Page 27

“You’re done, Cata,” he said instead of calling the next move.

Her heart sank, but she stiffened, refusing to relax her fists.“Why?”

“Because you’re tired.”His tone was gentle but firm, the same command he used on his men, but softened just for her.He stepped closer, lifting her hand to his lips and brushing a kiss across her bruised knuckles.The warmth of his mouth lingered long after he pulled back.“Why don’t we go upstairs?I’ll make you a protein shake.”

Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her, but she ignored it, tilting her chin up in defiance.“I’m fine.”

Sal arched a brow, unconvinced.He moved even closer, until she had to tilt her head back to keep his gaze.His scent wrapped around her—clean, male, devastating.Her pulse skipped.

“What did you have for breakfast, cara?”His voice had shifted, deeper, huskier, a velvet growl that made her knees weaken.

Her lips pressed together, her silence giving him the answer she didn’t want to admit.

“Nothing, eh?”His thumb traced her cheek, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle with awareness.

She wanted to lean into that touch.Wanted to rest her head against his chest, to bury her nose against his throat and feel his arms cage her in.Even more, she wanted what he never gave her: his kisses.Real ones, the kind she read about at night when she curled up with her books.Instead, she got mornings alone, alarms and cold sheets, while he stayed maddeningly untouchable.

“Come along, my little warrior.”He laced his fingers through hers, the rough heat of his hand sending a shiver through her.“Why don’t you hit the showers while I make that shake?”

Her breath caught.Last night, in her book, the hero had stepped into the shower with his wife, pinning her against the tile while the water poured down around them.Did she dare suggest it?Did she dare risk hearing him say no?

They stopped at the doorway to the gym showers.For a long moment, he just stared down at her, his hand tightening on hers as if he might say something—do something.Catarina’s breath hitched, hope flaring bright and reckless.

Then, with a sigh, he released her fingers and stepped back.“Take your time,cara.Join me when you’re ready.”His voice was quiet, almost rough, before he turned and jogged up the stairs.

She leaned back against the doorframe, her body sagging with frustration.Damn it, she wanted him.But how did you entice a man like Salvatore Romano?Men had always kept their distance from her before.Being Enrico Bianchi’s daughter made her untouchable.

Now…she had no idea how to entice her husband.It was like they were strangers, or worse, polite roommates.

A flash of sunlight streaked across the wall as Sal opened the basement door, letting the glow spill into the dim gym.That bright line across the concrete wall tugged at something buried in her memory.

A woman.A laugh.A flash of glitter.

Catarina blinked.A stripper?Was the woman she’d sketched in her notebook—the one whose voice still echoed in fragments of her memory—a stripper?

She bit her lip, heat prickling her cheeks even though she was alone.She’d only been in strip clubs a handful of times, each one a nightmare.Her father had dragged her along like unwanted baggage, ordering her to sit on a sticky faux-leather bench andbehave.While he went to the back rooms to do “business,” she’d been forced to sit still and endure.

The women who worked there had been surprisingly kind to her.They’d slipped her sodas or fries, whispering encouragements when her father’s back was turned.Catarina had always declined, stomach growling but terrified of her father’s wrath if he caught her eating.Still, the smell of grease, sugar, and stale beer had filled her head, forever tying those moments to shame and hunger.

But the memory now wasn’t about fries or body glitter.She knew, deep down, that she hadn’t overheard the whispered threat against Sal at a club.No, the woman hadn’t been performing.She hadn’t been gyrating under neon lights.She’d been talking.Scheming.

And Catarina had been listening.

She stripped off her sweat-damp leggings and shirt, dropping them into the hamper.As always, her dirty clothes would vanish and reappear days later, folded and fresh, the task carried out by invisible hands she’d never seen.The guilt stung her briefly—someone worked hard in this house, unseen, un-thanked—but the guilt was quickly swallowed by the urgency of a memory she hadn’t expected.

For a moment she stood frozen, towel clutched in her hands, straining to catch the shadow of what had surfaced.All she could summon were fragments—blurred, disjointed, like pieces of a dream that slipped away when she tried to grab them.

Impatiently, Catarina stepped into the shower, scrubbing herself down with sharp, fast strokes.Her hands trembled as she rinsed the conditioner from her hair, as though her body already knew she was brushing up against something important.Something buried.

As she dried off, she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe, to focus.The fog began to clear.That’s when she remembered the scent of cheap perfume.The squeak of stilettos against tile.Male laughter rolling low and smug in the background.

And then—bam!

The scene came back to her, sharp enough to make her gasp.The woman she had drawn—the one whose face had haunted her sketches—was leaning close to a man.Her voice was low, edged like steel:We’ll take him out.Him and his empire.Piece by piece.That had been said by a man, but Catarina hadn’t seen him.She’d only seen the woman nod.

Catarina’s stomach clenched.The woman who was trying to infiltrate Sal’s operation worked in a strip club!

No wonder she’d only remembered the woman’s face at first.That day had been chaos from the start.Her father had punched her in the stomach before breakfast, fury flaring over some meaningless slight—she couldn’t even recall what excuse he’d given.The reason didn’t matter.Her father didn’t need reasons; cruelty was as natural to him as breathing.