The Bridal Boutique

CATARINA

If there were a hell specifically designed for women like me, it would look exactly like Bella Sposa Bridal Boutique.

All white silk and champagne flutes and mirrors that reflected back a version of myself I barely recognized. The air smelled like expensive perfume and desperation, and every surface gleamed with the kind of polish that screamed old money and tradition and know your place.

I hated every inch of it.

"Catarina, tesoro, you must try this one." My mother, Rosa Vitale, held up what could only be described as a wedding cake masquerading as a dress. Layers upon layers of tulle and lace, with a train that probably required its own zip code. "It's Vera Wang. The designer herself recommended it for you."

"It looks like I'd need a forklift to walk down the aisle," I said flatly.

"It's elegant." Rosa's voice had that edge to it—the one that said I was being difficult again, disappointing her again, failing to be the daughter she'd always wanted. "It's what a Vitale bride should wear. What the families will expect."

What the families will expect. The story of my entire goddamn life.

I was standing on a raised platform in the center of the boutique, wearing dress number seven—a monstrosity of satin and crystals that weighed approximately as much as a small car. The bodice was so tight I could barely breathe, and the skirt was so voluminous I couldn't see my own feet.

Perfect for a princess.

Useless for anything else.

"Mrs. Vitale, your daughter looks absolutely stunning," one of the consultants—a blonde woman named Ashley or Amber or something equally forgettable—gushed as she circled me like a shark. "This dress is made for her figure. So romantic. So timeless."

"It's suffocating," I muttered.

"It's traditional," my mother corrected, her dark eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There was a plea in them, buried beneath the steel. Please, Catarina. Just this once, be the daughter I raised you to be.

Except she hadn't raised me. Not really. My father had raised me. Marco had raised me. The training room and the blade masters and the endless hours of conditioning had raised me.

Rosa had just dressed me up and paraded me around at charity galas, hoping no one would notice the calluses on my hands or the muscle beneath the designer gowns.

"I think something more modern would suit me better," I said, gesturing to a sleek, form-fitting dress on a nearby mannequin. It had clean lines, a daring neckline, and a slit up the thigh that would actually allow me to move. "That one."

Rosa's expression could have frozen Lake Michigan.

"Absolutely not. That dress is... it's too revealing. Too bold. What would people think?"

"That I have a spine?" I suggested sweetly.

"Catarina—"

"Oh my God, is that Catarina Vitale?" Another consultant—this one a brunette with too much makeup and not enough sense—appeared at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. "I heard you were coming in today! You're marrying Jameson Connelly, right? That's so amazing. He's so gorgeous. And powerful. You're so lucky."

I felt my jaw tighten.

Lucky. Right. Because being sold off to a man who looked at me like I was a particularly annoying piece of furniture was every girl's dream.

"Lucky," I repeated, my voice flat. "That's one word for it."

"I mean, every woman in Chicago would kill to be in your position," the brunette continued, oblivious to the warning signs. "Jameson Connelly is like... he's the catch. Rich, connected, and those eyes? God, I'd let him—"

"If you think he's so impressive," I interrupted, turning to face her with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, "I'd be happy to hand him off to you. Save us both the trouble."

The boutique went silent.

The brunette's face flushed red. "I... I didn't mean—"

"Oh, I think you meant exactly what you said." I stepped down from the platform, the ridiculous dress rustling around me like a storm. "But let me be clear: I'm not lucky to be marrying Jameson Connelly. He's not some prize I won in a raffle. This is a business arrangement, nothing more. So if you want to keep fantasizing about him, be my guest. Just do it somewhere I don't have to hear about it."

"Catarina!" Rosa's voice was sharp. Mortified. "Apologize."

"For what? Telling the truth?"

Before my mother could respond, the boutique door opened with a cheerful chime, and a new voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Well, well. If it isn't the blushing bride."

I turned, and there she was.

Fiona Fitzpatrick.

Tall, willowy, with red hair that fell in perfect waves and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was wearing a designer dress that probably cost more than most people's rent, and she carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from never being told no.

I knew exactly who she was. Daughter of Patrick Fitzpatrick, a mid-level associate in the Connelly organization. The kind of family that was useful but not essential. Connected but not powerful.

And she'd been chasing after Jameson Connelly for years.

"Fiona," I said, my voice dripping with false sweetness. "What a surprise. I didn't realize you were shopping for a wedding dress. Did someone finally propose?"

Her smile turned brittle. "I'm not here for a dress. I'm here to see you."

"How thoughtful." I crossed my arms, which was difficult given the amount of fabric I was currently drowning in. "And what exactly can I do for you?"

"You can explain," Fiona said, stepping closer, "why you're marrying Jameson when everyone knows I'd be a much better match for him."

The audacity.

I actually laughed. Couldn't help it. The sound echoed through the boutique, sharp and incredulous.

"You think you'd be a better match for Jameson Connelly?" I repeated, making sure everyone in the room could hear. "You? Fiona Fitzpatrick, whose father is barely a footnote in the Connelly organization?"

Her face flushed. "My family has been loyal to the Connellys for generations—"

"Loyalty doesn't equal status, sweetheart." I took a step toward her, and I saw her instinctively take a step back. Good. "The Vitale family controls half of Chicago's underworld. We have connections, territory, and power that your family couldn't dream of. This marriage is a strategic alliance between equals. You? You're not even in the same league."

"Jameson doesn't care about that," Fiona said, but her voice wavered. "He cares about—"

"About what? You?" I laughed again. "If Jameson Connelly cared about you, he'd be marrying you. But he's not. He's marrying me. And do you know why? Because my family brings something to the table. What does yours bring? Mid-level muscle and misplaced ambition?"

"You bitch—"

"Careful," I said softly, and there was nothing soft about my tone. "You're in a room full of witnesses, and I'm about to become a Connelly. Do you really want to make an enemy of me?"

Fiona's hands clenched into fists. For a moment, I thought she might actually try to hit me, which would have been entertaining. I could disarm her in three moves and have her on the ground in five.

But she didn't. Instead, she pulled out her phone.

"I'm calling Jameson," she announced, her voice shaking with anger. "I'm going to tell him exactly how you're acting. How disrespectful you are. How you're not fit to be his wife."

"Go ahead," I said, gesturing to the phone. "Call him. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear from you."

She dialed. Put the phone to her ear. Waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I watched her face shift from confident to uncertain to humiliated as the call went to voicemail.

"Huh," I said, examining my nails. "Looks like he's not picking up. Maybe he's busy. Or maybe he just doesn't want to talk to you."

Fiona lowered the phone, her face pale with rage and embarrassment.

"You think you're so special," she hissed. "But you're not. You're just a transaction. A business deal. He doesn't want you. He doesn't even like you."

"You're absolutely right," I agreed, and the honesty of it seemed to throw her off balance. "This is a transaction. But at least I'm honest about it. You, on the other hand, are delusional enough to think you ever had a chance."

"Catarina, that's enough," Rosa said, finally stepping in. But there was something in her voice—not quite approval, but not quite disapproval either. Maybe even a hint of pride.

I ignored her. Kept my eyes on Fiona.

"Here's what's going to happen," I said, my voice calm and cold. "You're going to leave this boutique. You're going to go home. And you're going to accept that Jameson Connelly is marrying me, not you. And if you ever show up somewhere I am again, trying to cause trouble, I will make sure your father's position in the Connelly organization becomes... tenuous. Do we understand each other?"

Fiona's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You can't—"

"I can." I smiled. "And I will. Now get out."

She didn't move. Just stood there, shaking with impotent rage.

I turned to the boutique manager, a middle-aged woman who'd been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes.

"Excuse me," I said pleasantly. "This woman isn't here to shop. She's here to harass me. I'd appreciate it if you'd have her removed from the premises."

The manager hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Of course, Miss Vitale. Right away."

She gestured to the security guard stationed near the door—a large man who looked like he'd been hired specifically for situations like this.

Fiona's eyes darted between me, the manager, and the approaching guard. Then, with a final glare that promised retribution, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the boutique.

The door chimed cheerfully behind her.

Silence settled over the room like a blanket.

I stood there, still wearing the ridiculous dress, feeling the weight of everyone's stares. The consultants looked scandalized. My mother looked... complicated. Disappointed and impressed in equal measure.

And I was done.

Done with the dresses and the expectations and the performance. Done with being treated like a prize to be won or a doll to be dressed up. Done with all of it.

"You know what?" I said, turning to my mother. "Pick whichever dress you want me to wear. You clearly know better than I do what a Vitale bride should look like. I'm sure whatever you choose will be appropriately traditional and suffocating and exactly what the families expect."

"Catarina—"

"I have better things to do than stand around playing dress-up," I continued, already reaching for the zipper on the back of the dress. "I have training. I have work. I have an entire life that doesn't revolve around what shade of white I'm supposed to wear while I'm being handed off to a man who thinks I'm an idiot."

"Tesoro, please—"

"I'll be at the wedding," I said, finally getting the zipper down and stepping out of the dress. I stood there in my slip, not caring who saw, not caring what they thought. "I'll smile for the cameras. I'll play the perfect principessa. But right now? Right now I'm leaving."

I grabbed my clothes from the dressing room, changed in record time, and headed for the door.

"Catarina!" Rosa called after me, her voice a mix of anger and desperation. "We're not finished!"

"Yes," I said without turning around. "We are."

I pushed through the door and out into the Chicago afternoon, breathing in the cold air like it was oxygen after drowning.

Marco was waiting by the car, and he took one look at my face before opening the door without a word.

"The compound," I said as I slid into the backseat. "And if anyone tries to stop me, run them over."

He almost smiled. "Rough morning?"

"You have no idea."

As we pulled away from the boutique, I caught a glimpse of my mother through the window. She was standing in the middle of all those white dresses, looking small and lost and disappointed.

Part of me felt guilty.

The rest of me didn't care.

I had one week until I became Mrs. Jameson Connelly. One week until I stepped into a role I'd never wanted, married a man I didn't know, and became a target for every rival family in Chicago.

One week to prepare for a war that was coming whether I was ready or not.

I wasn't going to waste it picking out the perfect shade of ivory.