Chapter 6 #2
Catarina dragged her gaze up to him—only to stop at his chest. Broad.
Tanned. A dusting of dark hair that drew her eyes downward to where the waistband of his track pants sat low on lean hips.
Her mouth went dry. She actually imagined walking over, pressing her lips to that skin, following that trail of hair down, down—
She jerked in horror at her own thoughts, but too late.
When she dared to look up, his eyes were already on her. Amused. Knowing. He’d stood there and let her eyes feast on him, drinking in every ounce of her wayward desire.
Her cheeks flamed. She whipped her gaze away, stooping quickly to scoop up the dress as if smoothing the fabric would erase her humiliation. She clutched the gown and the ring box against her chest like armor.
“Why would you want to marry me?” Her voice cracked with confusion. “This will start a war with my father.”
“True.” He strolled to the coffee tray, unconcerned. “But you are going to give me information that will protect my people.”
Her stomach dropped. The memory came crashing back—her drunken whisper, her promise to tell him about her father’s plan.
“I can’t!” she hissed, clutching the dress tighter, as if silk could shield her.
“You can.” He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim with dark, steady eyes. “And you will.”
The words weren’t just confident. They were absolute.
“You will be my wife. And as my wife, your loyalty will be mine. Not your father’s.”
Her knees wobbled. He was right, and that terrified her. She’d always expected to marry one of her father’s chosen men, some thug eager to impress Enrico Bianchi. But this man—Salvatore Romano—wasn’t a thug. He was power incarnate.
“My father won’t stand for this,” she whispered. “He’ll come after you.”
Sal merely shrugged, unconcerned, pouring a second cup. “Then I’ll crush him under my heel.” He handed her the steaming coffee, his knuckles brushing hers, a subtle spark igniting her nerves. “Drink. I didn’t know what you’d want for breakfast, so I ordered everything.”
Turning back to his own cup, he added smoothly, “Once we’re married, you’ll tell me who the mole is. Then we’ll live in wedded bliss.”
“But…!” Her voice broke, desperate. “I can’t betray my father!”
He laughed softly, the sound rolling over her like thunder. “As I said, your loyalty will be with me.”
She stood frozen, the white dress still clutched in her arms, considering the wild, impossible thought: freedom. Could this marriage be an escape? Or was she only trading one cage for another?
The question spilled out before she could stop it. “What will you do if I defy you?”
Her own voice startled her. It sounded too sharp, too desperate.
He grinned at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Then I’m not doing a good enough job of satisfying you in bed.”
Her cheeks flamed. Heat shot down her neck, her mind instantly supplying images she had no business imagining. In bed? Did he mean he’d convince her—physically—to be loyal? That thought should have horrified her. Instead, a tiny, traitorous spark of curiosity bloomed in her chest.
“You won’t beat me?” she whispered, the words trembling out before she could bite them back.
His cup stilled halfway to his mouth. His eyes darkened, unreadable. The silence stretched. Catarina wanted to laugh it off, disguise it as a joke, anything to cover her slip. But this was too important. The answer mattered more than her pride.
So she waited. Trembling. Praying he couldn’t see how terrified she was of how he might answer her question.
Instead of words, he snapped the cup down onto the glass-topped table with a sharp crack. Her pulse jumped as he strode toward her with predatory certainty.
Catarina stumbled back, heart thundering, but his hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist. Not painful—never painful—but unyielding.
He would feel her trembling now, she thought, and her stomach knotted.
This was it. He was going to strike her.
She braced, chin lifted, refusing to cower the way she always did with her father.
If he was going to hurt her, he would do it while she was looking him in the eye.
But she hadn’t anticipated what he did next.
One hand held her wrist steady. The other reached for the belt of her robe. Her eyes widened in shock as his fingers tugged, releasing the knot. The terrycloth fell open, cold air rushing against her skin.
She gasped, instinctively trying to pull the robe closed, but his grip kept her still. His eyes moved lower, slow and assessing, and shame crashed through her.
Because he could see.
The ugly truth mottled across her skin—yellow, green, purple bruises splattered over her ribs, her stomach, her thighs.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head away, humiliation threatening to swallow her whole.
She wasn’t ashamed of her near nakedness—what destroyed her was the evidence.
The proof of her father’s violence. The proof of her failure to stop him.
Enrico had always been careful—always striking where her clothing would hide it. But she’d come to confront Salvatore in nothing but a robe and underwear. Now every secret mark was exposed. Every scar of her silence revealed.
She heard it then—a violent hiss, sharp as a blade. Her eyes flew open in time to see his jaw clench, his nostrils flare. In the next instant he was tugging the robe closed again, knotting the belt with firm, almost protective hands.
“You will never be beaten, Cata,” he vowed, his voice low and furious. His palm slid up into her hair, cupping the side of her face with startling gentleness. “Never. You will never cringe from my touch. You will never fear me when I’m angry.”
His lips brushed hers, barely a whisper of a kiss. She whimpered, the sound shocking her. Because there was no fear in it. Only warmth.
It didn’t make sense. He could be lying. Men lied. Powerful men always lied. And she had a terrible habit of standing up to power, even when it cost her dearly. Every time she’d tried to defend herself against her father, she’d only earned more bruises, worse pain.
Salvatore pulled her into his arms, those big, muscular arms wrapping her securely. But it wasn’t a possessive grip, not crushing or demanding. It was a hug.
The realization nearly broke her. No one had held her like this since her mother had passed when she was a little girl. The gentleness undid her, and without thinking, she leaned into him, pressing lightly against his strength.
“You’ll never fear me, Cata,” he whispered into her ear, the low rumble of his voice sinking into her bones.
A sharp noise behind him forced him to pull away. Catarina almost cried out at the loss, aching for the warmth of his embrace. But then, reason crashed back in—this man was a stranger. Worse, he was her father’s enemy. He was dangerous.
“Bianchi is on the rampage,” a tall, scarred man announced as he stepped into the room. His voice was like gravel. “He’s on his way up. Somehow, he figured out you carried her away from the bar.”
Catarina’s breath seized. Her chest tightened until she couldn’t drag in air. He must have sensed her terror, because Salvatore turned back instantly. His palm slid around her neck, warm and steady, his long fingers pressing lightly against her skull.
“Breathe, Cata,” he urged, eyes locking on hers with fierce intensity. “Just breathe. And trust your future husband to handle this.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She bit down hard, fighting the tears that burned behind her eyes.
He studied her for another long beat, then pressed a kiss against her forehead. It wasn’t fiery or demanding—it was grounding. Gentle.
“Go get dressed,” he told her. “Everything you need is in your room. Come out when you’re ready.”
And then he let her go.
Catarina lingered for one stolen heartbeat, staring at the broad, powerful back as he strode away. The muscles rippled under his skin, strength contained and purposeful.
“When you’re dressed, come out and we’ll be married,” he said over his shoulder. “Your father will not be here any longer.” He paused just long enough to look at her. “Unless you want him to stay for the wedding?”
She shook her head quickly, unaware of the terror flashing in her eyes.
“Good,” he said with grim satisfaction. “I didn’t want him here either.”
A pounding knock rattled the penthouse doors, the booming sound announcing her father’s arrival. Sal’s guards must have allowed him this far, but Catarina didn’t stick around to see what would happen. Panic surged, and she spun on her heel, retreating fast.
A coward’s retreat, she told herself bitterly as she slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered to the empty room. “He’ll kill me for this.”
As far as her father was concerned, she was already ruined. It wouldn’t matter that nothing had happened last night, that she hadn’t even known where Salvatore had slept. The simple fact that she had spent the night in another man’s suite was enough.
Though she did remember being carried upstairs. She remembered laying her head against his wide shoulder, the strange sense of safety that had stolen over her.
For one blissful moment, she had thought he was carrying her away from all her problems. She hadn’t realized those problems would multiply tenfold come morning.
Her gaze dropped to the wedding dress laid out across the bed. Exquisite. White silk and soft tulle, glowing in the light.
She had two choices.
She could slip back into yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, walk out to face her father’s fury, and accept the inevitable punishment.
Or…she could put on the wedding dress. Step into the unknown. Place her life in the hands of a stranger who claimed he would protect her.
Or she could run.
But seriously—how would that even work? She had no money. No skills. She didn’t even know how to drive, thanks to her father refusing to let her learn.
The bleak truth sank in, cold and sharp. Running wasn’t an option.
So she made her decision. She was going to trust the stranger.
She was going to survive. Damn it, she wasn’t going to be a victim anymore.
If Salvatore Romano turned out to be like her father, if he hit her, then she would lie, cheat, and steal until she scraped together enough to get away.
Maybe she’d only last a few months, but at least that time would be hers.
If she went back to Enrico Bianchi, her life was already over.
At least with Salvatore, she had a chance. A terrifying chance. But that was more than she’d ever had before.
With trembling hands, she stepped into the wedding dress. The silk clung softly to her skin, foreign and luxurious. On the dresser, she found a bag stocked with makeup, shoes, even lingerie so delicate and beautiful it looked like it had been stolen from the pages of a glossy magazine.
She added only a light layer of makeup, her hands shaking too much for anything more. Her hair…there was nothing she could do. The pins from last night were gone, lost on the hotel floor. So she used the hotel’s blow dryer and finger-combed the curls until they looked halfway civilized.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best she could manage.
She stared at her reflection. Pale face. Eyes too wide. Curls loose around her shoulders. Not a bride. Not really.
“You’re going to regret this,” she whispered to the mirror.
“No, you won’t,” came a deep voice from behind her.
Catarina spun, heart lurching, to find herself staring into the dark, unreadable eyes of the man who might—heaven help her—become her husband.
“I didn’t give you permission to enter,” she snapped, too startled to temper her tongue. Her hand flew to her stomach, her bravado crumbling. “Sorry,” she whispered, bowing her head in the stance of practiced submission.
“Cata,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t need to fear me. I’m not your father.”
The words pierced deeper than she expected. Her head lifted slightly, her pride stung, and she glanced around, realizing with shame how automatic her response had been. Not fighting back. Not running. Not even standing tall. Her instinct was always submission.
No. Not anymore.
She raised her chin higher, defiance sparking in her chest. “I will run away if you beat me,” she blurted, her voice steady even as every muscle in her body tensed, bracing for the strike.
But it didn’t come.
She realized she’d closed her eyes, waiting for pain. When she opened them again, Salvatore was still standing there, his gaze steady, his expression…concerned.
“Eventually,” he said gruffly, his hand unexpectedly gentle as he brushed her cheek, “you’ll learn that I don’t beat women, cara.”
The tenderness rattled her.
Then, just as abruptly, he stepped back. “Are you ready to get married?”
Her lips parted. The honest answer slipped out before she could stop it. “No.”
She froze, bracing again for punishment. She never would have dared speak such a truth to her father. But this man…he hadn’t struck her. He hadn’t even raised his voice. And that tiny scrap of safety made her reckless.
He chuckled softly. “Okay,” he said, glancing around as if time didn’t matter. “How much longer will you need?”
She bit her lip, twisting the silk of her dress between her fingers. “Is…is the priest here?”
He shook his head. “I ordered a justice of the peace. We’ll have a proper wedding in Chicago, when there’s time to plan something worthy of you.”
Her head tilted, confusion swirling through her. Worthy of me?
“We won’t actually be married?” she asked cautiously.
“Legally, yes,” he replied firmly. His gaze darkened. “Don’t doubt that. You’ll be safe from your father.” He leaned closer, his eyes hardening with intent. “And you will tell me who has betrayed me.”
She nodded, oddly fascinated by how quickly this man’s demeanor could shift—from gentle warmth to hard-edged authority—with nothing more than the angle of his brows and the tightness in his shoulders. Yes, those impressive shoulders looked even broader when he was tense.
“Yes,” she whispered, then nodded again to make it sound more certain. She had no loyalty to her father. None. If she could help foil even one of his schemes, she would do it gladly. It would be her revenge for every slap, every bruise, every humiliation he had inflicted on her.
“Good.” Salvatore checked his watch, his tone brisk again. “How much more time do you need to get ready?”
Catarina realized her fists were still knotted in the silk of her dress. Slowly, deliberately, she loosened them, forcing her hands to relax even as her stomach twisted. She drew in a shaky breath. “I’m ready,” she said, though her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.
“Excellent.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. He reached out, his warm hand enveloping hers, steady and unyielding. “Then let’s get married.”