Chapter 6
Catarina opened her eyes…or tried to. They felt like someone had superglued them shut during the night. After several moments of blinking and cursing under her breath, she managed to pry them open—only to immediately squint.
The light didn’t make sense. Intense Las Vegas sunshine was streaming in around the edges of the curtains. Her room faced west. Evening light only. So unless the sun had suddenly decided to rise in the wrong part of the sky, she wasn’t in her room.
Then last night’s memories came flooding back.
Matteo doing those…things…to the hookers.
Drinking at the bar.
And then—good grief—meeting Salvatore Romano.
She gasped and shot upright, instantly regretting it when a knife lodged itself in her skull. “Ow,” she hissed, clutching her head. “No sudden movements. Got it.”
Had she really proposed to him? Salvatore freaking Romano? Dear heaven, she’d even told him about…about her father’s plans!
“No!” she groaned, swinging her legs over the bed. Her shoes were gone, but at least she still had her clothes on. That was a positive. Right? Or maybe not. She’d offered marriage in exchange for secrets. Marriage! To the most dangerous man in Vegas!
That wasn’t just reckless. That was betrayal. Families didn’t betray the boss. Daughters didn’t hand out classified intel like party favors.
But then again, her father wasn’t exactly the kind of man who inspired loyalty.
Enrico Bianchi hurt people for fun. He killed for even less.
She’d spent her entire life afraid of him.
He hit her if she ate too much. He slapped her if she wore the wrong color dress.
And when he was tired of dealing with her, he’d sent her away to finishing schools that churned out polished mannequins with perfect posture and dead eyes.
Catarina had always known her place: she was the prize her father dangled in front of his capos. Be loyal enough, and you can marry my daughter. She’d been engaged three times already. Matteo was only the latest in a long, depressing line of suitors.
Matteo, who thought she was frigid because she wouldn’t sleep with him. Matteo, whose idea of foreplay was…well, whatever the hell that thing with his mouth had been. And Matteo, whose “manhood” was—she nearly snorted—so small she’d mistaken it once for a pinky finger.
Of course she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him. He was a terrible kisser. He smelled weird. And he was disgusting. Attraction wasn’t even in the same zip code.
But saying no had consequences. Her father had threatened her with his belt the last time she’d tried to fight an engagement. He’d even pulled it out, and she’d caved immediately. She wasn’t good at taking pain. She wasn’t brave. She was, if she were honest, a coward.
She stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring the disaster in the mirror. Her hair was a rat’s nest, her pale pink sheath dress wrinkled like she’d slept in a ball. Which she probably had.
A bathrobe hung on the door, and she gratefully grabbed it. After guzzling some water, Catarina stepped into the shower, letting the warm water pelt her until she felt halfway human again.
As she scrubbed with the hotel’s soap and shampoo, Catarina’s mind churned. She needed a story. Something to tell her father that explained why she hadn’t returned to their suite last night. Something that might lessen the inevitable beating.
Her fingers trembled as she twisted off the water. No makeup. No hairpins. No way to pull her hair back into the neat chignon her father insisted upon. Just loose, wild curls tumbling everywhere. He would hate it.
And then—oh no, Matteo! She groaned, but this time it was half a laugh. The memory of his tiny erection would have been hilarious if she wasn’t still technically engaged to him.
“Perfect,” she muttered at her bedraggled reflection. “Hungover, engaged to Thumbelina, and possibly married off to a mafia boss I barely know. Just another day in paradise.”
Well, not coming back to the suite last night might have ended her engagement. She doubted Matteo would want to marry a “sullied” woman.
Still, she lifted her chin. She’d gotten drunk, she’d made a fool of herself, and now she’d face the consequences.
Her father’s consequences.
That memory struck like a whip. About a year ago, Enrico had come storming into the house dragging one of his mistresses by the hair. The woman had been stunning—long legs, glossy hair, the kind of beauty men noticed. But she’d been screaming, begging him for mercy.
Enrico Bianchi never showed mercy.
He’d shoved the woman at one of his guards with a cruel laugh. “Have fun with her. She’s a whore—share her with whoever wants her tonight.”
Catarina had never forgotten the sound of that woman’s screams. She didn’t know how many guards had raped the poor woman before Catarina had managed to start a fire in the corner of the estate, drawing the men away long enough to sneak into the basement and cut her loose.
She’d shoved the woman into a cab with money for the women’s shelter. Torn clothes, hair matted with blood, mascara streaking like war paint down her face—and still, the woman had kissed Catarina’s hands, whispering frantic thanks.
And now, staring at her own reflection, Catarina thought bitterly, this will be my fate.
Her fingers trembled as she yanked her robe’s belt tighter. “You can get through this,” she whispered to herself, though she didn’t really believe it.
She walked out of the bathroom—then froze.
On the bed lay a gorgeous white dress, tea-length, delicate silk tulle spilling like clouds. She didn’t have to touch it to know it was expensive. Stunning. Beautiful.
Her stomach dropped. Then anger surged.
Anger at her father.
Anger at herself for being reckless.
Anger that she was standing here bracing for a beating instead of running far, far away.
But running never worked. People who ran from Enrico were always found. Always dragged back. And then they wished they’d never been born.
Would he kill her this time? It was possible. More than possible.
With her pulse thundering in her ears, Catarina grabbed the dress and stormed out of the bedroom. Her head pounded, her mouth felt like sandpaper, and her stomach swayed with every step. But fury kept her upright.
She found him in the great room.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded, waving the dress like a flag of war, the silk brushing against her arm.
“That, my dear,” said Salvatore Romano—shirtless, glistening from a shower—as he set down his glass of water, “is your wedding dress.”
Her tirade promptly short-circuited.
Because—good grief. The man had muscles stacked on muscles. His abs looked like something carved out of marble. His arm muscles flexed as he moved, his shoulders broad enough to block out the damn sun. She vaguely registered another man standing to the side, but honestly—who cared?
Her brain stuttered. Her tongue refused to work.
Sal walked toward her, each step slow, deliberate, predatory. When he stopped less than an inch away, she inhaled the clean, masculine scent of him—soap, heat, power. Up close, he was even more overwhelming.
Catarina swallowed. “I…um…can’t…!”
“We agreed to marry last night,” he said, his voice deep and husky. Had it really sounded that sinful last night? Low and rough, like velvet dragged across her skin. “You proposed to me. You can’t go back on your word now, mia cara.”
“Wait…!” She pressed her fingers against her temple, wincing at the pounding inside her skull.
Flashes from the previous night flickered through her mind—too much scotch, Matteo’s disgusting antics, her own reckless words tumbling out.
“Didn’t you… um…propose to me?” she whispered.
She forced her eyes open and found his dark, steady gaze locked on hers, more intense than she remembered.
“Yes,” he said with a low chuckle. “And then you launched into a persuasive speech about how useful you could be as a wife—decorating my home, hosting elegant dinners, supplying valuable secrets about your father’s plans.
” His mouth curved in amusement. “I took that to mean you were proposing to me.”
Her stomach lurched. She had said those things. She remembered the words pouring out, fueled by desperation and liquor.
Before she could deny it, his hand lifted. Warm fingers slid around her neck—not tight, but firm, controlling. The heat of his palm branded her skin, and her pulse betrayed her, hammering wildly against him.
“We’ll be married in—” he checked his watch with maddening calm, as though he were simply scheduling a meeting “—one hour.”
Then he did something outrageous. Deliberate.
Dangerous. He pulled her closer until the terrycloth of her robe brushed his bare, solid chest. The combination of his hard lips and the soft scruff of his beard sent a shiver spiraling down her spine.
His lips grazed hers, a whisper of a kiss, a spark that flared into wildfire before she could even close her eyes.
Her gasp slipped out, sharp, shocked—heat rushing through her veins like molten fire. She froze, teetering between outrage and need. And then—before she could truly savor it—he pulled away.
Bastard.
But then he punished her even more cruelly by walking away, those wide shoulders shifting as if he owned the entire world. Which, apparently, he did.
“If you don’t like the dress,” he said casually, as if her world hadn’t just tilted on its axis, “I’ll have others sent up.”
“But—!” she gasped, clutching the robe tighter around herself.
“Oh, and there’s this.” He tossed something small toward her.
The dress tumbled to the floor, forgotten, as her fingers closed around a velvet box. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
A ring box.
Her throat worked, but no sound came out.
“Open it,” he ordered, his tone dark with challenge.