Chapter 23
Catarina walked carefully down the stairs, every step reminding her of last night.
She moved a little slower, a little more tenderly than usual, her workout clothes clinging to skin still sensitized from Sal’s touch.
She didn’t know if she was eager to see Sal this morning—or if she wanted to hide, to stretch out the space between them just a few more hours.
Because last night… last night she’d been reckless, demanding, unrecognizable to herself. Every time he touched her she’d burned hotter, and every time he took her higher, she’d nearly broken apart with need. He’d made her feel wanted, cherished, consumed.
And dear heaven, he knew a woman’s body. He’d known when to tease, when to soothe, when to spank her butt just hard enough to make her melt into his arms. She hadn’t even known she liked that—hadn’t known she could go liquid and desperate from something so bold—but Sal did. Sal had known.
Her body still hummed with that memory. Even now, sore and tender, she wanted to walk straight into his arms and beg him to do it all over again.
“He’s got to come out at some point,” Tony’s sharp snarl cut through the quiet.
Catarina froze, one hand braced against the wall. Who—?
Then Sal’s voice, calm, unflinching: “Bianchi wants me. He’s not going to quit until I show myself and handle this myself.”
Her heart stopped.
Her father.
Her father was trying to lure Sal out into the open.
Every instinct screamed at her what that meant.
She’d lived in the shadows of Enrico Bianchi’s conversations her whole life.
As a child, she’d heard the whispers, the plans, the careless talk about “taking someone out.” Back then the names had meant nothing.
Just faceless men, enemies of her father, whose lives ended without her ever knowing why.
But now… now she knew the name. Now the man in her father’s crosshairs was her husband.
Her chest constricted, panic clawing at her throat.
Because she knew her father. She knew his ruthlessness, his reach.
He bought cops by the handful, politicians by the dozen.
Every time the police raided his house—her father’s house, never hers—he’d already been warned.
The cash, the drugs, the weapons… all swept away into hidden corners before the warrants hit the doorstep.
And when a prosecutor dared to press charges, the outcome had been as predictable as it was horrifying.
Five arrests she could remember. And five times he’d walked free within hours.
And five prosecutors who had died.
Two of sudden “natural causes”—a heart attack and an aneurysm.
The other three had just been gunned down, one in his yard, another in his car, the last one shot on the courthouse steps.
That last death still haunted her, the audacity of it, the way her father had smiled over breakfast the next morning as though it had been nothing more than a business transaction.
Enrico Bianchi never lost. Not in court, not in the street, not in life.
And now Sal was talking about stepping out into her father’s sights.
No.
Terror flooded her veins, icy and absolute.
Sal could not face her father. Not like this. Not alone.
This couldn’t happen.
Stepping into the room, Catarina froze. Five men were bent over the massive dining room table, maps and papers scattered across its polished surface. They looked like war generals plotting a campaign—and in a way, they were.
Her gaze locked on Sal. And this time, there were no mental quotation marks around the word husband. Not after last night. After the way he had touched her, claimed her, cherished her. Salvatore Romano wasn’t just her husband now—he was her lover.
And now he was going to risk his life to face her father.
Her throat closed up, but the words tore free anyway. “Please don’t.”
For a heartbeat, she feared she’d whispered too softly. But the way every head turned toward her proved otherwise. All five men straightened, watching, but it was Sal’s dark, unreadable gaze that pinned her in place.
She swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down. “Please don’t do that.”
His jaw tightened, that lethal muscle ticking once before he visibly reined himself in. Then he circled the table, his presence like a storm filling the room until he stood before her. His hands engulfed hers, warm and unshakable.
“Mia cara,” he murmured, kissing the tips of her fingers as though she were delicate glass. “I have to do this. Your father is becoming more violent.” When the fear in her eyes didn’t dissipate, Sal continued. “I’ll make sure he goes to prison,” he added firmly. “But I won’t kill him.”
She was already shaking her head before he’d even finished. “That won’t be enough. Just…leave him alone!” Her voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. “He’s not like you, Sal. He’s not good and kind and gentle like you.”
The room went still. Stunned silence stretched. She realized in horror that the others—Paulo, Luca, even Tony—were staring at her like she’d lost her mind. And Sal…Sal himself looked thrown off.
Because they didn’t see him that way. None of them did.
But she did.
Yes, he was a mafia boss. Yes, he commanded Chicago with the kind of power most men only dreamed of. But she knew him differently. She’d felt his patience, his restraint, the way he could cradle her as though she mattered.
The thought of him stepping into her father’s sights—no, worse, stepping into her father’s traps—made her blood run cold.
“He’ll cheat, Sal,” she whispered, stepping closer, shame heating her face as she lowered her head. “He’ll lie and come at you from behind. That’s who he is. He’ll shoot you in the back because he can’t fight you face-to-face.”
Gently, his big hand framed her head, tipping her chin up until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb stroked once across her cheek, a quiet reassurance. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” The word flew out without hesitation, her heart slamming against her ribs.
“Good.” His voice was gravelly, unyielding. “Then trust me when I tell you I can stop him.”
He pulled her in, pressing her cheek to his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat filled her ear, proof of his life, his strength. She clung tighter, terrified of losing that sound.
“Listen to me, mi cara,” he said, his hand holding her firmly as though anchoring her in place. “Your father is out of control. He killed three police officers and five innocents last night—for no reason. He was just in a mood. Just wanted to vent.”
Her stomach turned. Her father’s cruelty had no end.
“I won’t face him alone,” Sal continued, his tone calm but absolute. He glanced over his shoulder at the men watching, then back down at her. “I have allies. We’ve all decided—it’s time to take him down.”
“Yeah, but he’ll be after you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with urgency. “You insulted him by not asking for me. For marrying me behind his back. He’ll see it as a major sign of disrespect.”
“It won’t matter,” Sal said, his voice calm, unyielding. “Not with what we’re planning.”
She searched his eyes and felt her heart sink.
He wasn’t bluffing. There was nothing she could say that would change his mind.
Pleading wouldn’t work. Warning him about her father’s cruelty wouldn’t sway him.
Sal was going to face Enrico Bianchi head-on because that’s who Salvatore Romano was—a man who did what he decided, no matter the cost.
It hit her with the force of a blow. She had no power. She never had. It was the story of her life—being used, pushed, ignored.
Catarina stepped out of his arms, her hands trembling at the loss of his warmth. “Yes,” she said softly. “I understand.”
She turned before he could see the tears pricking at her lashes.
She wanted to march into the kitchen, force herself to eat, pretend she was fine.
But her stomach was in a knot. What she really wanted was to crawl into bed, bury her head under the covers, and not wake up until this nightmare was over.
Instead, she walked outside, out to the wide backyard where the air bit at her cheeks.
She sank into one of the redwood chairs, the cushions cold through her sweater.
At some point Barbara appeared with a carafe of coffee and a cup, but Catarina barely noticed.
She might have smiled her thanks, but later, when she reached for the cup, the coffee was already cold.
Her stomach churned at the thought of drinking it anyway.
Her eyes stared out across the yard without really seeing.
She hadn’t come outside much since arriving here.
Autumn in Chicago was sweater weather, yes, but the chill hinted at winter pressing closer, the kind of cold that could cut into your bones.
In Minneapolis by now, there might already be snow.
Here, the lake’s winds shifted from hour to hour.
It was unpredictable—like life. Like her future.
She pulled the sweater tighter around herself, shivering, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the breeze or the dread clawing at her chest. She thought about Sal.
About what he was about to do. She’d known, of course, who he was when she’d married him.
Everyone knew the name Salvatore Romano.
But she hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel this way about him.
He wasn’t just a mafia boss to her anymore. He was the man who looked out for her. The man who cared if she ate. The man who taught her how to fight back when she’d spent her life learning how to hide. The man who had touched her like she mattered.
Last night…
Heat flushed through her even as tears stung her eyes. Last night he had cherished her. Wanted her. Made her feel like she wasn’t a pawn, or a burden, or a possession. He’d made her feel like a woman.
And it had ruined her.
She knew she wouldn’t go back to her father.
Not after this. Not after Sal. She still had most of the cash Sal had given her.
If he survived—when he survived—she would leave before he could send her away.
She would find another place, another life.
She wouldn’t go back to being Enrico Bianchi’s tool.
But dear heaven, how was she supposed to walk away now?
Because somewhere deep inside, Catarina knew the truth she hadn’t dared admit until this moment: she loved him.
Maybe not the fairy tale kind of love, maybe not the storybook happily-ever-after.
But when he kissed her like she was the only breath he needed to live, when his eyes softened as he looked at her, when his hands held her as if she were precious…
It felt like love.
Her chest ached with the weight of it. She hadn’t felt cherished in her entire life, but with him… she did.
She didn’t know how much time they had. She didn’t want to count the days or hours until he was gone. All she knew was that she wanted every second.
No more hiding in her room at night. No more pretending she was unaffected. Now that she knew what it felt like to belong in his arms, she would claim it. She would sneak into his bed every night, love him with everything she had, until the day came when he walked into danger and never came back.
Decision made, she pushed herself up from the chair, squaring her shoulders as if bracing to step back into the storm of Sal’s world. But just as she turned, a flicker of movement to her right caught her eye.
Something shifted in the hedge at the far edge of the garden about five feet from where she’d been sitting. Somewhere no guard should be. Her pulse leapt, her first instinct was a scream that was already building in her throat. Someone was here. Someone had slipped past Sal’s men.
But then—a dark, wet nose wriggled through the leaves.
Her scream caught in her chest, dissolving into a startled laugh. A nose. Snuffling against the soil.
And then came the softest sound, a fragile whimper.
“A dog?” she whispered, her heart lurching.
Cautiously, she crept closer, scanning the house as if expecting one of Sal’s guards to burst out and demand why she was crouched down talking to shrubbery. But she couldn’t stop herself.
The bush rustled again, a paw poking out—small, tan, trembling.
“Oh,” Catarina breathed, her chest tightening.
She dropped to her knees in the damp earth, leaning in. “It’s okay, honey. I won’t hurt you.”
The paw withdrew, but the nose kept sniffing, twitching at her presence. Catarina lowered her hand, palm down, letting the little creature smell her skin. When the nose crept closer, she gently parted the leaves.
Her breath caught. A thin momma dog, her ribs faintly visible, curled protectively around four tiny pups, so young their eyes were still closed.
“Oh, sweetie…” Tears stung her eyes as she pressed a hand to her chest. Without caring that her outfit would be smeared with dirt, she sank fully onto the ground. The mother’s nearly black eyes met hers—wary, but pleading.
“You need help,” Catarina whispered, her voice shaking with sudden determination. “You need water, at least.”
The puppies squeaked and shifted blindly, their tiny bodies bumping against their mother’s side. Catarina reached out, hesitating just an inch before stroking one gently. So soft. So impossibly small.
She’d been told her whole life that she couldn’t take care of herself, let alone anyone else. But right here, right now, Catarina knew that wasn’t true. This dog had found her. These helpless pups needed her.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised, squeezing the momma’s paw like she was sealing a vow.
Rising quickly, Catarina darted back inside, careful not to draw attention.
She scoured the kitchen, finally finding an old ceramic bowl tucked at the back of a cabinet.
Filling it with water, she looked over her shoulder like a thief—though what she was stealing wasn’t for herself but for survival.
Sal’s house was immaculate, elegant, perfectly controlled. She doubted he’d want a stray with four puppies under his roof. Puppies made messes. Dogs tore things up. They were loud, chaotic.
But giving them up wasn’t an option.
Balancing the bowl, she rushed back outside, heart pounding with resolve. The momma dog’s ears perked when she returned, her tail giving the faintest wag. Catarina set down the bowl, watching as the mother lapped gratefully at the water.
“See?” Catarina whispered, kneeling again, brushing her hand over one tiny, warm body. “You’re safe now. I’ll protect you. All of you.”
The words weren’t just for the dog. They were for herself too. For the girl who had spent her whole life afraid, controlled, silenced.
Here, in the most unexpected way, she felt something unfurl in her chest—hope.
The momma dog had chosen her. And Catarina would fight for her little found family, no matter what it took.