Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Caterina
I make it as far as Adrian’s door before my nerve fails.
The hallway is dim and quiet in the early morning. The house is awake underneath it. I can feel that even before I hear anything downstairs. Too many people under one roof. Too many rooms occupied. Too much worry between these walls.
His door is shut.
There is nothing remarkable about a shut door.
People shut doors all the time. Especially injured men who are probably sleeping.
Especially stubborn, impossible, infuriating men who have no business getting out of bed after being shot and probably will anyway, the second no one is watching closely enough.
I stop outside it.
My hand lifts halfway before I realize what I’m doing.
Then it freezes.
The memory of last night hits me so hard I almost take a step back.
His mouth on mine.
My hand sliding under the blanket.
The pain that cut through him because I could not think past my own need for five seconds.
Oh God.
My stomach folds in on itself.
I lower my hand.
Absolutely not.
I cannot go in there. Not now. Not when I can still feel the heat of his mouth and the sharp, blistering shame of what I did afterward. Not when I can hear my own voice in my head, frantic and apologizing and ridiculous.
Not when I do not know whether he is awake in there thinking about what happened, or worse, awake in there carefully filing it away under trauma response and client instability.
That thought makes my face burn.
I kissed my bodyguard.
I climbed into his bed.
I tried to—
No.
No, no, no.
I close my eyes for half a second and force the thought back before it can fully form.
I am not doing this in the hallway outside his room like some shamed teenager sneaking home after curfew. I am Caterina Conti. I have survived quarterly audits, investor interrogations, opening-weekend disasters, regulatory reviews, and a coordinated attempt to kill me on my own casino floor.
I can survive a kiss.
Probably.
Maybe.
Eventually.
Not this morning.
I keep walking.
My feet are silent against the runner, which is probably a mercy because if anyone catches me lingering outside Adrian’s room, I may simply throw myself down the stairs to avoid the conversation.
The thought is absurd enough that I almost laugh, but the sound gets caught somewhere under my ribs.
Downstairs, the house is obviously no longer asleep.
The closer I get to the kitchen, the more I hear. Voices, life. The opening and closing of cabinet doors, the soft clink of mugs. A baby making a small unhappy noise, then settling again. Someone murmuring in Italian. The smell of coffee grows stronger with every step.
Coffee.
That is all I need.
A cup of coffee. Maybe it'll be enough to restore my dignity.
I step into the kitchen.
And stop.
Because not only is the kitchen not empty.
It is completely full.
Nearly everyone seems to have gathered in Luca Conti’s kitchen as if the rest of the rooms have ceased to exist.
The large island is covered with mugs, plates, a half-cut loaf of bread, fruit, pastries, a folded newspaper no one is reading, bottles for the babies, and at least three phones lying face up.
Bianca stands at the stove in a robe and slippers, dark hair pulled back loosely, somehow looking elegant and exhausted at once. She is stirring something in a small pan while giving Giovanni a mildly amused look over her shoulder.
Vito is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, dark hair messy, jaw unshaven, dressed in black lounge pants and a T-shirt.
In his other arm, he holds his six-month-old son, Cristiano.
A mass of black hair, not yet tamed, and a face so much like Vito's that it still makes something in my chest ache every single time I see him.
He's talking to Nico about something in hushed tones.
Antonio is at the island, scrolling through something on his phone, a half-eaten croissant in front of him.
Roberto is beside him, having a conversation with Elena that no doubt has to do with legal, both of them being attorneys and all.
Luca is in his customary spot at the head of the table. He is holding one of Antonio and Elsa's twins, Elio, and feeding him a small piece of banana with a patience that belies the tension in his shoulders.
And Teresa.
She’s leaning against the far counter by the coffee maker, arms crossed, holding her own mug, watching everyone with an unnervingly calm, analytical gaze.
I am in a room full of sharks.
And I’m the one who smells like blood.
They all look up when I walk in.
The soft hum of conversation goes quiet.
Every single eye lands on me.
It is not a hostile silence. It is not accusatory.
But it is heavy.
It is full of questions they know better than to ask out loud. And answers they already have.
Erica is the first to break it.
“Caterina.” Her voice is gentle. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
"No," I say cheerfully. "No point in lying because you all look like crap too."
Vito’s lips twitch into a smile. “We were worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You don’t look fine,” Antonio says, not looking up from his phone.
“I am,” I say.
That is a lie.
I am not fine. I am a bundle of frayed nerves and raw emotion and lingering desire so potent it feels like a fever.
I am an idiot who assaulted her injured bodyguard and then spent the rest of the night either awake replaying it in vivid, high-definition detail, or trying to fall asleep and failing because the memory of Adrian’s hands in my hair was more potent than exhaustion.
“Bianca made coffee,” Teresa says, pushing a mug across the counter toward me. "I figured you'd be needing it."
My gaze flicks to hers.
She knows something.
It’s not in her words. It’s in the look she gives me. A look that is both kind and dangerously perceptive. A look that says, I see you. I see through you.
I look away quickly, my heart starting to pound.
I reach for the mug, my fingers trembling slightly. I hope no one notices.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not rattled, Caterina,” Luca says, his voice calm and steady. “We all are.”
I’m not rattled.
I am humiliated. And turned on. And terrified.
And completely, utterly out of my depth.
The difference is important.
“I’m fine, Papà,” I say, my voice a little too tight. I take a sip of the coffee, hoping it will give me something to do with my hands. "Really."
“Adrian is up,” Teresa says casually, as if it's a random piece of information.
My coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips.
My head snaps up.
My eyes meet hers.
She knew. She absolutely knew. She knows everything. Oh God.
Her expression is unreadable.
She is enjoying this.
“I’m glad he’s awake,” I say, my voice a little too high. “How is he?”
“He’s stubborn,” Teresa says.
I almost laugh. "Yes," I say. "He is that."
“He’s refusing to take the pain medication,” she adds, her gaze sharp. “I imagine you could talk some sense into him.”
I choke on my coffee.
Vito smacks me on the back. “Easy there, Caterina.”
“I’m fine,” I wheeze, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“You should check on him,” Nico says, and I swear I’m going to throw this coffee mug at his head. “He saved your life last night. The least you can do is make sure he’s not being an idiot.”
“I’m not going to bother him,” I say, a little too quickly. “He needs to rest. He should be left alone.”
“He's already up,” Teresa says again, her voice a low, relentless hum. “He’s already asked for a briefing. He’s already refused to rest.”
She’s setting a trap for me.
And I’m walking right into it.
“He asked for a briefing?” Luca says, his voice suddenly sharp. “From who?”
“His people,” Teresa says. “He wants a full report.”
Luca’s jaw tightens. “He’s not working. He’s my guest. He’s recovering. He needs to be in that bed.”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” Teresa says.
“He will,” Luca says.
Elena steps in before anyone else can speak. "Think of the circumstances," she tells my father. "And think of how you would feel in his position."
My father's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Point taken," he says.
“We have it handled, Papà,” I say, trying to wrest back control of the conversation. "I'll handle it."
And I will. I will handle it by avoiding him for the rest of the day. Or maybe the rest of my life.
“I think you should go talk to him,” Nico says again.
I am going to murder Nico.
“I’ll go with you,” Teresa offers.
“No!” I say, way too loudly. Everyone looks at me. I clear my throat. “I mean, no. That’s not necessary. I can handle it.”
“Are you sure?” Teresa asks, her eyes wide with fake innocence.
“I’m sure.”
“Alright,” she says.
"Eat first," Bianca says, loading up a plate for me. "You look like you're about to faint."
Not wanting to eat, but grateful for something that will delay the inevitable, I take the plate and sit down at the table.
The food is delicious, I'm sure. But I taste nothing.
I force it down anyway.
I am acutely aware of every single person in the room. Their conversations, their movements, their glances in my direction. It feels like I’m on display.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from my Head of Security at the casino.
All quiet here. A few journalists sniffing around. We’re handling it. Are you okay?
I’m fine, I text back. Keep me updated.
I put my phone down.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s an email from my assistant.
The Board wants to schedule an emergency meeting.
Not a good time. I'll let you know when.
As soon as I set my phone down, it buzzes a third time.
This is getting ridiculous.
I pick it up.
It’s a news alert.
Deadly Shooting at The Regent Club Hotel and Casino.
I click on the link.
The article is a mess of speculation and misinformation. It talks about "an apparent gang-related incident." It mentions "multiple casualties." It has a picture of the casino's entrance, with police cars and flashing lights.