Page 36 of Caterina
That tells me something, too.
She’s either been watching the feed herself or she has someone inside doing it for her. Given what I was told last night, I’d put money on the first option.
Caterina Conti stands in the doorway.
And for one clear, unhelpful second, all I register is that she’s beautiful.
Dark hair, blown out smooth so it falls in glossy layers over her shoulders and down her back. Her blouse and skirt skim over curves that are both athletic and soft, her waist cinched just enough to emphasize those curves. Gold hoops at her ears. A simple, elegant watch on one wrist. Long legs in black heels.
Her face is structured perfectly—high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark, intelligent eyes that are already fixed on me with a displeased look.
She’s put together the way some people put on armor—precise, deliberate, chosen to say something before a word ever leaves her mouth.
Then I shut the rest of that down.
Hard.
She’s my client.
That line is absolute, and I’ve kept it absolute for a reason. No blurred edges. No private fantasies. No indulgence. You start seeing a client as anything other than the person you were hired to keep alive, and you invite mistakes. Mistakes get people hurt. Sometimes killed.
So I take in what actually matters.
Her posture is straight. Her expression cool. Her eyes dark and direct and already unimpressed.
There’s irritation in the set of her mouth and resentment in the way she’s holding herself, not fear. Good. Fear can make people slippery. Anger usually stays still long enough to be dealt with.
I stop a respectful distance from the threshold.
“Ms. Conti.”
Her gaze moves over me once, quick and assessing, like she’s taking inventory and doesn’t especially like what she sees.
“Caterina,” she says.
Not warm. Not welcoming. Just exact.
I incline my head once. “Adrian Donato.”
“I know.”
Of course she knows now. After a conversation with her father only yesterday. I don't necessarily blame her for her attitude at this point. Having other people make decisions for you and tell you after the fact breeds resentment.
I take off my sunglasses and tuck them away. Better for reading her face. Better for letting her read mine. She’ll trust me faster if she can see exactly what I’m saying when I say it.
Her eyes flick to mine, then past me toward the SUV, then back again.
No hand extended.
That suits me fine. I don’t offer one either.
She steps back from the doorway. “You may as well come in.”
I walk past her and into the house.
The entry gives me three things immediately: line of sight, access, and trouble.
Good sight line from the front door through the main corridor. Better than expected. Trouble in the form of too many beautiful surfaces and not enough depth between the principal and the outside world.
