Chapter Two
Caterina
The black dress had exactly the effect I’d intended.
I could feel every eye on me as I sat at my designated place -- halfway down the table, far enough from Papa to avoid immediate confrontation but close enough that he could monitor my every move.
Mama’s disapproval radiated from her end of the table like cold air from an open freezer.
The Lombardi dining room was a testament to old money and older violence.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the long mahogany table, illuminating china that cost more per plate than most people made in a week.
Servants moved silently along the edges of the room, their footsteps absorbed by Persian rugs worth a small fortune.
Everything gleamed -- the silver, the marble floors, the gilded mirrors that made the room seem twice its already obscene size.
I’d counted twelve guests besides immediate family.
Men in expensive suits with harder eyes.
Women with frozen smiles and jewelry that caught the light like warning signals.
The kind of people who smiled over dinner while planning murders over dessert.
My people, supposedly. The thought made my stomach turn.
Luca sat across from me, his expression carefully neutral, but I caught the concern in his eyes when they met mine. My brother knew me too well. He’d taken one look at my dress and known I was planning something. Smart kid.
And then there was Marco Vitale.
He sat three places down from Papa, positioned like he already belonged at the family table.
His suit probably cost as much as my dress -- charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a tie that matched his cold eyes.
He’d been watching me since I entered, that practiced smile playing at his lips.
Like he was in on a joke I hadn’t heard yet.
I hated him on principle. Had since we’d first met, years ago at some party where he’d spent the entire evening trying to impress Papa while simultaneously undressing me with his eyes. The combination of ambition and entitlement made my skin crawl.
I took a sip of wine -- a 2015 Barolo -- and let my gaze drift around the table. Everyone was performing their assigned roles. Mama, the gracious hostess. Luca, the dutiful son. The guests, appropriately impressed by Lombardi wealth and power.
And me? I was the wild card. The unpredictable element that made Papa’s jaw tighten every time I opened my mouth.
The first course arrived, some elaborate carpaccio arrangement that looked more like art than food.
I pushed it around my plate with my fork, not bothering to actually eat.
My appetite had vanished the moment I’d walked in and seen the setup.
This wasn’t a normal family dinner. The guests were too carefully selected.
Papa was too tense beneath his cordial exterior. Mama’s smile was too brittle.
Something was coming.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Papa stood as the second course was being cleared, his chair scraping against marble with a sound that commanded immediate attention. The table fell silent. Even the servants froze in their movements, plates suspended mid-collection.
“I want to thank you all for joining us tonight.” His voice carried the weight of authority earned through decades of making decisions that ended lives. “Family is everything to us. Our legacy, our strength, our future.”
I felt my spine stiffen. Oh, here it came.
“Which is why I’m pleased to announce an alliance that will strengthen the Lombardi name and secure our position for generations to come.” He turned slightly, his gaze landing on me with the weight of inevitability. “My daughter Caterina will marry Marco Vitale in three months’ time.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My fingers tightened around the stem of my wine glass until I felt it might shatter. The room tilted slightly, or maybe that was just my perception narrowing to a single point of rage and disbelief.
Married. To Marco fucking Vitale. In three months.
I watched Marco’s smile widen, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he raised his own glass in a mock toast. The smug bastard had known. Had probably been in on the planning. Had sat there all evening watching me like I was already his property.
“No.” The word escaped before I could stop it, cutting through the polite applause that had started around the table.
Papa’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the warning flash in his eyes. “Caterina --”
“No,” I said again, louder this time. My chair scraped back as I half-stood, my hands pressed flat against the table. The wine glass wobbled. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Mama made a small sound of distress. “Caterina, language --”
“Language?” I let out a laugh that sounded slightly unhinged even to my own ears. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? Not the fact that Papa just announced he’s selling me off to” -- I gestured at Marco with one hand --”to him?”
“You will watch your tone.” Papa’s voice remained level, but there was steel underneath. The same tone he used when ordering hits. “This alliance is beneficial for everyone involved.”
“Beneficial for the family, you mean.” My breathing had gone shallow, my chest tight beneath the black silk. “Not for me. Never for me.”
Marco leaned back in his chair, that infuriating smile still in place. “Come now, Caterina. Is marriage to me really such a terrible fate? I’m quite wealthy, well-connected, and I think you’ll find I can be very… generous with the right motivation.”
The condescension in his voice made my vision go red. “The right motivation? What, you think you can buy me like Papa bought this fucking chandelier?”
“Enough.” Papa’s hand came down on the table hard enough to rattle the china. “You will not embarrass this family with your theatrics. The arrangement is made. You will accept it.”
“Like hell I will.” I was fully standing now, my entire body vibrating with rage.
“You want to know what I know about Marco? Should I share with the table? About the girl he put in the hospital last year? Or the drug deals he’s running without family approval?
Or maybe we should discuss his charming habit of frequenting brothels where the girls are barely legal? ”
The color drained from Marco’s face, his smile finally faltering. “You lying little --”
“Careful.” My voice came out deadly quiet. “Finish that sentence and I’ll make sure everyone in this room knows exactly what kind of man you’re trying to marry me off to.” Because despite what I’d already said, I knew there was much more, and far worse.
“Caterina Rosa Lombardi.” Papa’s voice cracked like a whip. “You will sit down. You will apologize. And you will accept that this marriage is happening whether you like it or not.”
I met his eyes across the table -- the same green as mine, but cold where mine burned. “I’d rather die.”
“That can be arranged,” he said softly, and I knew he meant it. Not directly, maybe. But there were accidents. Disappearances. Ways to remove problems that embarrassed the family.
Luca stood then. “Papa, maybe we should discuss this --”
“Sit down, Luca.” Papa didn’t even look at him. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t,” I said. “You’re selling your daughter to that piece of shit and you expect us all to just smile and applaud?”
Marco rose from his seat, straightening his tie with deliberate calm. “Giuseppe, perhaps I should speak with Caterina privately. Help her understand the benefits of our arrangement.”
“The only thing you’re going to help me understand is what it feels like to get a Louboutin heel through your eye socket.” I grabbed my wine glass, and for a moment I genuinely considered throwing it at him. The weight of it felt good in my hand. Substantial. Dangerous.
“You see?” Marco addressed Papa as if I wasn’t even there. “This is exactly the kind of wild behavior that needs to be tamed. Don’t worry. I know how to handle spirited women. A firm hand, clear boundaries --”
I threw the wine.
Not the glass -- I wasn’t quite ready for that level of violence yet. But the deep red liquid arced across the table beautifully, splattering across Marco’s expensive suit and shocked face. Drops of it landed on the white tablecloth like blood spatter.
The room went dead silent.
“Tame that, you condescending prick,” I said.
Then I turned and walked out. My heels clicked against the marble with each step, the sound echoing in the terrible silence I’d left behind. I kept my spine straight, my head high, even though my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack a rib.
Behind me, I heard Papa’s voice, low and dangerous: “Let her go. We’ll deal with this later.”
Later. The word followed me out of the dining room like a threat.
But for now, I’d made my position clear. They could plan whatever the hell they wanted. I would never marry Marco Vitale.
Never.
I made it to my bedroom before the shaking moved past my hands and nearly took me to the floor.
I barely got the door closed before my knees went weak.
Not from fear, though maybe there should have been some of that, given Papa’s expression.
No, this was pure rage, the kind that made my vision blur and my chest feel too tight for my lungs.
The lock clicked into place, and I stood there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool wood, trying to remember how to breathe properly.
Three months. Papa had given me three months before he expected me to walk down an aisle toward Marco fucking Vitale.
A sound escaped my throat -- half laugh, half sob -- and I pushed away from the door. I started pacing, the same restless energy from earlier now amplified into something that felt dangerous. Like if I stopped moving, I’d explode.
“Vaffanculo,” I muttered, the Italian curse feeling more satisfying than the English equivalent. “Vaffanculo a tutti.”