Chapter 12
“You’re not paying attention,” Sal said, his voice a low, grumbly rumble that curled down Catarina’s spine. “You’re dropping your shoulder instead of keeping it up and ready.”
He stepped in close, close enough that she caught the faint mix of leather and soap clinging to his skin. His hand gripped her shoulder, firm but careful, shifting it into position exactly the way he wanted.
Catarina held her breath. A month into this marriage of convenience, and her body still reacted to every brush of his hand like he’d set her nerves on fire.
Stronger now, more confident, she carried herself differently.
She’d even put on a few pounds—and the way his gaze flicked over her body when he thought she wasn’t looking?
It made her wonder if he noticed. If he liked it.
“Okay,” his voice dropped lower, brushing against her skin like a caress, “now, come at the grappling dummy again. This time, lead with your shoulder.”
Her stomach tightened. Was he talking about the fight move—or something else entirely?
“Like this?” she asked, spinning and kicking the way he’d shown her, then followed up with a fist-jab to the dummies abdomen.
He gave a grunt, shaking his head. “Better, but have your fist ready. Don’t wait until you’re halfway through the turn.”
When he demonstrated again, she barely saw the mechanics of the move.
Instead, her gaze caught on the play of muscle in Sal’s arms, the flex of his back, the controlled power in his body as he demonstrated the move on the rubberized body form in front of them.
And heaven help her, she even admired the perfect tightness of his ass when he pivoted.
This was her husband. And yet…he hadn’t kissed her. Not properly. That wedding-day brush of his lips didn’t count. Not when she wanted the real thing—the kind of kiss that would leave her dizzy and aching for more.
“Now you try again,” he said, stepping back, giving her space.
Catarina swallowed her exhaustion. An hour and a half of training had her muscles burning, her stomach growling, her head swimming.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—would stop her from attending these sessions.
They were the only times she could feel him, his touch branding her skin.
Sometimes, she deliberately botched a movement just to have him correct her stance, just to feel his calloused fingers slide over her arm, her waist, her hip.
And maybe—just maybe—he lingered a second too long too.
She squared her shoulders, fists ready this time. With a sharp exhale, she spun and kicked, her heel slamming into the dummy with a satisfying thud, then kept on spinning, using that momentum to slam her fist into the same place.
“Perfect,” Sal said, moving closer, his eyes locked on hers.
That word, spoken in his low, gravelly voice, made her glow. Made her want more.
Her pulse hammered. She’d spent her whole life shrinking, hiding from her father’s fists and cruel words. But with Sal—every self-defense move he taught her stripped away that fear, layer by layer, until she felt like she could breathe. Until she wanted more than just his lessons.
Until she wanted him.
“Again,” he ordered, his voice rougher this time, his eyes unreadable.
Catarina nodded, but the way he was watching her—like he wanted something too—made her forget for one dangerous second whether they were still talking about fighting.
Catarina could feel her muscles trembling.
She had no idea how long they’d been running through the self-defense drills, but she didn’t care.
As long as he was willing to teach her, she would keep going.
Partly because every new take-down made her feel stronger, more dangerous, less like her father’s pawn.
But also because these lessons were the only times he touched her.
Every adjustment of her stance, every brush of his hands across her arms or waist, let her pretend—for just a moment—that it meant more than instruction.
He stood in front of her now, his eyes narrowing as if he saw straight through her determination, to the weakness in her trembling arms. She curled her fists tighter, willing herself to hide it, but he noticed anyway. He always noticed.
“You’re done, Cata,” he said instead of calling the next move.
Her heart sank, but she stiffened, refusing to relax her fists. “Why?”
“Because you’re tired.” His tone was gentle but firm, the same command he used on his men, but softened just for her.
He stepped closer, lifting her hand to his lips and brushing a kiss across her bruised knuckles.
The warmth of his mouth lingered long after he pulled back.
“Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll make you a protein shake. ”
Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her, but she ignored it, tilting her chin up in defiance. “I’m fine.”
Sal arched a brow, unconvinced. He moved even closer, until she had to tilt her head back to keep his gaze. His scent wrapped around her—clean, male, devastating. Her pulse skipped.
“What did you have for breakfast, cara?” His voice had shifted, deeper, huskier, a velvet growl that made her knees weaken.
Her lips pressed together, her silence giving him the answer she didn’t want to admit.
“Nothing, eh?” His thumb traced her cheek, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle with awareness.
She wanted to lean into that touch. Wanted to rest her head against his chest, to bury her nose against his throat and feel his arms cage her in.
Even more, she wanted what he never gave her: his kisses.
Real ones, the kind she read about at night when she curled up with her books.
Instead, she got mornings alone, alarms and cold sheets, while he stayed maddeningly untouchable.
“Come along, my little warrior.” He laced his fingers through hers, the rough heat of his hand sending a shiver through her. “Why don’t you hit the showers while I make that shake?”
Her breath caught. Last night, in her book, the hero had stepped into the shower with his wife, pinning her against the tile while the water poured down around them. Did she dare suggest it? Did she dare risk hearing him say no?
They stopped at the doorway to the gym showers. For a long moment, he just stared down at her, his hand tightening on hers as if he might say something—do something. Catarina’s breath hitched, hope flaring bright and reckless.
Then, with a sigh, he released her fingers and stepped back. “Take your time, cara. Join me when you’re ready.” His voice was quiet, almost rough, before he turned and jogged up the stairs.
She leaned back against the doorframe, her body sagging with frustration. Damn it, she wanted him. But how did you entice a man like Salvatore Romano? Men had always kept their distance from her before. Being Enrico Bianchi’s daughter made her untouchable.
Now…she had no idea how to entice her husband. It was like they were strangers, or worse, polite roommates.
A flash of sunlight streaked across the wall as Sal opened the basement door, letting the glow spill into the dim gym. That bright line across the concrete wall tugged at something buried in her memory.
A woman. A laugh. A flash of glitter.
Catarina blinked. A stripper? Was the woman she’d sketched in her notebook—the one whose voice still echoed in fragments of her memory—a stripper?
She bit her lip, heat prickling her cheeks even though she was alone.
She’d only been in strip clubs a handful of times, each one a nightmare.
Her father had dragged her along like unwanted baggage, ordering her to sit on a sticky faux-leather bench and behave.
While he went to the back rooms to do “business,” she’d been forced to sit still and endure.
The women who worked there had been surprisingly kind to her.
They’d slipped her sodas or fries, whispering encouragements when her father’s back was turned.
Catarina had always declined, stomach growling but terrified of her father’s wrath if he caught her eating.
Still, the smell of grease, sugar, and stale beer had filled her head, forever tying those moments to shame and hunger.
But the memory now wasn’t about fries or body glitter. She knew, deep down, that she hadn’t overheard the whispered threat against Sal at a club. No, the woman hadn’t been performing. She hadn’t been gyrating under neon lights. She’d been talking. Scheming.
And Catarina had been listening.
She stripped off her sweat-damp leggings and shirt, dropping them into the hamper.
As always, her dirty clothes would vanish and reappear days later, folded and fresh, the task carried out by invisible hands she’d never seen.
The guilt stung her briefly—someone worked hard in this house, unseen, un-thanked—but the guilt was quickly swallowed by the urgency of a memory she hadn’t expected.
For a moment she stood frozen, towel clutched in her hands, straining to catch the shadow of what had surfaced. All she could summon were fragments—blurred, disjointed, like pieces of a dream that slipped away when she tried to grab them.
Impatiently, Catarina stepped into the shower, scrubbing herself down with sharp, fast strokes. Her hands trembled as she rinsed the conditioner from her hair, as though her body already knew she was brushing up against something important. Something buried.
As she dried off, she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe, to focus. The fog began to clear. That’s when she remembered the scent of cheap perfume. The squeak of stilettos against tile. Male laughter rolling low and smug in the background.
And then—bam!
The scene came back to her, sharp enough to make her gasp.
The woman she had drawn—the one whose face had haunted her sketches—was leaning close to a man.
Her voice was low, edged like steel: We’ll take him out.
Him and his empire. Piece by piece. That had been said by a man, but Catarina hadn’t seen him. She’d only seen the woman nod.