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And dear heaven, he knew a woman’s body.He’d known when to tease, when to soothe, when to spank her butt just hard enough to make her melt into his arms.She hadn’t even known she liked that—hadn’t known she could go liquid and desperate from something so bold—but Sal did.Sal had known.

Her body still hummed with that memory.Even now, sore and tender, she wanted to walk straight into his arms and beg him to do it all over again.

“He’s got to come out at some point,” Tony’s sharp snarl cut through the quiet.

Catarina froze, one hand braced against the wall.Who—?

Then Sal’s voice, calm, unflinching: “Bianchi wants me.He’s not going to quit until I show myself and handle this myself.”

Her heart stopped.

Her father.

Her father was trying to lure Sal out into the open.

Every instinct screamed at her what that meant.She’d lived in the shadows of Enrico Bianchi’s conversations her whole life.As a child, she’d heard the whispers, the plans, the careless talk about “taking someone out.”Back then the names had meant nothing.Just faceless men, enemies of her father, whose lives ended without her ever knowing why.

But now… now she knew the name.Now the man in her father’s crosshairs was her husband.

Her chest constricted, panic clawing at her throat.

Because she knew her father.She knew his ruthlessness, his reach.He bought cops by the handful, politicians by the dozen.Every time the police raided his house—her father’s house, never hers—he’d already been warned.The cash, the drugs, the weapons… all swept away into hidden corners before the warrants hit the doorstep.And when a prosecutor dared to press charges, the outcome had been as predictable as it was horrifying.

Five arrests she could remember.And five times he’d walked free within hours.

And five prosecutors who had died.

Two of sudden “natural causes”—a heart attack and an aneurysm.The other three had just been gunned down, one in his yard, another in his car, the last one shot on the courthouse steps.That last death still haunted her, the audacity of it, the way her father had smiled over breakfast the next morning as though it had been nothing more than a business transaction.

Enrico Bianchi never lost.Not in court, not in the street, not in life.

And now Sal was talking about stepping out into her father’s sights.

No.

Terror flooded her veins, icy and absolute.

Sal could not face her father.Not like this.Not alone.

This couldn’t happen.

Stepping into the room, Catarina froze.Five men were bent over the massive dining room table, maps and papers scattered across its polished surface.They looked like war generals plotting a campaign—and in a way, they were.

Her gaze locked on Sal.And this time, there were no mental quotation marks around the wordhusband.Not after last night.After the way he had touched her, claimed her, cherished her.Salvatore Romano wasn’t just her husband now—he was her lover.

And now he was going to risk his life to face her father.

Her throat closed up, but the words tore free anyway.“Please don’t.”

For a heartbeat, she feared she’d whispered too softly.But the way every head turned toward her proved otherwise.All five men straightened, watching, but it was Sal’s dark, unreadable gaze that pinned her in place.

She swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down.“Please don’t do that.”

His jaw tightened, that lethal muscle ticking once before he visibly reined himself in.Then he circled the table, his presence like a storm filling the room until he stood before her.His hands engulfed hers, warm and unshakable.

“Mia cara,” he murmured, kissing the tips of her fingers as though she were delicate glass.“I have to do this.Your father is becoming more violent.”When the fear in her eyes didn’t dissipate, Sal continued.“I’ll make sure he goes to prison,” he added firmly.“But I won’t kill him.”

She was already shaking her head before he’d even finished.“That won’t be enough.Just…leave him alone!”Her voice cracked, desperation bleeding through.“He’s not like you, Sal.He’s not good and kind and gentle like you.”