Chapter 9
Sal felt her before he even looked up. When he did, he nearly cursed.
Another shapeless dress. This one tan. Tan, of all things.
He was going to strangle his assistant. Tomorrow. No—tonight. He wondered what Catarina would look like in something flowered, or maybe something as simple as jeans. His chest tightened. Jeans on her would probably wreck him.
His stare lingered too long, and he saw the way she fidgeted under it. Damn. He pulled his eyes away with effort, though the image of her—hair glossy and loose over her shoulders, cheeks flushed from her shower—was branded into his head.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice a touch rougher than he intended. He stirred the sauce, then lifted the pot of pasta. “I made dinner. Kept it safe since I don’t know what you like.” He tossed her a glance over his shoulder. “Any allergies?”
She shook her head, stepping closer. “No allergies.”
Sal drained the pasta, plated it, and hesitated with the sausage. “Do you eat meat?”
Her eyes widened at the question, a blush stealing into her pale cheeks. “Yes. Thank you for asking.”
“Excellent.” He topped her portion generously, then added cheese with the flair of a man who’d done this before.
He peeled the apron off and tossed it onto the counter. “Sit.”
Catarina hovered uncertainly. “We’re eating at the breakfast bar?”
“I showed you the dining room,” he said, quirking a brow. “Too big and formal. I don’t need to shout across the table to talk to my wife.”
She blinked, then perched on the stool. “This is…nice. Thank you.”
“Help yourself to more cheese,” he said, nudging the bowl toward her. “Everyone’s got a cheese limit. I just don’t know yours yet.”
She stared at the plate, not touching her fork.
“Problem?” he asked, pausing mid-twirl of his own pasta.
Her head shot up. “No! No problem at all.” She snatched her fork, twirled some noodles, and blurted, “This smells divine.”
“Glad you like it.” He hid a grin and pushed the cheese closer again. “So tell me—what foods do you prefer? Don’t tell me your father banned everything fun.”
Her eyes flickered, something dark passing through them. He wanted to kick down every wall she had. “I suspect he denied your favorite foods?”
Her nod was curt.
“He really was a bastard,” he muttered.
“I went to boarding school,” she said, a little too brightly. “I got away from him then.”
“Good. So when you were there, what was your favorite meal?” He leaned an elbow on the counter, giving her a lazy half-smile. “Humor me. I’m only trying to get to know you. Married couples do that, you know—talk about food.”
Her lips twitched despite herself.
“Besides,” he added, “you’re helping me, Cata. Let me return the favor.”
She set her fork down carefully. “You’ve already helped me enormously by getting me away from my father and Matteo.” A smile broke free, small but genuine. “And…the video. It was pretty funny, wasn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” he said with a low chuckle. “Especially the part where Matteo’s face turned that special shade of purple. Priceless.”
Catarina laughed, the sound soft but real this time.
Sal leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So, tell me, Cata—are you planning to blackmail Matteo with it? Or just save it for family movie night?”
Her eyes widened, then she laughed again, shaking her head. “I wasn’t planning to do anything with it. I just wanted proof that Matteo wasn’t a good…husband candidate.”
She shrugged, and he again noticed how thin she was. Maybe that was why she wasn’t eating. Oh, she’d swirled the pasta around like a nervous schoolgirl, but she hadn’t taken a real bite.
“Would that have worked?” he asked, pointing to her untouched plate.
“Probably not,” she sighed, twirling her fork again. “He most likely would’ve just laughed at the video.”
“He was pretty upset about our wedding yesterday.”
She grimaced. “My father is always upset about something.”
Finally, she slid the forkful of pasta into her mouth, closed her eyes, and let out a startled moan of pleasure. “Oh, this is good!” she said around the mouthful. “Really, really good.”
Sal grinned, more satisfied with that sound than he cared to admit. “Thank you,” he said, nodding. “What’s going to happen to Caruso now?”
She shrugged again, sprinkling a mountain of cheese over her pasta.
“My father will most likely kill him. He has a whole team of goons ready to move into a newly vacant capo’s position.
” She sighed as she twirled another bite.
“He’s had five in the past six years. None of them last long.
” She tilted her head. “How long has your second in command been with you?”
“Tony and I grew up together. He’s been at my side for more than twenty-five years.” He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, studying her. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-five,” she said, stirring her noodles instead of eating them. “And I’ve been engaged to other men.”
He stopped cold, staring. “More engagements?”
She nodded, cheeks heating as she set her fork and spoon down. It was humiliating, the way her father had dangled her like a prize in front of his soldiers. Never a daughter. Always a bargaining chip.
“What a bastard,” Sal hissed.
She blinked in surprise at the heat in his voice, then clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her burst of laughter.
“I see you agree with me,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He gestured toward her plate. “Eat, Cata. And tell me your favorite food.”
She fiddled with her fork again. “I’m not sure what my favorite would be.”
“Because your father made you starve yourself?”
Her eyes darted to his, startled that he’d nailed the truth so easily.
He shook his head, muttering, “I think you’re beautiful, but you’re too thin.
You’re not getting enough nutrients. And no muscle tone.
” His gaze flicked to her arms, then he grunted.
“We’ll fix that starting tomorrow morning in the gym. ”
“In the gym?” she gasped, horrified. “But…!”
“You’re going to learn self-defense,” he said firmly. “I’ll protect you, but you’re going to get stronger. So you can knee your father in the balls if he ever comes near you again.”
The scandalized look on her face was so comical that she snorted out a laugh before she could stop herself. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth again, wide-eyed.
He arched a dark brow. “You don’t want to knee him? I’m telling you—it’s the most non-lethal pain you could inflict on a man. It’s…” He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, his mouth quirking. “It’s miserable.”
Her laughter bubbled up, and she leaned toward him with a sparkle in her eyes. “Who kneed you?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not important.”
She grinned back, and he shot her a glare meant to intimidate. But this time, she didn’t lower her lashes. She held his gaze, steady and unflinching, and the heat of it sent a curl of satisfaction through his gut. There it was—the steel under all that prettiness.
“So,” he pressed, tone casual, “favorite food?”
“I suppose…potato chips,” she admitted, her hesitation obvious.
“Good choice. Mine is ice cream.” His voice dropped a little, thoughtful. “No, brownies.” He frowned, reconsidering. “Actually, anything sweet. Cookies.” He jabbed his fork at her. “Especially oatmeal raisin. Love them.”
Her lips twitched. “A mafia boss with a sweet tooth. That’s shocking.”
“Why?”
“In my experience, mafia men don’t admit to any weaknesses. They’d consider it…well, a weakness.”
He grunted, almost amused. “I have a lot of weaknesses.” Then his gaze hardened, sweeping back to her bowl. “Eat more, or you don’t get dessert.”
Her laugh startled him—it was rusty, raw, as though dragged up from some locked box inside her. It wasn’t polished, wasn’t pretty, and it hit him in the chest like a punch.
“So maybe,” he said slowly, savoring the moment, “you should give me your cell phone number.”
Her fork froze. Carefully, she set it down, and he instantly knew he’d stumbled onto another minefield.
“I…don’t have a cell phone.” She didn’t look at him—her eyes darted anywhere else, the stove, the sink, the corner of the counter.
“Your father didn’t want you to have one, eh?” Sal leaned back, unconcerned. “Probably for the best. He’d have slapped a tracker on it.” He dragged her plate toward him and began twirling her pasta with deliberate calm. “It’s what I would have done.”
“You’d secretly track me?” Her gasp was sharp, her anger a spark of fire in her eyes.
He tilted his head, voice soft but steady. “Not secretly. Not for nefarious purposes, cara. But yes. When I give you a phone, it will have GPS. So I can find you. If I’m worried.”
Her chin lifted, defiant. “Or if I’m having an affair?”
His grin was slow, dangerous. “Cata, once we start having sex, you won’t need anyone else. And once you’re comfortable, I’ll make sure you never want anyone else.” He rinsed the plates as if he hadn’t just promised her captivity disguised as pleasure. “Now. Favorite color?”
She hesitated, then murmured, “Lavender.”
Lie. He knew it instantly, the way she ducked her gaze, the faint pause before the word left her lips. She’d chosen it because it was safe, because it was meaningless.
He sighed inwardly. His little wife wasn’t confident around him. Yet. Whatever her father had done to her, it had left scars.
“Good enough for now,” he said. Then he opened the freezer, groaning with satisfaction. “Barbara, you spoil me.” He hauled out a carton of rocky road and glanced over his shoulder. “Want some? There’s also some disgusting praline pecan.”
She laughed again, a stilted, uncertain sound. He should have dismissed it—but instead, it burned through him, making his chest tighten.
“No, thank you,” she said quickly. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she reached for the sponge. “I’ll just clean up the kitchen.”