11. Caterina
Caterina
The brilliant, blinding morning sun streams through the expansive arched windows of corridor, casting elongated pools of golden warmth across the imported runner rugs, but the ambient temperature inside my chest remains encased in unforgiving ice.
I spend the entirety of the morning pacing the confines of the master suite, analyzing the catastrophic, impossibly tangled web of deception I am currently weaving between my treacherous cousin and the man who currently holds the keys to my gilded cage.
Screaming insults at Alessio and shattering priceless porcelain against the plaster walls provided a temporary, cathartic release for my boundless frustration, but operating purely on hostile emotion is a tactical error that will inevitably result in my own destruction.
If I intend to survive this clandestine war and stall Matteo’s impending assassination attempt long enough to orchestrate a viable solution, I must fundamentally alter my approach.
I need to dismantle my husband’s impenetrable paranoia, and the only effective method to disarm a man who expects a knife in the back is to offer him an open, affectionate hand instead.
I meticulously select a soft, oversized cream cashmere, pairing it with simple silk trousers, deliberately shedding the structured, intimidating designer gowns I usually wear as armor.
I brush my raven hair until it falls in loose, inviting waves over my shoulders, applying only a fraction of my usual makeup to cultivate an aesthetic of vulnerable, approachable domesticity.
I step out of the bedroom, my bare feet making minimal sound against the floorboards, and navigate the winding hallways toward the downstairs kitchens.
Rocco and Gianni fall into step behind me immediately, their combat boots thudding in unison, but I do not offer them my usual icy glare or a biting reprimand regarding my lack of privacy.
I simply ignore their presence, projecting an aura of resigned acceptance as I push through the swinging wooden doors into the culinary heart of the compound.
The bustling room smells incredibly rich, infused with the aroma of roasting garlic and simmering tomatoes, an industrious environment managed flawlessly by the new Severato staff.
Silvio sits casually on a stainless-steel prep counter near the massive industrial refrigerators, a half-eaten apple gripped in his massive hand, his scarred face turning toward me the moment I cross the threshold.
The Capo possesses a calculating, exceedingly observant mind hidden beneath his brutish exterior, and I know I must sell this performance to him just as convincingly as I intend to sell it to his superior.
"Good afternoon, Lady Caterina," Silvio greets me, his tone laced with a distinct, undeniable thread of suspicion as he slides off the metal counter, undoubtedly anticipating another fiery outburst or a chaotic scheme involving the gas ranges.
"Good afternoon, Silvio," I reply smoothly, offering the scarred enforcer a polite, remarkably subdued smile that causes his thick eyebrows to draw together in genuine confusion.
"I was hoping you could inform me of my husband's current whereabouts.
I woke up to an empty bed this morning, and the maids mentioned he returned to the estate rather late last night, looking somewhat worse for wear. "
Silvio studies my face, searching for the hidden dagger concealed behind my uncharacteristic concern.
"The Underboss had a rather productive, aggressive meeting with his brother at the harbor," the Capo explains carefully, tossing the core of his apple into a nearby receptacle.
"He took a substantial hit to the jaw, but he refused medical attention.
He is currently working on the upper terrace adjoining the study, reviewing the latest shipping manifests. "
"Thank you," I say graciously, walking toward the immaculate glass cabinets lining the far wall. I retrieve two crystal tumblers and a bottle of Don Falco’s most expensive, aged bourbon, arranging them meticulously on a small silver tray.
"I think he could use a distraction from the ledgers, considering the immense pressure Niccolò is undoubtedly placing upon his shoulders regarding the traditionalist factions. "
I turn and exit the kitchen, leaving Silvio staring after me in a state of bewildered apprehension.
I carry the silver tray up the grand staircase, my heart racing a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs as I prepare to execute the most dangerous, emotionally taxing performance of my entire life.
I must convince the most paranoid, untamed predator in Boston that my hostility is dissolving into genuine affection, all while the plastic burner phone remains hidden inside my vanity, a ticking bomb waiting to obliterate us both.
I approach the mahogany doors of the study, nodding to the enforcers stationed outside, and slip into the cavernous room without knocking.
The interior is empty, but the reinforced glass doors leading out to the sprawling stone terrace are propped open, allowing the bracing, salty ocean breeze to filter through the space.
I carry the tray outside, finding Alessio seated in an ornate wrought-iron chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a stack of encrypted logistical reports resting on the glass-topped table beside his elbow.
The immediate sight of his battered face forces a genuine, unscripted gasp to slip past my lips.
A sprawling, dark purple bruise covers the entirety of his right cheekbone, his lower lip is split and swollen, and a harsh, scraping cut runs along the rugged line of his jaw.
He looks as though he spent the entire night brawling in a gutter rather than discussing syndicate politics with the Consigliere, yet the violence inflicted upon his features does absolutely nothing to diminish his devastating, magnetic appeal.
Alessio turns his head at the sound of my approach, his obsidian eyes narrowing suspiciously as they drop to the silver tray in my hands.
"Did you poison the bourbon, Caterina?" he asks, his voice a gravelly, rasping scrape that sends an involuntary shiver cascading down my spine.
"Because if this is another one of your elaborate schemes to compromise my security, I am going to throw you and that tray directly over the cliffside. "
"If I wanted to poison you, Alessio, I would mix it into your morning espresso, not a vintage barrel-aged bourbon that is far too expensive to waste on an assassination," I counter softly, setting the tray down onto the glass table, maintaining a soothing, even cadence to my words.
"I brought you a drink because you look like you just went twelve rounds with a freight train, and I sincerely doubt you took the time to swallow a painkiller this morning. "
I pour a generous measure of the amber liquid into one of the crystal tumblers, leaning forward to press the glass directly into his large, calloused hand.
He accepts the drink, his fingers brushing against mine, his gaze tracking my every movement with the hyper-vigilant focus of a wolf assessing a potentially dangerous trap.
I do not retreat to the opposite side of the terrace.
Instead, I step into his personal space, my hip brushing against the armrest of his wrought-iron chair, offering him a proximity I have violently fought against for the past week.
"Silvio mentioned you had a disagreement with your brother," I murmur, my tone dropping into a hushed, sympathetic register as I reach out, my trembling fingertips hovering a fraction of an inch from the dark bruise marring his cheek.
"Niccolò possesses a notoriously unforgiving temper, but I never imagined he would strike his own brother and Underboss with such ruthless force. "
Alessio inhales sharply, his muscles bunching beneath the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt as my fingers finally make contact with his skin.
I stroke the uninjured edge of his jaw, employing a feather-light, caressing motion that causes his eyes to flutter shut for a suspended, agonizingly vulnerable second.
"Niccolò and I communicate best when we are attempting to beat each other to a pulp," he breathes out, his large hand coming up to wrap around my wrist, not to push me away, but to hold my palm firmly against his cheek.
"It is a necessary purge. We disagreed on the appropriate methods for handling the traditionalist rats scurrying around the ports, and he felt the overwhelming need to remind me that the Severato crown supersedes my personal preferences. "
He is lying to me, offering a sanitized, strategically altered version of the truth to conceal the syndicate's inner workings, but the sheer exhaustion radiating from his massive frame is entirely genuine.
I trace the rough stubble lining his chin, moving my thumb to gently graze the corner of his split lip, suppressing the sickening wave of hypocrisy churning violently in my stomach.
I am using my body as a weapon of espionage, wrapping him in a false blanket of comfort to ensure he drops his guard, yet the scorching heat of his skin beneath my fingertips feels terrifyingly, intoxicatingly right.
"You carry the burden of his entire empire on your shoulders, Alessio," I tell him, my voice softening even further as I slide my hand into the dark, messy strands of his hair, encouraging him to rest his head against my abdomen.
"You execute his enemies, you secure his borders, and you take the physical damage required to keep him sitting comfortably on his throne.
You are far more than a blunt instrument, and it angers me to see him treat you with such callous disregard. "