Chapter Three
GIANNI
I fill my second glass of whiskey and down it faster than the first. The burn is nowhere near strong enough, so I pour a third while contemplating how many bullets I should fire into Anton.
It’s my wedding night. I should be balls deep in my wife. Instead, I’m standing here getting drunk while trying to calm down the woman my father tried to force me to marry.
You can’t make this shit up.
“Well?” comes a shrill voice from behind. “Is it true?”
“Which part?” Returning the decanter to the wet bar, I lift my glass and glance over my shoulder. “You’ve demanded many answers in a short amount of time.”
Cathalina’s cheeks flush, her tense posture deflating.
I’m not sure how, but she looks younger than the last time I saw her.
Maybe it’s the lack of makeup and straight dark ponytail, or possibly that simple prairie dress that makes her look like she’s cosplaying as an innocent, law-abiding citizen.
“I knew coming here was probably a bad idea…”
“ Probably a bad idea?” Whipping around, I sweep my hand down the length of my body. “I’m in a fucking suit at eleven o’clock at night, Cathalina. There’s no ‘probably’ about it.”
I slide a sideways glance to where Anton leans against the wall with his shoulders lifted in a permanent shrug.
If it wouldn’t be a waste of perfectly good liquor, I’d throw my glass at his face.
I had a lot of plans for tonight, and none of them involved Cathalina Damiano.
While I can’t fault my underboss for rerouting them, my dick isn’t so forgiving.
“I didn’t know you were having a party,” she says softly.
I palm the back of my neck. “Again, tell me what you’re doing here.”
Besides cockblocking the fuck out of me.
She rounds her lips and blows out a soft breath. “I overheard my father on the phone say that Marcello lured you out of Witness Protection and was blackmailing you into a truce.”
“ Fake truce,” I clarify. “It was a ruse he kept going until he could properly gut me.”
The corners of her mouth turn down. “What was he blackmailing you with?”
“Why are you so concerned? The man is a pile of ash.”
“I’m not. I just…” She stares down at her clasped hands.
“All I heard was the estate burned to the ground and Marcello was dead. My father didn’t say if you’d gotten out, or…
” She trails off, drawing out a long exhale before looking up at me.
“You’re my friend, Gianni. Is it so wrong for me to be worried about you? ”
“I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, I’m fine.”
She cocks her head. “Are you?”
“Was barging into my house not enough for you, Cat?” Pushing off the bar, I yank my tie loose and unbutton the top two buttons. “Now you have to question me?”
“I’m not questioning you,” she insists, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids.
I know the sick mind games Marcello liked to play, especially with you.
For you to be pushed to the point of taking his throne, you would’ve had to have been given a strong and compelling reason to…
” She shakes her head. “All I’m saying is that if you need someone to talk to… ”
Fuck this. I was trying to spare her feelings, but enough is enough.
“That ‘someone’ will be my wife.”
She stills. “I’m sorry, your what ?”
“My wife,” I repeat, lifting my left hand and flashing my ring. “That’s why I’m dressed like this. You didn’t crash a party. You crashed my wedding.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, her eyes locked on my finger. “How can you be married?”
“Rather easily, it turns out. Two vows, two rings, one inappropriate kiss and?—”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “I’m aware of the process.
I just meant…” She tugs on her ponytail, pausing in what I assume is an unscripted backtrack; at least, I hope so.
This bumbling damsel-in-distress routine is as authentic as gas station sushi.
After a few seconds of silence, she drops her hand and straightens her shoulders. “I don’t understand the timeline.”
I take a slow drink and consider what to tell her.
I never planned on keeping my marriage a secret, but the events surrounding it form a slippery slope.
Becca is an outsider. My choice to wed her is going to draw a lot of questions and even more controversy.
If I’m going to survive a week as boss, I have to stand by it openly and unapologetically.
Within reason…
Cathalina has never given me a reason to distrust her, but she’s still a Damiano. The alliance between our families is surface-level at best. While I don’t believe she’s a mouthpiece for her father, the last few days proved anyone can be capable of anything.
So I offer a watered-down explanation, using her own words as a springboard. “Like you said, I was pushed into taking the throne. But the crown doesn’t come for free. You know that as well as I do.”
Understanding flashes in her dark eyes. “Toscano gave you a condition.”
“There were many ‘conditions.’ Benny made sure he got the maximum bang for his buck.” I can see something else spinning behind that fixed gaze.
She’s shoving pieces of a scattered puzzle in places I know is about to piss me off.
“Say what’s on your mind, Cat,” I mutter, staring into my glass.
“It’s already seeped through to your face. ”
“It’s just that after Marcello tried to force a union between us, it’s hard to imagine you’d go through with another arranged marriage.”
I glance up. “I never said it was an arranged marriage. Toscano expedited the ceremony, but the proposal was all mine.”
“Oh, I didn’t know…” she stammers, her cheeks heating. “I mean, it’s only been six months since Victoria?—”
“I know how long it’s been,” I say sharply. “I was there, remember?”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply that…” She twists her fingers so hard they match her cheeks. “What happened while you were away is none of my business.”
“You’re right. It’s not,” Anton pipes up from his perch against the wall.
Cathalina’s lips slam together, and I bite down on my molars to force back a smile.
That fucker is so out of pocket sometimes.
“So, you’re happy?” she asks tepidly.
I arch an eyebrow. “About the situation? Of course not. About marrying the woman I consider my perfect equal? More than a man like me has any right to be.”
I wait for an invasive follow-up. Instead, she rises to her feet with a curt nod.
“Right. Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Please give your wife my apologies. My father said nothing about a wedding, or I wouldn’t have…
” She trails off with a half-hearted shrug.
“It doesn’t matter now. Thank you for seeing me, Gianni. ”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. I slide it from the inside pocket of my suit jacket to see a text from Anton.
Wrap this up. I don’t like when Damianos fish for info.
No shit. This isn’t how I envisioned spending my evening, either, but half of being a boss is shoving pacifiers in people’s mouths until it’s time to swing the knife around to their back. However, I’ve babysat her long enough.
I tuck my phone back into my jacket. “Anton will see you out.”
Cathalina smiles tightly and takes two steps toward the door only to stop and glance back at me.
“I trust you’ll keep me coming here between us.
If my father found out I was eavesdropping…
” She blanches, the unspoken threat making her shudder.
“Let’s just say there’s a reason he and Marcello got along so well. ”
Fuck.
While I don’t want to lie to Becca, I also don’t want to feed Carmine’s daughter a line of bullshit, especially if he’s even half the psychopath my father was. So, I give her the answer she wants with the loophole I need.
“I’ll never speak a word of this to any man.”
Her shoulders sag. “I knew I could trust you.”
The moment both she and Anton are gone, I drain my glass, then head toward the staircase, my mind void of everything but the woman waiting at the top.
My present … my salvation … my everything.
I lick my lips.
My wife.
Fuck you.
I clench my fists. Two words, written in bright red lipstick across the mirror on my dresser, that mock me the longer I stare at them.
They taunt me … provoke me … smear their defiance all over the glass.
I’m not sure if Becca meant them as an insult or a challenge, and I don’t care.
Both intentions are about to yield the same result…
Once I find her.
Calling her name down every hallway brings me nothing but empty rooms and returned silence. Apprehension and anger mix a lethal cocktail, and I’m one matchstick away from full fucking Molotov.
I’m close to having Anton organize a grounds search when my gaze lands on the narrow set of stairs at the end of the hall.
The ones that lead to a permanently locked door.
Each footstep sounds like a gunshot as I climb the stairs.
At the top, I twist the doorknob, unsurprised to find it locked. A smile pulls at my lips.
She’s learning.
Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pull out a small silver key.
But she also has a long way to go.
One turn of the key and the lock springs free. Slipping the key back in my pocket, I turn the knob, only to meet resistance. I pause and imagine her watching all this from the other side, her lips puckered in that proud little pout.
I’ll admit, shoving a chair under the doorknob was a nice touch.
Commendable effort. Shitty execution.
Turning sideways, I throw all my weight against the slab of wood. A sharp crack echoes from the other side, followed by a heavy crash that removes all resistance and barriers.
The door swings open, and we lock eyes.
Becca is lounging on the black leather couch across from me, her hand wrapped around the neck of my most expensive imported whiskey. She’s still in her wedding gown, a glaring contrast to the hard set of her jaw and rigid posture.
Her gaze drifts to the pile of broken wood. “That works a lot better in the movies.”
“Marble floors,” I retort, gesturing toward the ground. “Nothing for the chair to grip. You need carpet for that.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
“I thought I told you to wait in my bedroom.”
She cuts that arctic stare back to me, the corner of her mouth curving up. “If you wanted a doormat who bows to your every command, you should’ve married someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“Interesting…” Leaving the word swinging like a rusty hook, she lifts the bottle and takes a long drink.
“I got your love note.” I lean against the door and fold my arms across my chest.
“That wasn’t a love note, Gianni. It was a suggestion on how you should spend our wedding night,” she says, her expression darkening. “As in … you should fuck yourself because you sure as hell won’t be fucking me.”
“Is that what you think?”
“You talk a big game, Marchesi, but we both know taking something I’m not willing to give is a line you won’t cross.”
“Eight weeks in your chair and you think you’ve got me figured out.”
“Don’t I?”
“No, Becca, you don’t. You only know the parts of me I’ve allowed you to,” I warn, my movement tight and wooden as I push off the door. “There are layers no one has seen, even me.”
“What about Cathalina?” she asks, her voice shredding paper-thin. “Has she seen them?”