Page 86 of Caterina
Neither woman looks like she belongs in the back of an armored SUV after a shooting. That’s the ugly thing about violence. It doesn’t care who it comes after.
The doors on my car don't open unless I unlock them personally. I open my own door, and one of my men, Andrew, appears at my side.
“Boss.”
His gaze drops immediately to the blood on my shirt, then flicks past me to the backseat.
“Everyone accounted for?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I get out slowly enough not to tear something worse inside my side, and the pain flashes hot enough to make my jaw lock for a second. One of the men notices. Of course he does. He doesn’t comment on it. Good man.
I tilt my chin toward the women in the back and hand my keys over. He nods and steps back to take care of escorting them to the front door.
Caterina is out the moment the door is open, back to furious, despite being barefoot and with a blanket around her shoulders. Olivia steps out after her more carefully, one of my men immediately shifting closer without crowding her.
Andrew falls in on Caterina’s right, and another of my men takes Olivia’s left, both of them close enough to cover, far enough not to crowd. The other two tighten the perimeter and keep their eyes out while the women are escorted up the steps and straight to the front door.
I follow a few steps behind, slower because of the wound, one hand braced over the bandage, eyes moving over the yard, roofline, lit windows, tree line, and approach while the escort takes them all the way inside.
Only once Andrew has them at the door does he knock and identify us. Then, and only then, does the lock disengage from inside.
Not one of my people.
That tells me they didn’t want my people inside the house. Fine. That’s their call. The perimeter is covered, the approach is covered, and if anyone tries this property tonight, they’re going to have a much worse time than the idiots at the casino did.
Vito’s eyes go first to Caterina, then Olivia, then me.
The moment they land on the blood soaking through my shirt, his expression goes flat in an anger I recognize instantly.
“Inside,” he says.
No greeting. No wasted breath.
Caterina brushes past him first, still running on adrenaline and fury both. Olivia follows more carefully. I step in last, and the second the door shuts behind us, the house feels different from the drive—warmer, brighter, full of people and tension layered so thick it’s almost another climate.
I recognize Luca Conti immediately. And would have even without a picture.
Power like that doesn’t need an introduction.
He’s not the biggest man in the room. Not the loudest either. He doesn’t bark orders or rush forward or fill the space with noise. He just appears, and the whole center of gravity of the scene shifts toward him.
Dark eyes. A face cut from authority and age and something colder underneath it. He takes one look at Caterina, one look at the blanket around her shoulders, one look at me bracing a hand against my side, and the air around him changes.
He goes straight to Caterina.
One hand comes up to her face, then her shoulder, quick and fierce, checking with his eyes and his hands at the same time that she is upright, breathing, whole.
He murmurs something in Italian, the words low and fierce, a father’s prayer against every dark thing that almost touched his daughter tonight.
Then he pulls her into a hard embrace.
Not graceful. Not restrained. Fierce enough that even from across the foyer, I can see it for what it is.
Relief.
Caterina goes stiff for half a second, still too wound up to sink into it, then her hands come up and clutch at his jacket.
