Gianni
Rage.
Pure, white-hot, combustible rage.
It erupts from somewhere deep in my chest like a volcano that’s been dormant too fucking long, threatening to incinerate everything in its path. And what triggered this apocalyptic meltdown? The scene unfolding across the street from where I’m parked, watching Caterina like the obsessive bastard I’ve become.
The air inside the car disappears. Just—gone. My chest compresses until I’m certain my heart’s going to explode from the strain. Sweat beads along my temple, my skin tight and hot. My vision tunnels, focusing on one thing and one thing only.
That motherfucker has his hands on her.
Luciano—that worthless, cheating piece of shit—has Caterina backed against the brick wall, his body pressed against hers, his face descending toward hers like he has any fucking right to breathe the same air as her, let alone touch her.
My hand moves to the gun in my shoulder holster before I can think.
One shot. Center mass. Problem solved.
The only thing—the only thing—that keeps me from putting a bullet through his skull is watching her shove him away. Both hands against his chest, a violent push that sends him stumbling backward. Her face twists with disgust so visceral I can see it from here, even with the tinted windows between us.
Good girl.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, like I just finished a marathon. My hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel when they should be wrapped around that bastard’s throat, squeezing until his face goes purple and the light dies in his eyes.
God, the image is intoxicating.
I let myself savor it—the fantasy of watching him choke, watching him realize in those final moments that he fucked with the wrong woman. That she wasn’t his. That she was never his.
That she’s mine.
Caterina’s mouth is moving now, and I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. Her body language says everything. She flips him off—actually gives him the finger—before storming away, arms crossed over her chest, her entire posture radiating fury.
I’ve never wanted her more.
She slams herself into her car with enough force to rock it on its suspension, and I watch Luciano’s face crumple. He looks like a kicked dog, all misery and confusion, watching her tail lights disappear down the street.
“That’s right, you pathetic fuck,” I mutter, still death-gripping the steering wheel. “Watch her leave. Get used to that view.”
The misery on his face is the only reason I don’t end him right here, right now. Death would be mercy. Let him live with what he lost. Let him drown in the reality that he had perfection in his hands and threw it away for what? Some gym bunny with fake tits and an empty head?
Idiot.
“If you’re smart,” I tell his oblivious ass through the windshield, “you’ll go home. You’ll leave her alone. You’ll forget she exists.”
Even as I say it, I know he won’t. He’s too stupid. Too entitled. He’s the kind of man who thinks persistence equals romance, that if he just tries hard enough, wears her down enough, she’ll take him back.
He has no idea how close he is to disappearing.
Although—and here’s where my rarely-used conscience decides to make an appearance—I’m not exactly in a position to judge. Here I am, tailing Caterina like a fucking stalker, warning another man not to follow her.
Hypocrite.
The difference, of course, is that I can protect her. I can give her everything. I can—
You can justify anything, can’t you?
I ignore that thought, easing the car into traffic three cars behind Caterina’s sensible little sedan. She mentioned this morning over coffee that she was looking at an apartment tonight. Said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like she expected me to smile and congratulate her on this exciting new chapter.
My fists had clenched so hard under the table I’m surprised the bones didn’t crack.
An apartment. In the middle of the city. Surrounded by god knows what kind of people, with locks that any amateur could pick and neighbors who wouldn’t hear her scream.
Like I’d ever let that happen.
The only reason I didn’t lock her in my bedroom right then was Roger’s inconvenient presence in the kitchen, overhearing our entire conversation. And while Roger’s looked the other way on plenty of my more questionable decisions, every man has his limits. Imprisoning my daughter’s best friend might cross that line.
Might.
Caterina’s long gone now, headed home—my home, whether she’s accepted that reality or not—and I should follow. But first, I have business to handle.
I pull up Tatiana’s contact through the car’s Bluetooth, easing into traffic. She answers on the second ring, her voice too bright, too cheerful.
“Dad! How’s everything back home?”
“Cut the shit, Tatiana. You know why I’m calling.”
A pause. “Because you miss your favorite daughter?”
“I have one daughter, so the competition isn’t exactly fierce.” I let the silence stretch, waiting. “You ran two of your cards over their limit. You know I get alerts when that happens.”
“Oh.” The artificial brightness dims. “Right. That. Listen, Dad, it’s really easy to lose track over here. The exchange rate is confusing, and—”
“The exchange rate.” I actually laugh. “Tatiana, I’ve been traveling internationally since before you were born. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Sorry enough to stop buying your boyfriend a new wardrobe?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she finally says, but the defensiveness in her voice betrays her.
“Thirty thousand dollars at a men’s boutique in Milan.” I let that number hang between us. “That’s not a few casual purchases, sweetheart. That’s a fucking trousseau.”
“He needed suits for the events we’ve been attending—”
“He’s a grown man with a trust fund.” My patience is wearing thin. “I agreed to cover reasonable expenses. The jet, the properties you’re staying in, fine. But his personal wardrobe? That’s not my responsibility.”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, *you* don’t understand. A man with any shred of self-respect doesn’t let his girlfriend bankroll his lifestyle. What kind of future are you building with someone who’s content to live off your father’s money?”
“Can we not do this right now?” She’s getting worked up, her voice rising. “Especially when you’re keeping secrets of your own?”
My blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”
“I heard a rumor.” Her tone shifts, becoming pointed. Sharp. “About you and Caterina. About you two sneaking around while I’m conveniently out of the country. Are you trying to hide something from me, Dad?”
Fuck.
My mind races through possibilities. Who knows? Who could have told her? I’ve been discreet—painfully so. Not even Roger knows the full extent of things, though he’s probably got suspicions. But Roger wouldn’t tell Tatiana. They barely speak.
“Dad?” she prompts when I don’t respond. “Is it true?”
“Is *what* true?” I need to stall, need to figure out how much she actually knows.
“Don’t make me spell it out.” She sounds tired now. “I’m not stupid. I know Caterina’s had a crush on you forever. I just need to know if you’re—if something’s happening. Because she’s my best friend, and if you’re going to break her heart—”
Wait. “You knew she had a crush on me?”
“Dad.” She groans like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “Of course I knew. It was painfully obvious. But she never admitted it, and I never pushed, so we just… didn’t talk about it.”
“And you’re okay with this?” I’m genuinely surprised. “With me and her?”
“I mean, it’s weird. Obviously it’s weird. You’re my *dad.*” Another pause. “But it’s also kind of not surprising? Like, I saw this coming from a mile away. I just thought you’d be smart enough not to act on it.”
“I’m being careful with her,” I say quietly. “I promise you that. She matters to me.”
“She better matter to you.” The threat in her voice is clear despite the miles between us. “Because if you hurt her, Dad, I swear to God—”
“Who told you?” I need to know. Need to plug this leak before it becomes a flood.
“I’m not telling you that. I promised.”
I recognize that tone. She’s not budging. “No more spending on Christopher,” I say instead, shifting tactics. “Or I’m cutting the cards off and you’re coming home. Understood?”
“Understood.” She sighs. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call just as I’m passing through the compound gates, lifting a hand to wave at Henry in the guard booth. The familiar anticipation builds in my gut—when’s the last time I actually looked forward to coming home? Years. Decades, maybe.
Not since Tatiana’s mother, and even that’s a stretch.
But instead of heading straight to the house, I pull over outside Roger’s cottage. There’s a light on inside, and I have business to conclude.
He answers the door in workout clothes, slightly out of breath. “Didn’t expect you back yet—”
“Am I that much of a slave driver? Your time’s your own.” I step inside without waiting for an invitation. “Did you meet with the doctor?”
He nods, moving to the desk and retrieving a plain brown package. Nothing about it screams *illegal fertility drugs and sugar pills,* which is precisely the point.
“He was grateful for the fee,” Roger says neutrally, handing it over.
“I’m sure he was.” I paid double. Discretion costs extra. “Thanks for handling this.”
I’m halfway out the door when he stops me. “One more thing. Jack Moroni called from Miami.”
Fuck. Nothing good ever comes from Moroni. “The shipment issue?”
“No. He wants a meeting. Says he has a business proposition.”
I can already guess. “Let me guess—he wants to marry his son off to Tatiana. Unite the families. It’s not the first time he’s floated the idea.”
Roger’s expression darkens. “Would you actually consider that?”
“Arranging my daughter’s marriage?” I laugh. “What century do you think this is?”
“I’m serious.” He’s not laughing with me. “If it meant solidifying Florida—”
“There’s no harm in hearing him out,” I interrupt. “It’ll never happen, but I can’t afford to piss anyone else off after that crate debacle. Set up the meeting.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “You should take the night off,” I add. “Go out. Get laid. You’re too tense.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He won’t. But that’s his problem.
I practically float back to the main house, the package tucked under my arm. Everything’s falling into place. Tatiana knows and seems okay with it. The doctor came through. Caterina’s safe at home, probably already showered and waiting for me.
I’m even whistling as I head down the hallway to my office, planning to stash the package before finding her—
The whistle dies.
There are lights on in my office. Which shouldn’t be possible, because everyone knows better than to enter without permission.
I round the doorway and freeze.
Caterina sits at my desk, tears streaming down her face. A manila envelope—that envelope, the one Luciano forced on her—lies open in front of her.
Her red, swollen eyes meet mine, and my entire world tilts on its axis.
“We have a problem,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “A very big one.“