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Chapter 6

Catarinaopenedhereyes…ortried to.They felt like someone had superglued them shut during the night.After several moments of blinking and cursing under her breath, she managed to pry them open—only to immediately squint.

The light didn’t make sense.Intense Las Vegas sunshine was streaming in around the edges of the curtains.Her room faced west.Evening light only.So unless the sun had suddenly decided to rise in the wrong part of the sky, she wasn’t in her room.

Then last night’s memories came flooding back.

Matteo doing those…things…to the hookers.

Drinking at the bar.

And then—good grief—meeting Salvatore Romano.

She gasped and shot upright, instantly regretting it when a knife lodged itself in her skull.“Ow,” she hissed, clutching her head.“No sudden movements.Got it.”

Had she really proposed to him?Salvatore freaking Romano?Dear heaven, she’d even told him about…about her father’s plans!

“No!”she groaned, swinging her legs over the bed.Her shoes were gone, but at least she still had her clothes on.That was a positive.Right?Or maybe not.She’d offered marriage in exchange for secrets.Marriage!To the most dangerous man in Vegas!

That wasn’t just reckless.That was betrayal.Families didn’t betray the boss.Daughters didn’t hand out classified intel like party favors.

But then again, her father wasn’t exactly the kind of man who inspired loyalty.Enrico Bianchi hurt people for fun.He killed for even less.She’d spent her entire life afraid of him.He hit her if she ate too much.He slapped her if she wore the wrong color dress.And when he was tired of dealing with her, he’d sent her away to finishing schools that churned out polished mannequins with perfect posture and dead eyes.

Catarina had always known her place: she was the prize her father dangled in front of his capos.Be loyal enough, and you can marry my daughter.She’d been engaged three times already.Matteo was only the latest in a long, depressing line of suitors.

Matteo, who thought she was frigid because she wouldn’t sleep with him.Matteo, whose idea of foreplay was…well, whatever the hell that thing with his mouth had been.And Matteo, whose “manhood” was—she nearly snorted—so small she’d mistaken it once for a pinky finger.

Of course she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him.He was a terrible kisser.He smelled weird.And he was disgusting.Attraction wasn’t even in the same zip code.

But saying no had consequences.Her father had threatened her with his belt the last time she’d tried to fight an engagement.He’d even pulled it out, and she’d caved immediately.She wasn’t good at taking pain.She wasn’t brave.She was, if she were honest, a coward.

She stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring the disaster in the mirror.Her hair was a rat’s nest, her pale pink sheath dress wrinkled like she’d slept in a ball.Which she probably had.

A bathrobe hung on the door, and she gratefully grabbed it.After guzzling some water, Catarina stepped into the shower, letting the warm water pelt her until she felt halfway human again.

As she scrubbed with the hotel’s soap and shampoo, Catarina’s mind churned.She needed a story.Something to tell her father that explained why she hadn’t returned to their suite last night.Something that might lessen the inevitable beating.

Her fingers trembled as she twisted off the water.No makeup.No hairpins.No way to pull her hair back into the neat chignon her father insisted upon.Just loose, wild curls tumbling everywhere.He would hate it.

And then—oh no, Matteo!She groaned, but this time it was half a laugh.The memory of his tiny erection would have been hilarious if she wasn’t still technically engaged to him.

“Perfect,” she muttered at her bedraggled reflection.“Hungover, engaged to Thumbelina, and possibly married off to a mafia boss I barely know.Just another day in paradise.”

Well, not coming back to the suite last night might have ended her engagement.She doubted Matteo would want to marry a “sullied” woman.

Still, she lifted her chin.She’d gotten drunk, she’d made a fool of herself, and now she’d face the consequences.

Her father’s consequences.

That memory struck like a whip.About a year ago, Enrico had come storming into the house dragging one of his mistresses by the hair.The woman had been stunning—long legs, glossy hair, the kind of beauty men noticed.But she’d been screaming, begging him for mercy.

Enrico Bianchi never showed mercy.

He’d shoved the woman at one of his guards with a cruel laugh.“Have fun with her.She’s a whore—share her with whoever wants her tonight.”

Catarina had never forgotten the sound of that woman’s screams.She didn’t know how many guards had raped the poor woman before Catarina had managed to start a fire in the corner of the estate, drawing the men away long enough to sneak into the basement and cut her loose.

She’d shoved the woman into a cab with money for the women’s shelter.Torn clothes, hair matted with blood, mascara streaking like war paint down her face—and still, the woman had kissed Catarina’s hands, whispering frantic thanks.