Chapter 8
After a quick, but luxurious flight back to Chicago in Sal’s private jet, Catarina found herself standing in the middle of a house that looked like something out of a glossy magazine.
The place was breathtaking—contemporary design, walls of windows, ceilings that soared, pale hardwood floors polished to perfection.
And the kitchen…oh, the kitchen! A massive island with a gleaming sink, a six-burner stove that looked like it belonged in a restaurant, and a Sub-Zero fridge that probably cost more than a car.
Everything looked pristine, as if no one had ever dared to cook in it.
Not that Catarina knew how to cook. Her father had banned her from kitchens.
Not dignified, he’d sneered, shooing her away while the housekeeper or caterers prepared every meal.
She’d watched them whenever she could, fascinated by the smells and sizzles, but she’d never been allowed to lift a spoon herself.
With a sigh, she turned away from the kitchen, hurrying to catch up with her new husband. Salvatore was giving her a tour of the house, something she hadn’t expected from a man like him, and she didn’t want to seem ungrateful by lingering.
She turned too quickly and ran smack into something hard and immovable. “Oof!” she gasped.
Sal’s hands closed firmly around her upper arms. “Do you like to cook?” he asked.
Her eyes flew up to his. “I’m so sorry!” she blurted, then realized what she’d said and bit her lip. “Sorry,” she added, apologizing for her apology.
“Sorry for what?” His hands dropped as if she’d burned him.
“Sorry for not following you.” She braced, tense again, waiting for a reprimand.
But all he said was, “Do you like to cook?”
Catarina hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t know how.”
Silence stretched between them. Heat pooled in her cheeks. Yes, she wanted to learn. Yes, she wanted to chop, stir, and bake just like the women she’d watched from afar. But she didn’t even know how to boil water. Pathetic.
No, she corrected fiercely. She wasn’t pathetic. She would learn. She would teach herself. She would not let ignorance hold her prisoner anymore.
Her chin lifted unconsciously, a small, defiant glare sparking in her eyes.
When Sal smiled at her, slow and startling, Catarina’s breath caught. She didn’t know what to make of him—this man who could be hard as steel one moment and unexpectedly gentle the next.
“This way, wife,” he grumbled, resting a hand against the small of her back as he led her out of the white-and-gold kitchen.
They moved through a breakfast nook, a formal dining room with a table that could seat fourteen, and a library lined with books from floor to ceiling. Through the arched windows, she glimpsed a pool, a terrace, and—was that an orchard?
Her mind wandered, imagining what it might be like to live here, to breathe freely without her father’s constant anger.
A touch on her arm startled her back to the present. She blinked up at him. “Excuse me?”
“I was saying you’ll need to come to my office to sign some papers.”
“What papers?”
“Documents to open a bank account in your name.”
Her heart stumbled. A bank account? For her?
“This way,” he said, taking her hand in his and leading her across the hall. His office was dark and commanding, with a massive desk and carefully curated art.
When he let go of her hand, her palm went cold. She wanted to beg him to take it again, to warm her whole body with just that simple touch.
Instead, he handed her a pen. “Here.”
Automatically, she took it, staring down at the papers. “What is this?”
“The signature page for your bank account. You can transfer your money into it, or leave it in the old bank. Whatever you prefer. If you keep it where it is, I’ll have my accountant contact you for tax information.”
She froze. “I…don’t have a bank account,” she admitted, her voice cracking.
His brows drew together. “Where do you keep your money?”
Catarina lowered her lashes, then turned and looked out the window. The day mocked her with its brightness—sunlight pouring over the blooming peonies, roses about to burst into color along the driveway. A perfect spring day. A day that should have felt like hope. Instead, it felt like humiliation.
“I don’t have any money,” she finally choked out. The words scraped her throat raw. “My father didn’t think it was…necessary for me to have money.” The muscles in her neck strained as if forcing out every syllable. Saying it aloud was worse than living it.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Finally, she lifted her eyes to his.
“You’ll have money with me, Cata,” he said firmly. His voice carried the certainty of a man who expected to be obeyed, but there was something gentler beneath it. “I’ll give you a monthly amount. And if you ever need more, just ask.”
“Oh.” It was all she could manage. Her mind went blank. “Um…aren’t you afraid I’ll run away?”
He shook his head. “No. Like I said, if I can’t gain your loyalty, then you have every right to run.” He leaned casually against the desk, folding his arms, his gaze steady on her. “I only hope you’ll give me time to earn that trust before you disappear.”
Then he reached for her hand, his fingers sliding against her palm. The warmth of his touch sent sparks racing up her arm, burning into her stomach. She couldn’t breathe. Why did something as simple as his thumb rubbing over her palm feel so…intimate?
“You’re a beautiful woman, Cata.”
She nearly laughed. Beautiful? She hadn’t brushed her hair.
She hadn’t touched up her makeup. Before flying here, she changed back into the wrinkled pink dress she’d been drunk in the other night.
Next to him—dark slacks, crisp white shirt, skin bronzed and glowing—she felt like a crumpled paper doll.
“Credit cards will be delivered this afternoon for you.”
The words shattered her daze. She jerked her hand back as though burned, tucking it behind her.
His eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with credit cards?”
The heat was gone from his gaze now, replaced with something cooler, sharper.
Catarina flinched. Her body reacted before her mind caught up—jerking, eyes closing, braced for the sting of a slap.
But the blow never came.
When she dared to look again, Salvatore’s expression wasn’t anger. It was concern. His brows drew together as though trying to piece her apart, understand the damage she didn’t want him to see.
“No, I’m not going to hit you, Cata,” he said softly, his voice so gentle it rattled her. He reached out, reclaiming her hand with surprising patience. “Would you like to learn some self-defense moves?”
Her startled laugh slipped out before she could stop it, sharp and bitter.
She caught herself and tried to smooth it away.
“I don’t think self-defense will help me much in a fight against someone your size,” she said.
It was meant to be light, even complimentary, but resentment edged the words, sour and sharp.
He only patted her hand where it rested against his arm. “You’d be surprised.”
He led her toward the stairs.
Her feet slowed, dread coiling inside her. Her breath turned shallow. This was it. Payment time. She knew the routine. Matteo had explained it in detail, smirking as he’d told her what would be expected of her as a wife. She was “his,” to be used when and how he wanted.
Salvatore glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyebrow arching. He saw her hesitation for what it was—stalling. Fear.
“Trust, Cata,” he said quietly.
Her hand had curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching as though she could anchor herself. His thumb drifted over her knuckles, grounding, not restraining.
Trust.
The word was poison to her. She’d only ever trusted a few people in her life—her closest friend from boarding school and the housekeeper who used to sneak her cookies when her father wasn’t looking.
Everyone else had taught her trust was a mistake.
She’d trusted her father, once, until the first slap stung her cheek.
She’d trusted her mother to protect her, only to discover the woman never even tried.
She’d trusted her first date, until he’d grabbed at her and gone silent with icy disdain after she’d pushed him away.
She’d even trusted that her first fiancé—the one her father had promised her to—might be kind. Fun. Someone to talk to. He’d strutted like a peacock, ogled her like a prize, and then… vanished. She suspected her father had done something to him.
Didn’t matter. The lesson had been the same: trust led only to pain.
“Yes, Mr. Romano,” she whispered, forcing her feet to keep pace with his. Better to get this over with.
“My name is Salvatore,” he corrected, his voice gruff but steady. “Most people call me Sal.”
“Sal, then,” she murmured, lifting her chin, teeth clenched. He wouldn’t see her terror. He wouldn’t see her rage. She would not cower. She would get through this.
Think about puppies.
Yes, puppies. She’d always wanted one. Or maybe a kitten.
A little creature to love and cuddle. She remembered asking her father for one when she was small—before she’d learned how cruel he really was.
Later, she realized an animal in her father’s house would suffer just like everything else around him.
“Cata?”
She blinked, startled, her thoughts of soft fur vanishing. She met Sal’s gaze, his dark eyes steady on hers.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“Are you okay?”
Something in his eyes—concern, maybe?—gave her a spark of courage.
“I’m not having sex with you,” she blurted, bracing for the blow, her whole body tightening.
“Of course you’re not,” he replied instantly, his deep voice steady. Was there… amusement in it?
Her jaw dropped. She just stared at him, stunned.
“Your room,” he explained, gesturing to a doorway she hadn’t even noticed was open.
She turned—and gasped.
Lavender. The entire room was bathed in soft, elegant shades of it.
Delicate sheer curtains filtered the afternoon sun, bathing the walls in a muted glow.
A pale lavender comforter looked impossibly fluffy against darker purple drapes, and the furniture was sleek but warm, designed for comfort instead of intimidation.
It was everything her father’s house had never been.
“Will this room be okay?”
She stepped inside without realizing it, a soft sigh escaping her. She didn’t even notice the smile curving her lips. “It’s stunning,” she whispered.
“Good. Why don’t you settle in and then meet me downstairs for dinner?”
She spun around, staring at him. Dinner? He’d said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Settle in?” she repeated faintly, twisting her fingers together. With what? She had nothing. She hadn’t dared go back to her father’s suite to grab her suitcase. If she had, she’d be dead by now, her father laughing while his men dumped her body somewhere inconvenient.
“I’m fine,” she replied, clenching her hands tightly together so he wouldn’t see them tremble.
No, Enrico Bianchi didn’t chuckle about much. He certainly wouldn’t chuckle about having something taken from him. And he definitely considered her his possession—his property to barter, display, or discard as he pleased. That was why he’d promised her to three different men over the years.
“I had my assistant send over some clothes and…stuff for you,” Salvatore said, gesturing toward what she assumed was a closet or bathroom.
Then, with a sharp nod, he turned away. “Come downstairs when you’re changed. We’ll talk over dinner.”
Catarina watched him leave, a strange hollowness curling in her chest. She should feel relief. Relief that he hadn’t forced her, hadn’t even tried. Relief that his overwhelming presence had finally left the room. Relief that she was alone.
Instead, she felt…a loss.
“Oh, good grief,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at herself.
Turning away from the door, she crossed the room and opened the double doors to find a walk-in closet that nearly made her knees weak.
It was bigger than her entire bedroom back at her father’s estate.
The shelves and racks were mostly empty, but four new dresses hung neatly to the side, with several pairs of jeans, tees—and leggings.
Her heart actually skipped.
Leggings.
Her father had forbidden them, declaring them indecent, “cheap.” She’d practically lived in them at boarding school, reveling in their comfort, until she’d been yanked back into her father’s suffocating control. She hadn’t worn them since.
She touched the soft fabric, her fingers lingering as though she might burn herself. Did she dare?
No. Not yet.
She turned reluctantly to the dresses. Two were sheath dresses, like the pink one she wore now. Safe. Restrained. The third was a flowered, flowy thing that practically screamed romance. The fourth—a yellow summer dress with thin straps and a playful ruffle—it felt too bright, too free.
They tempted her, those last two. But temptation was dangerous.
With a sigh, she chose the tan sheath dress instead.
At least there was clean underwear. She blushed scarlet when she spotted the lace, her ears heating at the thought of whoever had selected these. But the bras were the right size, and she chose the least daring one before slipping into the bathroom.
The shower was glorious. Steam enveloped her, the hot water sluicing away the last traces of yesterday. She scrubbed her hair with shampoo and conditioner, inhaling scents of lavender and citrus. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out, skin pink, hair damp, and heart beating a little steadier.
She dressed quickly, applying just a touch of mascara and lipstick from the small makeup kit she found, then blow-drying her hair until it was passably tame.
Catarina caught her reflection in the mirror. Not flawless. Not glamorous. But not broken either.
She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and whispered to herself, “I can do this.”