Chapter 7
Sal stood in front of the justice of the peace, relieved that the man wasn’t wearing blue suede shoes or some tacky, ruffled shirt.
He’d half expected rhinestones, maybe even an Elvis wig.
Why he cared, he had no idea. He wanted information.
And—hell—he wanted to protect his delicate, impossible beauty standing beside him.
“I take you,” he repeated, “Catarina Maria Bianchi, to be my lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer—”
Someone behind him snorted loudly at the word poorer. Sal didn’t bother to look. If he turned, Tony was going to find himself on parking-lot patrol for the next year.
“—until death do us part.”
His hands tightened ever so slightly around Catarina’s.
He felt her trembling, the fear shivering through her skin, and wished he could just lean down and tell her the truth: that he wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her again.
Something inside him burned, sharp and hot, at the thought of what her father had done to her.
Because this woman—his timid, trembling bride—wasn’t who she really was. He saw it in her eyes, the fire banked low but not extinguished. She wasn’t submissive by nature. She was angry. Defiant. Furious at the world, at her father, maybe even at him.
He wanted to see that spitfire unleashed. He wanted to know what she looked like when she stopped bowing her head and started fighting back.
“I, Catarina Maria Bianchi, promise to—” She paused. Her gaze locked with his, and for one wild moment he thought she might bolt. Instead, she leaned closer, so only he could hear.
“You have to teach me how to drive!” she whispered fiercely.
Sal blinked. Of all the demands he’d expected in the middle of their vows, that hadn’t even cracked the list.
“What?” he whispered back.
Her big brown eyes pleaded with him, soft and determined at once. This wasn’t a joke. This was a promise she needed.
For a moment, he almost laughed—twenty-five years old and no experience behind the wheel of a car? Then, with a twist in his gut, he remembered who her father was. Of course. Enrico Bianchi wouldn’t have let his daughter drive. Driving meant escape. Driving meant freedom.
Sal’s jaw clenched. He lifted his thumb, rubbing gently over her ice-cold fingers. “I promise to teach you how to drive,” he vowed, his voice low but firm.
She relaxed, just slightly, and turned her head toward the justice of the peace again. “I, Catarina Maria Bianchi, promise to love and cherish,” she recited, and Sal nearly chuckled when she conspicuously skipped the word obey. Clever girl.
He tuned out most of the remaining words. He was too busy staring into her eyes, trying to puzzle out the storm raging behind them. Somehow, in just a few hours, his motivation had shifted. This wasn’t only about finding the rat in his organization. This was about her. Protecting her. Keeping her.
The feelings were absurdly strong, far larger than his understanding of her. But undeniable.
When the justice of the peace finally pronounced them husband and wife, Sal leaned down, brushing her lips with a kiss so brief it was more promise than possession.
When he pulled back, he nearly laughed at the look in her eyes—confusion warring with relief, irritation battling against something softer.
She clearly couldn’t decide if she wanted to thank him…or slap him.
Before Catarina had a chance to untangle the knot of emotions inside her, a hotel servant slipped in with a tray of champagne.
Sal hid a grimace. He hated the stuff. Flat, fizzy sugar water.
But appearances mattered, and champagne was expected at a wedding—even one like this.
His men understood the farce, but they raised their glasses anyway, playing along for the sake of the servant who would no doubt be gossiping before the tray was empty.
Let the gossip spread. Let it run like wildfire down the Las Vegas Strip. His enemies would assume this was an alliance with Enrico Bianchi, but when the truth got out—that the old bastard hadn’t even been present—that little rumor would turn into a declaration of war.
He handed Catarina a glass, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. She pretended to sip, her lashes lowering as she tilted the crystal flute. Not a drop touched her lips.
Sal chuckled and slid his palm against the small of her back, raising his own glass and taking a large swallow to sell the charade. Damn, this swill was worse than he remembered.
“Congratulations!” Tony called, his voice booming across the room. The guards, soldiers, and associates lifted their glasses in unison, downing the bubbly with military precision.
Leaning close, Sal whispered against Catarina’s ear, “Not interested in the hair of the dog today?”
She blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Excuse me?”
He tipped his chin toward her untouched glass. “Too hungover to drink again?”
Her flush rose fast, staining her cheeks prettily. She lifted the glass and brought it back to her lips in silent defiance, but he saw right through it. Not a single drop slipped past those rosy lips.
His smile faded. He shifted, broad shoulders blocking her from the room, his gaze locking onto hers with hard intensity. “Catarina,” he said, his tone low, commanding. “You don’t have to drink champagne if you don’t want it. But don’t lie to me.”
Her lips parted, then snapped shut, her face paling.
He’d pushed too hard.
Softening, he bent and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “You’re my wife now,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something softer, but still unyielding. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That makes you powerful. Did you know that?”
Her expression shifted instantly—lips softening, eyes narrowing. “Powerful…how?”
That hint of eagerness, the flicker of hope in her eyes, nearly pulled a laugh out of him. “I guess you’ll have to find out,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred the loose curls around her ear. “Just don’t lie to me. Understand?”
Those lush lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded sharply—acknowledgement, not surrender.
Good enough. For now.
Trust didn’t happen overnight. But eventually, she’d see. He ruled not through fear, but through loyalty. And loyalty was earned.
He hadn’t intended to marry. Ever. Marriage was a trap. A man tied himself to a woman, and suddenly every decision, every weakness, every enemy had leverage. It made him vulnerable.
But then again, so did a rat in the organization.
And marriage? Marriage was one hell of a clever trap for a traitor.
His gaze drifted back to Catarina, to the delicate way she held the glass she didn’t want, to the stubborn defiance simmering under her fear.
And just as he started to think of this marriage as a weapon, another thought struck him like a lightning bolt.
Kids.
The word alone jarred him. He’d never considered children before. Never wanted any. His life had been too brutal, his rise from the streets too steeped in blood. Survival had been his only concern. He’d been the fastest, the meanest, the one who outlasted the rest.
But with her—he wasn’t sure if having children was possible. Or if the possibility terrified him more than the war he’d just started.
Now he had an entire network—men and women who kept Chicago operating smoothly, most of Illinois too.
He’d never seriously considered expanding further.
Wisconsin? Minnesota? Too cold, too full of beer and cheese.
But now that Enrico had thrown down the gauntlet, now that Sal had married the Bianchi princess, maybe expansion wasn’t such a ridiculous idea.
Enrico ruled through fear, and fear had limits. Fear cracked. Loyalty, on the other hand, built empires. Loyalty made men fight for you, die for you. Fear only lasted until someone scarier came along.
It was an interesting thought. He’d need to do some additional research, figure out a strategy, develop careful steps.
Why not widen his reach? He knew the players: Washington and Oregon were already claimed, the West Coast gridlocked.
Luca Bernardi controlled Las Vegas and most of Utah.
Dimitri De Luca had New York all the way up to Boston—an iron grip on the New England corridor.
Perhaps he’d grown complacent, Sal thought, as his eyes followed his wife across the room.
Catarina walked gracefully to his underboss.
Tony actually took her hand, his usually hard features softening.
Was that…a blush? No. Impossible. Tony was ruthless, battle-scarred, a man who’d once cut off another guy’s finger with a cigar cutter and not even blinked because the man had trafficked thirteen women, trying to sell them off to a guy who would sell their bodies for fifty dollars to any man who wanted a sexual release.
The thought of big, bad Tony blushing like some schoolboy nearly made Sal snort.
A knock on the door dragged his attention elsewhere. He turned just as Luca Bernardi strode into the penthouse.
“Your plane is ready,” Luca announced. Then his gaze found Catarina, lingering for a beat.
“Ah, Ms. Romano,” he said warmly, his tone softer, his mouth curving into that trademark Bernardi charm.
He took her hands as though she were royalty.
“I am delighted you are safely wed to this stupid, old bastard.”
Tony growled low in his throat, but Luca ignored him, lifting Catarina’s fingers to his lips in a mock-gallant kiss. “And might I add, Old Sal here is a far better choice than Caruso.” He made a face of exaggerated disgust.
Catarina burst out laughing, the sound bright and musical, transforming her tension into something lighter.
“He was such an ass!” she managed between laughs.
Sal did not like it. Not one bit. Where the hell this possessiveness had come from, he didn’t know.
But before he realized what he was doing, he was moving—sliding an arm around her waist, reclaiming her hand, glaring at Luca with the kind of look that made lesser men reconsider their career choices.
Luca Bernardi, however, was no lesser man. The bastard only smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.
Sal traced his finger over Catarina’s bare arm, possessive, deliberate. “I’m taking my wife home today. Sorry to cut our meetings short,” he said flatly.
“I expected nothing less,” Luca replied, unruffled. There was still menace under his charm, but the edge was dulled these days. Marriage. Children. Domestic bliss had softened him—or at least that was the rumor.
Sal didn’t buy it. Not entirely. Luca might smile more now that he was married to the lovely Ava, but the man was still feared. Still respected.
“Sorry the meetings with the other bosses didn’t pan out,” Luca added.
Sal shrugged, pulling Catarina just a little closer, feeling her warmth against his side. “I don’t consider this week a failure.”
Luca’s grin widened, his gaze flicking down to Catarina. She managed a smile, though Sal noted the faint stiffness in her posture. Understandable. Luca Bernardi’s reputation wasn’t something you shrugged off, no matter how dazzling his charm.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Luca said smoothly, stepping back. Then, with a flash of a smile, he added, “I’ve already spoken to the air traffic control room. Your plane will be cleared for takeoff the moment you’re ready. Straight to the head of the line.”
Sal chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, life in a small town,” he teased. “Pulling strings at McCarran like it’s your personal driveway.” He sipped the last of his champagne and smirked. “At O’Hare, I’d have to bribe three controllers and buy half their families vacation homes to get that treatment.”
Luca arched a brow. “That’s because Chicago doesn’t have taste.”
“Chicago has subtlety,” Sal shot back. “Vegas is just loud.”
“Loud,” Luca repeated, hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “We prefer the term memorable.”
Sal snorted. “You mean gaudy.”
Luca’s eyes glittered, his mouth already opening with what was surely a string of colorful epithets—but his gaze caught Catarina’s, and he closed it with a snap, grinning instead. “Have a good flight,” he said smoothly, turning for the door.
At the penthouse threshold, he paused and glanced back, mischief lighting his features. “Me, Max, and Dimitri get together for poker every now and then. If you’re interested, I’ll let you know when the next game is.”
Sal’s mouth curved into a lazy half-smile. “An opportunity to take your money? I’m in.”
Luca laughed, throwing his head back, the sound booming through the room. “Careful, Romano. I play with men who don’t mind losing blood along with chips.”
“Then it’ll be even more satisfying when I walk away with your cash,” Sal replied smoothly, his arm tightening around Catarina’s waist.
Luca winked at Catarina, then sauntered out, his laughter echoing down the hall.