one rejected Marco Vitale. No one humiliated me like this and walked away unscathed.
Giuseppe could reconsider all he wanted. Could weigh the De Luca alliance against ours. Could even decide that Dante’s offer was more valuable. Fine. I’d handle it.
But Caterina. Caterina would learn what happened to women who thought they could choose for themselves. Who thought they had any power in this world beyond what men allowed them.
I grabbed my phone from the desk, scrolled through contacts with fingers that were still shaking. Found the name I needed and hit call.
He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“I need information.” My voice came out controlled now. Cold. The rage channeled into something more useful than breaking crystal. “Everything you can find on Dante De Luca. Patterns, weaknesses, associations. Where he goes, who he sees, what he values.”
“How soon?”
“By tomorrow morning.” I moved back to the window, looking out over the city lights.
Somewhere out there, Caterina was probably celebrating her victory.
Probably thought she’d escaped me. “And get me everything we have on the Lombardi girl. Recent activities, friends, routines. I want to know where she is at every hour of the day.”
A pause. “You sure that’s wise? Giuseppe won’t appreciate --”
“I don’t give a fuck what Giuseppe appreciates.” The words came out sharper than intended. I took a breath, forced my voice back to that measured calm. “Just get me the information. Discreetly.”
“Understood.”
I ended the call and set the phone down carefully on the windowsill.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, and this time I studied it properly.
The flush was fading, the vein at my temple no longer quite so prominent.
Good. Control returning. The rage still burned, but it was focused now. Useful.
I walked to my desk and pulled open the bottom drawer.
Inside sat a folder I’d started years ago, before Giuseppe had first suggested the engagement.
Photos, background information, details about Caterina’s life and schedule.
I’d told myself it was preparation for marriage, learning about my future wife.
Really, it had been possession. Claiming her before the wedding even happened.
I spread the photos across the desk. Caterina at charity events, at restaurants, shopping with friends.
Long dark hair and green eyes that held too much defiance.
She was beautiful, I’d give her that. The kind of beauty that made men stupid.
Made them forget that women like her needed firm handling, clear boundaries.
I’d planned to provide both. Still would, eventually.
One photo showed her leaving a club, slightly disheveled, laughing at something her friend had said.
Another caught her at some family dinner, her expression carefully neutral in a way that suggested she was hiding real thoughts.
A third was more recent, taken at the engagement dinner, wearing that black dress that had been designed to provoke. Designed to defy.
My finger traced the edge of that photo. Such spirit in her. Such fire. It would have been satisfying to break her down, to mold her into the obedient wife she should have been. To teach her that defiance had consequences.
Still could be satisfying. Just required a different approach now.
I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began making notes. Not a random plan born of rage. Structured. Methodical. Precise. The way I’d been taught to handle problems that required permanent solutions.
Dante thought he’d won something valuable. Giuseppe thought he was making a smart political move. Caterina thought she’d escaped into safety.
They were all wrong.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I wrote quickly, my handwriting precise even as my thoughts raced. Points of vulnerability. Opportunities for interference. Ways to make them regret this choice.
Because that’s what this was about now. Not just getting Caterina back -- though I’d have her eventually, one way or another. No, this was about teaching both her and Dante what happened when people thought they could humiliate me without consequence.
I paused in my writing, looking back at the photos. At Caterina’s face caught in crystallized moments -- laughing, composed, defiant. All that spirit that had initially attracted me. All that fire that needed to be controlled.
“You think you’ve chosen the better option,” I said softly, addressing the images. “You think Dante De Luca will protect you. Give you freedom. Let you maintain that illusion of independence.”
I picked up the photo from the engagement dinner, held it up to the light. Her eyes stared back at me, challenging even in stillness.
“But here’s what you don’t understand, Caterina.” I set the photo down, carefully aligned with the others. “There is no better option. There is no escape. You’re a Lombardi daughter, which makes you property. A commodity. And I claimed you first.”
My hand moved to the knife I kept in my desk drawer. Not to use -- not yet, anyway -- just to hold. To feel the weight of it, the potential violence contained in cold steel.
“So you wish to marry the De Luca enforcer. Fine. Enjoy your temporary victory. Enjoy whatever illusion of safety his name provides.” I tested the blade edge against my thumb, just hard enough to feel the pressure.
“Because I’m patient. I can wait. And when the opportunity comes -- and it will come -- I’ll make sure you understand exactly what you threw away. ”
I returned the knife to its drawer and stood, moving back to the photos. Began arranging them in chronological order, creating a timeline of Caterina’s recent movements. Adding notes about patterns, regular locations, security weaknesses.
Giuseppe might be reconsidering the Vitale alliance. Might even decide the De Luca offer was superior. That was business. I understood business.
But this had become war the moment Caterina chose someone else. The moment she rejected me in front of her family, in favor of a man whose reputation was built on brutality rather than refinement.
She wanted brutal? She’d learn what brutal really meant.
I worked through the night, compiling information, making plans, identifying every possible angle of attack. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Careful, the way I’d been taught to eliminate obstacles.
By dawn, I had a strategy. Multiple paths forward, each one designed to cause maximum damage while minimizing my exposure. Some immediate, some long-term. All of them ending with Caterina Lombardi regretting the day she’d ever heard Dante De Luca’s name.
I gathered the photos, the notes, the preliminary plans, and locked them in my safe. Evidence secured. Strategy documented. Nothing left to chance.
Then I poured myself a fresh scotch, a replacement for the drink I’d thrown, and raised it in a solitary toast to my reflection in the window.
“To Caterina Lombardi,” I said softly. “May your marriage be everything you deserve.”
I drained the glass and smiled. Not the practiced, charming smile I used in public. This was something else entirely. Something that would have made even Dante De Luca pause if he’d seen it.
Because this was the smile of a man who’d just made a blood oath. A promise sealed in rage and calculation and the absolute certainty that eventually, everyone paid their debts.
No one rejected Marco Vitale and lived to enjoy it.
No one.