3. Cat
— ? —
Cat
I make it back to our rooms before I fall apart.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand there for a moment, hand still on the knob, trying to remember how to breathe.
The hallway felt endless, every step a performance, spine straight, chin up, the perfect picture of a donna who definitely didn’t just hear her husband tell his entire family that he can’t stand her.
Then my knees buckle.
Somehow I end up on the edge of the bed, his side, because of course it’s his side, because apparently I’m a masochist who gravitates toward the places that hurt most, and the tears come before I can stop them.
I don’t know if I love her enough to keep her as my wife.
I press my face into his pillow, and it still smells like him. Sandalwood and cedar, the smell that used to make me feel safe. Now it just makes me want to scream.
Tell me how long the treaty binds me. I can’t stand this much longer.
The night before last. The night before last he held me. It felt like something, like the man I remembered from those first months had come back. And I believed it. I fell asleep in his arms actually believing that things were going to change.
God, I’m stupid. I’m so incredibly, pathetically stupid.
The sobs come harder now, ugly and gasping, the kind of crying I haven’t done since the early months when I was still naive enough to think the silence was temporary. I curl around his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth, and I let myself break.
“The tea,” I whisper into the fabric, remembering. “You brought me tea.”
It was January, about six weeks into our marriage. I’d caught a cold, nothing serious, just enough to make me miserable, and I’d been hiding in my room because apparently Romanos don’t get sick where Morettis can see them. Stupid pride. Stupid stubborn pride.
And then he’d knocked on my door with a tray. Earl Grey, exactly how I take it. Honey, lemon, aspirin, the good tissues.
“How did you know I was sick?” I’d asked, genuinely confused.
“You sneezed four times during chess and pretended it was allergies. In January. Which means you’re either sick or planning my assassination, and if it’s the second one, I’d rather know now so I can clear my schedule.”
I’d laughed, actually laughed, and he’d smiled like my laughter was something precious.
“I’m not planning your assassination.”
“Good. Drink your tea.”
“Bossy.”
“Observant. Bossy would be making you drink it.”
The fall off the couch had broken the ice. The chess games kept me coming back. The tea was when I began to believe his kindness might last beyond my injured wrist. The small, thoughtful gesture that told me someone was paying attention. Someone cared whether I was comfortable.
I can’t stand this much longer.
I press the pillow harder against my face.
The chess games. All those evenings in his study, boards scattered between us, his brow furrowed in concentration while I systematically destroyed his defense. He was terrible at chess, not stupid, never stupid, but too aggressive, too impatient, always sacrificing pieces for short-term gains.
“You’re doing it again,” I’d told him once, capturing his rook with a knight he’d completely overlooked.
“Doing what?”
“Playing like you have something to prove. Chess isn’t about dominance, Max. It’s about patience.”
“I’m patient.”
I’d moved a pawn and watched him across the board, testing how much of it was a game and how much was a warning.
“You moved your queen three turns in. That’s not patience, that’s a declaration of war.”
“Maybe I like declarations of war.”
“Against your own wife?”
“Especially against my wife.” He’d looked up at me then, something warm and dangerous in his eyes. “You’re the only person in this house who fights back.”
I’d won that game. And the next one. And the next one. And somewhere between checkmates, I’d started looking forward to the evenings, to the quiet competition, the dry banter, the way he actually listened when I talked about strategy.
I don’t know if I love her enough.
The memory curdles, turns bitter on my tongue.
He was playing me. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. All those games, all those moments, practice for the real performance. See how the Romano girl reacts when you’re kind to her. See if she falls for it.
And I did. I fell completely.
The laugh. God, the laugh. One of the rare times I heard him really laugh, not the polite chuckle he deployed at family events, but a genuine, startled sound that transformed his entire face.
I’d known I was in trouble. We’d been arguing about something stupid, some political disagreement about a trade route, and I’d made a comparison so vulgar that he’d choked on his whiskey.
“Did you just-” He’d stared at me, eyes watering. “Did you just compare my uncle’s shipping operation to a-”
“I stand by it.”
“That’s the most inappropriate thing anyone has ever said to me in a professional context.”
“Good. You needed some inappropriateness in your life. You’re too serious.”
“I’m a don,” he’d said, like that settled it.
“You’re a person who happens to be a don. Try to remember the first part.”
And he’d laughed. Really laughed, head thrown back, the sound filling his study like something alive. I’d felt like I’d won something more important than any chess game.
Lies. All of it. A performance designed to make the Romano bride compliant.
I sit up slowly, wiping my face with shaking hands. The pillow is damp with tears and probably mascara, and I look like a disaster, and I don’t care.
The math settles in slowly, cutting through the grief.
If he’s not your ally, you’re in enemy territory.
By now I know how these families work. I grew up in one. And the cold calculus is simple: if the don himself wants his wife gone, it’s only a matter of time before someone decides to help him. An accident, a disappearance, a quiet solution to a problem no one wanted in the first place.
I’m not safe here.
I’ve never been safe here.
The realization is almost clarifying. The tears dry up, replaced by something harder, colder. A Romano instinct I thought I’d buried.
I need to run.
Tonight. It has to be tonight, because he never comes to our rooms after meetings.
I know that pattern by heart, have learned it the way you learn the behavior of a dangerous animal you share space with.
He’ll be in his study for hours, drinking expensive whiskey and pretending he’s not the villain of my story.
I can be gone before he notices.
The suitcase is in the closet, right where I left it a year ago when I thought unpacking meant commitment.
I pull it out, set it on the bed, and start grabbing things.
Not much, just the essentials. Clothes, cash, documents.
My laptop with the manuscript files. I can buy everything else once I’m somewhere safe.
If somewhere safe exists.
I’m halfway through the dresser when the door opens behind me.
No knock. No warning. Just the soft click of the handle, and then…
“Mrs. Moretti. So good to finally catch you alone.”
I spin around, heart already pounding, and there are two men standing in my bedroom. They’re not wearing the family’s colors. They’re not wearing anything that identifies them at all, just dark clothes, dark intentions, and the kind of flat eyes that tell me they’re not here to talk.
“Get out,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Get out of my room right now.”
“Can’t do that, sweetheart.” The taller one takes a step forward. “We have orders. You’re coming with us.”
There is blood on his cuff that I haven’t put there. Through the open door I glimpse a boot on the carpet, one of the men Max posted outside my rooms. His radio crackles unanswered.
“Like hell I am.”
“Wasn’t a question.”
They move at the same time, coordinated, professional, clearly rehearsed, and my body reacts before my brain catches up. The lamp on the nightstand is in my hand before I register grabbing it, and I swing it at the closest man’s head with everything I have.
He dodges. Barely. The ceramic base catches his shoulder, and he grunts in pain.
“Bitch-”
“I’ve been called worse.” I back toward the nightstand, positioning myself. “By better.”
The second man circles left. The first man circles right. They’re trying to box me in, and they’re good at it, and I’m realizing with cold clarity that I’m not going to win this fight.
But I’m damn well going to make them work for it.
“Who sent you?” I demand, buying time. “Was it Max? Did my husband send you to take me?”
The tall one’s eyes narrow, confusion, maybe? “We don’t answer questions, sweetheart. Just move when we tell you to move.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Nobody’s asking you.”
He lunges.
I duck, slam my elbow into his ribs the way Enzo taught me when I was fifteen, and feel a satisfying crack. The man doubles over, cursing, and I use his body as a shield to dodge the second one’s grab.
The nightstand. I need to reach the nightstand.
The second man gets hold of my arm, yanks me backward, and pain shoots through my shoulder. I twist, bite down on his wrist hard enough to draw blood, and his grip loosens just enough for me to tear free.
Three more steps.
“Grab her legs!” the first one snarls. “Just grab her-”
I slam my hand down on the panic button.
For a moment, nothing happens. The two men freeze, looking at each other, and I think maybe it doesn’t work, maybe the system is broken, maybe I’m completely on my own…
Then the alarms scream to life.
The sound is deafening, a high, piercing wail that makes the attackers flinch. I use the distraction to kick the tall one in the knee, and he goes down with a shout.
“We need to go,” the second one says. “Now. Before-”
The door bursts open.
Guards flood the room, four, five, six of them, guns drawn, and behind them, moving with the cold precision of a man who’s been fighting his whole life, is Max.
His eyes sweep the room once. The overturned lamp. The men on the floor. Me, backed against the wall with scratched arms and bloody knuckles.
“Secure them,” he says flatly. “Get them to the basement. I want names, affiliations, and whoever sent them.”
Two guards grab each attacker. The tall one is still clutching his ribs, gasping something about lawyers and rights, and Max doesn’t even glance at him.
“Cat.”
I look at my husband. Wait for him to come to me, to reach for me, to ask if I’m okay.
He doesn’t move.
“The medic will check you over,” he says, voice completely neutral. “Nico will stay with you until the house is cleared.”
“Max-”
“This shouldn’t have happened. I’ll find out how they got in.”
A guard in the hall calls for a second medic. “Both door men are alive. They fought them, boss. There were four coming in; two stayed outside long enough to bring them down.” Max’s jaw locks. He looks at the blood on my sleeve, then away.
“I don’t care how they got in.” I step toward him, needing something, anything, a touch, a word, some sign that the man from that night still exists. “Max, please. Just-”
“I need to handle this.” He turns away, already issuing orders to the remaining guards. “Stay in your room. Don’t leave until someone comes for you.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway, my whole body shaking, while Nico steps forward with the medic.
“Mrs. Moretti.” His voice is careful, gentle. “Please sit down. Let us check those scratches.”
“Who were they?” I demand. “Who sent them?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Was it Max? Did he-”
“No.” Nico’s answer is immediate, firm. “Don Moretti didn’t send them. I would stake my life on that.”
“Then who?”
“We’re going to find out.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, his side again, always his side, God I hate myself, and let the medic clean the scratches on my arms. They sting, but I barely feel it. I’m numb, hollow, running on nothing but adrenaline and spite.
“Why would anyone attack me?” I ask, watching Nico’s face for any crack in the mask. “I’m nobody. I’m just the treaty wife. I don’t know anything.”
“You’re the donna.”
“That’s just a title.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
“Who sent them, Nico?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Working on it isn’t the same as knowing.”
“It’s what I have right now.”
“Does your family want me gone?” I meet his eyes directly. “Does Max want me gone?”
His mouth tightens, discomfort, maybe, or guilt. “I can’t speak for anyone but myself.”
“Then speak for yourself. Do you think my husband wants me dead?”
“No.” His voice is firm. “I don’t.”
“Then why won’t he talk to me?” The frustration bursts out before I can stop it. “Why won’t he tell me anything? Why does he look at me like I’m a stranger?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“What are you keeping from me?”
“I don’t know why he shuts you out. I should have asked sooner.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. For something. For any crack in the wall.
Nothing.
I laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. “Of course. Stone, all the way down.”
The medic finishes bandaging my arms and retreats quietly. Nico stays, silent and watchful, while guards sweep the room and check the windows and do all the things that security does when they’ve failed at their one job.
By dawn, there are three times as many men posted outside my door.
By dawn, I understand the truth.
I can’t run tonight. The security is too tight, the attention too focused. Any attempt to leave now would be caught immediately.
But this changes nothing.
If anything, it clarifies everything.
Someone tried to take me. My husband couldn’t even look at me while they checked my injuries. And the man who’s supposed to protect me, the man who held me like it meant something, walked out of that room like I was nothing.
Massimo Moretti is not my ally.
This house is not my home.
And the only person who’s going to keep me safe is me.
So I’ll play the shaken wife. I’ll accept the extra guards and the careful questions and the pretense of concern. I’ll wait for them to relax, to assume the danger has passed, to stop watching quite so closely.
And then I’ll find the gap.
Because it’s clear now, clearer than it’s ever been: if I stay here, I die.
One way or another.
I’ll just make sure it’s not today.