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So she waited.Trembling.Praying he couldn’t see how terrified she was of how he might answer her question.

Instead of words, he snapped the cup down onto the glass-topped table with a sharp crack.Her pulse jumped as he strode toward her with predatory certainty.

Catarina stumbled back, heart thundering, but his hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist.Not painful—never painful—but unyielding.He would feel her trembling now, she thought, and her stomach knotted.This was it.He was going to strike her.She braced, chin lifted, refusing to cower the way she always did with her father.If he was going to hurt her, he would do it while she was looking him in the eye.

But she hadn’t anticipated what he did next.

One hand held her wrist steady.The other reached for the belt of her robe.Her eyes widened in shock as his fingers tugged, releasing the knot.The terrycloth fell open, cold air rushing against her skin.

She gasped, instinctively trying to pull the robe closed, but his grip kept her still.His eyes moved lower, slow and assessing, and shame crashed through her.

Because he could see.

The ugly truth mottled across her skin—yellow, green, purple bruises splattered over her ribs, her stomach, her thighs.She closed her eyes, tilting her head away, humiliation threatening to swallow her whole.She wasn’t ashamed of her near nakedness—what destroyed her was the evidence.The proof of her father’s violence.The proof of her failure to stop him.

Enrico had always been careful—always striking where her clothing would hide it.But she’d come to confront Salvatore in nothing but a robe and underwear.Now every secret mark was exposed.Every scar of her silence revealed.

She heard it then—a violent hiss, sharp as a blade.Her eyes flew open in time to see his jaw clench, his nostrils flare.In the next instant he was tugging the robe closed again, knotting the belt with firm, almost protective hands.

“You will never be beaten, Cata,” he vowed, his voice low and furious.His palm slid up into her hair, cupping the side of her face with startling gentleness.“Never.You will never cringe from my touch.You will never fear me when I’m angry.”

His lips brushed hers, barely a whisper of a kiss.She whimpered, the sound shocking her.Because there was no fear in it.Only warmth.

It didn’t make sense.He could be lying.Men lied.Powerful men always lied.And she had a terrible habit of standing up to power, even when it cost her dearly.Every time she’d tried to defend herself against her father, she’d only earned more bruises, worse pain.

Salvatore pulled her into his arms, those big, muscular arms wrapping her securely.But it wasn’t a possessive grip, not crushing or demanding.It was a hug.

The realization nearly broke her.No one had held her like this since her mother had passed when she was a little girl.The gentleness undid her, and without thinking, she leaned into him, pressing lightly against his strength.

“You’ll never fear me, Cata,” he whispered into her ear, the low rumble of his voice sinking into her bones.

A sharp noise behind him forced him to pull away.Catarina almost cried out at the loss, aching for the warmth of his embrace.But then, reason crashed back in—this man was a stranger.Worse, he was her father’s enemy.He was dangerous.

“Bianchi is on the rampage,” a tall, scarred man announced as he stepped into the room.His voice was like gravel.“He’s on his way up.Somehow, he figured out you carried her away from the bar.”

Catarina’s breath seized.Her chest tightened until she couldn’t drag in air.He must have sensed her terror, because Salvatore turned back instantly.His palm slid around her neck, warm and steady, his long fingers pressing lightly against her skull.

“Breathe, Cata,” he urged, eyes locking on hers with fierce intensity.“Just breathe.And trust your future husband to handle this.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.She bit down hard, fighting the tears that burned behind her eyes.

He studied her for another long beat, then pressed a kiss against her forehead.It wasn’t fiery or demanding—it was grounding.Gentle.

“Go get dressed,” he told her.“Everything you need is in your room.Come out when you’re ready.”

And then he let her go.

Catarina lingered for one stolen heartbeat, staring at the broad, powerful back as he strode away.The muscles rippled under his skin, strength contained and purposeful.

“When you’re dressed, come out and we’ll be married,” he said over his shoulder.“Your father will not be here any longer.”He paused just long enough to look at her.“Unless you want him to stay for the wedding?”

She shook her head quickly, unaware of the terror flashing in her eyes.

“Good,” he said with grim satisfaction.“I didn’t want him here either.”

A pounding knock rattled the penthouse doors, the booming sound announcing her father’s arrival.Sal’s guards must have allowed him this far, but Catarina didn’t stick around to see what would happen.Panic surged, and she spun on her heel, retreating fast.

A coward’s retreat,she told herself bitterly as she slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving.