Chapter Ten
Caterina
The Lombardi estate looked exactly as I’d left it two weeks ago -- imposing stone facade, perfectly manicured gardens.
I’d grown up here. Learned to navigate Papa’s moods in these hallways.
Thrown tantrums and wine glasses in the dining room we were about to enter.
Now I was returning as someone else’s property, and the marble steps leading to the front door felt like walking back into a cage I’d barely escaped.
Dante’s hand rested at the small of my back as we entered -- proprietary, warm through the silk of my dress.
He’d chosen the dress this morning. Emerald green, high neckline that covered everything, hem that hit just below the knee.
Conservative enough to satisfy Papa. Expensive enough to show the De Luca wealth.
Nothing like what I would have chosen, but I’d learned that lesson already.
The bruises on my thighs were still fading, hidden beneath the fabric but present enough that I felt them with every step.
“Breathe,” Dante murmured near my ear as we followed the butler toward the dining room. “It’s just dinner.”
Just dinner. With both families present to witness the alliance I’d orchestrated. To see how the Lombardi daughter had fared in her marriage to the De Luca enforcer. To judge whether I’d made the right choice or a catastrophic mistake.
No pressure at all.
I might have changed, but this room hadn’t.
A mahogany table that could seat twenty, crystal chandelier that probably cost more than a car, oil paintings of dead Lombardi ancestors watching from the walls with disapproving eyes.
Papa sat at the head of the table in his usual position of power, dressed in an expensive suit despite this being a family dinner.
Mama occupied the opposite end, elegant in cream Chanel, her expression perfectly composed in a way that meant she was deeply uncomfortable.
Luca sat beside Mama, and the relief on his face when he saw me was almost comical. He’d texted me seventeen times since the wedding. I’d answered three. Not because I didn’t want to talk to him, but because I didn’t know how to explain what my life had become.
“Caterina.” He stood, moving around the table to pull me into a hug that was just a bit too tight. “You look good.”
“Liar.” But I hugged him back, grateful for something real in all this performance.
“You do,” he insisted quietly. “Different, but good.”
Different. That was one word for it.
Francesca De Luca sat across from where Dante was leading me, and I’d met her exactly twice before -- once at the wedding, once when she’d come to the penthouse to discuss business with her brother.
She was beautiful in a sharp, calculated way.
Dark hair pinned in a perfect chignon. Burgundy dress that probably cost a fortune.
Her gaze assessed me with the kind of intelligence that missed nothing.
“Caterina.” She lifted her wine glass in greeting. “Marriage suits you.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or mocking me. With Francesca, it was probably both.
Dante pulled out my chair -- the one beside his, positioned so we sat together on one side of the table. His sister directly across. Papa watching from the head like a king evaluating his subjects. Mama trying to pretend this was all perfectly normal.
A servant appeared with the first course -- some kind of carpaccio that looked like art. I picked up my fork and tried to remember how to be the Lombardi daughter. The one who knew which fork to use and how to make small talk that meant nothing.
“The weather’s been lovely,” Mama offered, which was such a painfully obvious attempt at neutral conversation that I almost laughed.
“Very lovely,” Francesca agreed with a slight smile that suggested she found this as absurd as I did.
Papa cleared his throat. “Dante. I trust business has been… satisfactory since the wedding?”
“Very satisfactory.” Dante’s voice remained level, professional. “The northern shipments are ahead of schedule. The port negotiations concluded in our favor. Everything is progressing as planned.”
Our favor. Our territory. Our business. The alliance was working exactly as I’d promised it would. Papa should have been pleased.
Instead, he looked like he was eating glass.
More courses arrived. Pasta with some kind of truffle sauce.
Veal that melted on the tongue. Wine that probably cost more per bottle than most people’s monthly rent.
The conversation remained superficial -- business, weather, some charity event Mama was planning.
Nothing real. Nothing that acknowledged the tension simmering underneath every polite word.
I felt Dante’s presence beside me like heat.
He’d barely looked at me since we’d sat down, but I was hyperaware of every small movement.
The way he cut his veal with precise motions.
The way he lifted his wine glass with those scarred knuckles that had held me down and stripped me bare just days ago.
The way his thigh almost brushed mine under the table before he shifted slightly away.
We looked like a married couple. Acted like one. But the distance between us felt calculated, controlled. Like he was proving something to Papa. To his sister. To me.
I was taking a sip of wine when the dining room doors opened again.
The servant who entered looked flustered, which was unusual for Lombardi staff. They were trained to maintain composure during everything from business negotiations to bloodshed.
“Forgive the interruption,” the man said, directing his attention to Papa. “But you have a guest. Signor Marco Vitale.”
The wine turned to acid in my mouth.
Silence fell over the table like a physical weight. Papa’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Mama’s hand tightened around her wine stem hard enough that I worried the crystal would shatter. Luca’s eyes went wide, his gaze darting between me and Papa with obvious concern.
Francesca simply raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
And Dante went completely still beside me. Not tense. Not obviously angry. Just still in a way that made every nerve ending I had stand at attention.
“I wasn’t aware Marco had been invited.” Papa set down his fork.
“He wasn’t.” Mama’s voice sounded tight.
“My apologies for the intrusion.” Marco’s voice carried from the doorway before he appeared -- perfectly styled hair, expensive suit in charcoal gray, smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pay my respects to the newlyweds.
Offer my congratulations on their union. ”
Liar. Marco lived on the other side of the city. He’d come deliberately, knowing this dinner was happening, probably through one of Papa’s staff who still owed him favors.
Papa’s jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth. But refusing to admit an ally -- even a former one -- would be an insult that had political consequences. “Of course. Please, join us.”
Marco moved into the room with confidence that bordered on arrogance. His gaze swept over me, lingered just long enough to be noticeable, then shifted to Dante with something that looked like a challenge.
He took the empty seat directly across from me. Next to Francesca, diagonal from Dante. Close enough that I could smell his cologne -- something expensive and cloying that made my stomach turn.
“Caterina.” He said my name like a caress. Like he had any right to. “You look beautiful. Marriage agrees with you.”
I felt Dante’s hand slide onto my thigh under the table.
Not gently. His fingers found the still-tender bruises through the silk of my dress and pressed. Not hard enough to make me gasp, but firm enough that I felt it. Felt the reminder of what those marks meant. Felt the possessive claim in every point of contact.
My breath caught.
Marco noticed. His gaze flicked down to where Dante’s hand had disappeared beneath the tablecloth, then back up to my face. His smile widened.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said pleasantly.
“Not at all.” Dante’s voice remained conversational, but his grip tightened. His thumb found the worst of the bruises and circled it with deliberate pressure. “We were just discussing business. Family business.”
The emphasis on family was subtle but clear. You’re not family. You have no place here.
Marco’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on family matters.
” He accepted wine from a hovering servant, took a sip, his gaze still fixed on me.
“Though I must admit, I’m curious how you’re adjusting to married life, Caterina.
It must be quite different from what you’re used to. ”
My pulse kicked up. Dante’s fingers pressed harder against the bruises, and I had to work to keep my expression neutral. The pain mixed with something else entirely -- something that made heat pool low in my belly even as my hands wanted to shake.
“It’s been an adjustment,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “But a welcome one.”
“How fortunate.” Marco’s tone suggested he didn’t believe me at all. “I’m sure Dante is taking very good care of you.”
Dante’s hand slid higher on my thigh, still hidden by the tablecloth, still pressing against bruises that were evidence of exactly how he took care of me. I felt my breath go shallow.
“Very good care,” I confirmed.
Across from us, Francesca was watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement. Papa looked like he wanted to throw Marco out but couldn’t without causing a scene. Mama had gone pale. Luca was staring at his plate like the veal held answers to the universe’s mysteries.
And Marco just kept smiling, his gaze moving between me and Dante like he was watching a show staged for his entertainment.
“Well then,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To family. Both old and new.”
Nobody drank to that.