Chapter Eight
Caterina
I’d woken to find the bed empty and a change of clothes laid out for me. After a hot shower, I’d dressed then ventured out into the penthouse to find Dante, only for him to immediately direct me back to the bedroom.
I stared him down, wondering how the hell I was supposed to deal with my new husband. He wasn’t anything like I’d anticipated. My cheeks warmed when I recalled our rather passionate night. But sex aside, the man was cold and distant.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway -- security staff arriving with my luggage. Three men in dark suits wheeled my suitcases into the room, their expressions carefully neutral. They’d witnessed this kind of scene before, probably. Rich men controlling their wives. Nothing unusual.
“Unpack everything,” Dante instructed them. “Clothing goes in the closet pending my approval. Personal items can be arranged as Mrs. De Luca prefers.”
Mrs. De Luca. He said it with the same proprietary tone Papa used when discussing business assets.
The staff began efficiently emptying my suitcases while Dante continued the tour like we were discussing a hotel reservation rather than my imprisonment.
“You have access to the main living areas, your bedroom, and the kitchen. My office is off-limits. The master bedroom is off-limits unless I invite you in.” He gestured down the hallway. “There’s a gym on this floor and a pool on the roof terrace. Both require my permission to use.”
“Let me guess.” I crossed my arms. “The front door also requires your permission.”
“The front door requires a code you don’t have.” He moved to the window, looking out at the city sprawled below. “You’re not a prisoner, Caterina. You’re my wife. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
He turned back to face me, and something in his expression shifted.
Not anger. Something colder. “Yes. A prisoner would be locked in her room. A wife has the freedom to move through her husband’s home, wear the clothes he provides, follow the schedule he sets, and be grateful for the protection his name offers. ”
One of the security staff was unpacking my jewelry box, laying pieces out on the dresser with careful precision. I watched him handle the diamond bracelet Papa had given me for my eighteenth birthday and felt rage bubble up hot enough to make my vision blur.
“Don’t touch that.” I moved toward the dresser, reaching for the bracelet.
The security guard glanced at Dante, who gave a slight nod. The man stepped aside, and I grabbed the bracelet along with the jewelry box, holding them against my chest like they could anchor me to something real.
“I’ll unpack my own things.” I met Dante’s gaze. “That’s non-negotiable.”
The security staff froze, looking to Dante for instruction. The air in the room seemed to thicken, tension building in the silence that followed my declaration.
Then Dante moved.
He crossed the space between us in three strides and his hand closed around my wrist -- not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I couldn’t pull away. The jewelry box clattered to the floor, my expensive pieces scattering.
“You don’t negotiate with me.” His voice stayed quiet, but I felt the threat underneath like a blade against skin. “Not here. Not in my home. Behind these doors, you’re mine to control. That was our agreement.”
His grip tightened just slightly, his thumb pressing against my pulse point where my heartbeat hammered frantically. His other hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face so I had no choice but to meet his gaze once more.
“Do you understand, Caterina?”
I should have said yes. Should have backed down, played the obedient wife, saved the rebellion for a more strategic moment.
Instead, I held his gaze and said nothing.
His eyes darkened. The hand on my jaw slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair with just enough pressure to make my breath catch. Not pain. Not quite. But the promise of it.
“I asked you a question.” His mouth was close enough now that I could feel his breath against my lips. “Do you understand?”
My body betrayed me completely. Heat pooled low in my belly despite the fear, despite the anger, despite every logical reason to be repulsed by this man and his control. My pulse jumped under his thumb, and I knew he felt it. Knew he could read every traitorous response my body gave him.
“Yes.” The word came out barely above a whisper.
“Yes, what?”
I wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to knee him hard enough to make him regret every word of our contract. Wanted to run back to Papa and beg him to let me marry Marco instead because at least with Marco I’d known what kind of monster I was dealing with.
But my body was still responding to Dante’s touch, still heating under his grip, still aching for something I absolutely refused to name.
“Yes, I understand,” I forced out.
He held me there for three more heartbeats -- long enough that I felt the trembling start in my legs, long enough that shame joined the heat in my belly -- then released me and stepped back.
“Good.” He gestured to the security staff, who’d been standing frozen throughout the entire exchange. “Continue unpacking. Mrs. De Luca will retire to the sitting room while you work.”
I bent to gather my scattered jewelry with hands that were absolutely not shaking, refusing to look at any of them. The diamonds caught the light as I dropped them back in the box, each piece representing a moment from my old life. My old cage.
Dante’s hand appeared in my line of vision, offering to help me stand. I ignored it and pushed myself up, carrying the jewelry box to the dresser where I set it down with care.
“I’ll be in my office,” Dante said to no one in particular. “Let me know when you’ve finished.”
His footsteps retreated down the hallway, leaving me alone with three men who’d just watched my husband establish dominance like I was a dog being trained.
I moved to the sitting area and lowered myself onto the chaise, my legs finally giving in to the shaking I’d been fighting. Through the window, the city sprawled below -- so far away it looked unreal. Forty-three floors up. Locked elevator. Controlled access.
I’d walked into this cage willingly. Had negotiated the terms of my own imprisonment. And the worst part, the part that made bile rise in my throat, was how my body had responded to Dante’s control.
The heat was still there, pooled between my legs, making me achingly aware of sensations I desperately wanted to ignore.
I’d made a deal with the devil. Now I had to live with the consequences.
* * *
I woke the next morning to someone else’s choice of clothing draped across the chair in my sitting area -- a cream silk blouse and navy trousers that screamed dutiful wife.
The morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows at an angle that suggested early, too early for anyone sane to be awake.
But someone had been in my room while I slept, laying out clothes like I was a doll to be dressed.
Fuck that.
I threw off the covers and moved to the closet, ignoring the conservative outfit waiting for me.
The clothes I’d chosen for myself had been donated, only leaving behind the ones my parents had purchased.
Only a few had survived the purge. Probably because even his staff recognized that some designer items were too expensive to throw away, regardless of how provocative they were.
I found it in the back corner where someone had tried to hide it behind the approved navy and cream colors -- a red Versace dress I’d bought in Milan specifically because it had made the sales associate blush.
The neckline plunged to my sternum, the hem hit mid-thigh, and the material clung like a second skin, showing every curve I had.
Perfect.
I laid it on the bed next to Dante’s conservative selection, the contrast almost comical. His choice was modest. Mine screamed fuck your rules.
The bathroom was still as obscenely luxurious as yesterday -- all marble and gold fixtures and a shower that could fit six people.
I took my time, letting the hot water beat against muscles still tense from yesterday’s confrontation.
Used the expensive products someone had stocked for me.
Dried off with towels that were probably Egyptian cotton.
I did my makeup with more care than necessary. Dramatic eyes. Red lips that matched the dress. I let my hair down in waves instead of pinning it up. Every choice was deliberate. Every choice was mine.
When I finally slipped into the red dress, I felt something like power settle over me.
This was who I’d been before -- before the wedding, before the arrangement, before I’d agreed to let a man control my wardrobe and my schedule and my fucking life.
This was Caterina Lombardi in all her defiant, inappropriate glory.
Mrs. De Luca could fuck off.
I checked myself in the full-length mirror, turning slightly to appreciate how the dress showed just enough leg when I moved. How the neckline drew the eye exactly where I wanted it. How the color made my skin look like cream and my eyes look even greener.
Let Dante see what he was trying to control. Let him understand who I actually was.
I was considering whether to venture out to the kitchen when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Dante.
I knew his walk now -- measured, deliberate, the footsteps of someone who’d never rushed because he’d never had to. The door opened without a knock, because of course it did. This was his penthouse. His rules. My bedroom door apparently didn’t rate privacy.
He stopped three steps into the room, his gaze traveling from my face down the length of the red dress and back up again. His jaw tightened. Just slightly. Just enough that I noticed.
“That’s not what I selected for you.” His voice was level, conversational even, but I heard the steel underneath.
“No.” I smoothed my hands down the dress, drawing his attention to how it clung to my hips. “It’s not.”
“Change.”
“I’m comfortable in this.”