The First Meeting

JAMESON

The restaurant was neutral territory—a high-end Italian place in River North that catered to both families without favoring either. I'd been here a dozen times for business meetings, negotiations, the occasional sit-down when things got tense and needed smoothing over.

Never thought I'd be here to discuss my own goddamn wedding.

I arrived fifteen minutes early because I wasn't about to let Catarina Vitale think she had any kind of upper hand in this arrangement. The maître d' recognized me immediately, led me to a private room in the back without me having to say a word. Good. The last thing I needed was an audience for this farce.

I ordered a whiskey—neat, because I wasn't a savage—and settled into the chair facing the door. Always face the door. Basic survival instinct in this life.

The room was all dark wood and dim lighting, the kind of place designed for secrets and deals made in shadows. Appropriate, I supposed, given what we were here to discuss.

I checked my watch. She was late.

Of course, she was. Probably spending an extra hour on her makeup or deciding which designer dress would make the best impression. I'd seen her type a thousand times—women who thought the world revolved around their appearance, who wielded beauty like a weapon because they had nothing else to offer.

Catarina Vitale was exactly that kind of woman. I'd watched her at charity galas, always perfectly dressed, always smiling that practiced smile, always surrounded by admirers who hung on her every vapid word. She was beautiful, I'd give her that. The kind of beautiful that made men stupid.

But I wasn't most men.

I didn't have time for games or flirtation or whatever the hell she thought this meeting was going to be. We'd discuss the terms, agree on the basics, and get this over with. Simple.

The door opened.

And Catarina Vitale walked in like she owned the place.

Christ.

The pictures didn't do her justice, which was annoying because I'd been counting on her being less impressive in person. She was wearing a black dress that hugged every curve—and there were a lot of curves. The kind of body that would make a priest reconsider his vows. Dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and those eyes—deep brown, almost black—swept the room before landing on me.

For a second, something flickered in her expression. Assessment, maybe. Or calculation.

Then it was gone, replaced by a smile that was all practiced charm and no substance.

"Mr. Connelly," she said, her voice smooth and cultured with just a hint of an Italian accent. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

She absolutely had kept me waiting, and we both knew it.

"Miss Vitale." I didn't stand. Didn't offer my hand. Just gestured to the chair across from me. "Sit."

Her smile didn't falter, but something sharp flashed in her eyes before she moved to the chair with a grace that was probably the result of years of deportment classes or whatever the hell rich girls did with their time.

She sat, crossing her legs in a way that drew attention to them. Deliberate. Everything about her was deliberate.

"Thank you for meeting with me," she said, folding her hands in her lap like a good little princess. "I know this arrangement is... unconventional."

"It's a business transaction," I said flatly. "Nothing unconventional about that in our world."

"Of course." She tilted her head slightly, studying me with those dark eyes. "Still, I thought we should discuss the details. Make sure we're on the same page."

"The details are simple. We get married, you play the dutiful wife at public events, and we both go on with our lives. I don't interfere with yours, you don't interfere with mine."

"How romantic."

There was something in her tone—amusement, maybe, or mockery—but her expression remained perfectly pleasant.

"Romance has nothing to do with this," I said. "This is about territory and power. Your father wants access to our political connections, my grandfather wants legitimacy through your family's influence. We're the means to that end."

"And here I thought you were marrying me for my sparkling personality."

I almost smiled. Almost.

"I'm sure your personality is... adequate," I said. "But let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." She leaned back slightly, and I caught a hint of her perfume—something expensive and subtle that probably cost more than most people made in a month. "So, the wedding. I assume you have opinions about the arrangements?"

"My grandfather's handling it. Holy Name Cathedral, small ceremony, reception at our estate. Standard."

"Standard," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. "How lovely. And after the wedding? Where will we be living?"

"The Connelly estate. You'll have your own wing if you want privacy."

"My own wing." Her lips curved into something that might've been a smile. "How generous of you."

There was definitely mockery in her tone now, but I couldn't figure out if she was annoyed or amused. Probably both. Women like her were always playing games, always angling for something.

"Look," I said, leaning forward slightly. "I know this isn't what you wanted. It's not what I wanted either. But we're both adults, and we both understand how this works. We do our duty to our families, we maintain appearances, and we make the best of it. That's all this needs to be."

She was quiet for a moment, those dark eyes studying me with an intensity that was almost unsettling. Like she was seeing something I wasn't showing her.

Then she smiled again, and the moment passed.

"You're right, of course," she said, her voice light and agreeable. "We should make the best of it. And who knows? Maybe we'll even learn to tolerate each other."

"Tolerance would be a start."

The waiter appeared with menus, and we ordered—her some complicated salad thing, me a steak because I wasn't about to pretend to enjoy rabbit food. The conversation shifted to safer topics. The wedding timeline. Guest lists. Logistics.

She played her part perfectly. Asked questions about flowers and music and seating arrangements like those were the most important things in the world. Laughed at appropriate moments. Touched her hair in that way women did when they were flirting.

It was all performance. All surface.

And I found myself wondering, just for a second, what she was actually thinking beneath all that polish and charm.

Then I dismissed the thought. It didn't matter what she was thinking. She was a means to an end, nothing more.

"I should mention," she said, setting down her water glass, "that I'll need to maintain some... independence after we're married."

"Independence?"

"I have commitments. Charity work, family obligations. I won't be available every moment of every day to play housewife."

"I don't expect you to," I said. "Like I said, we live our own lives."

"Good." She smiled, but there was something sharp in it. "I'd hate for you to be disappointed."

"I don't think disappointment is going to be an issue, Miss Vitale. My expectations are already quite low."

I meant it as a dismissal, but she laughed—a real laugh this time, not the practiced trill she'd been using all evening.

"Well then," she said, her eyes meeting mine with something that looked almost like challenge. "I suppose I can only exceed them."

For a moment, we just looked at each other. The air between us felt charged somehow, like the moment before a storm breaks. I noticed details I hadn't before—the way her pulse beat at her throat, the slight curve of her lips, the intelligence in her eyes that didn't quite match the vapid princess act she was selling.

Then she looked away, breaking the moment, and went back to discussing flower arrangements like nothing had happened.

The rest of the dinner passed quickly. We agreed on the basics, established the boundaries, made it clear this was purely transactional. By the time we were done, I was confident we understood each other.

She was a spoiled princess playing at being important. I was a means to an end for her family.

We'd coexist, maintain appearances, and stay out of each other's way.

Simple.

I paid the bill—because I wasn't about to let her family think I couldn't afford to—and walked her to her car. A black Mercedes with tinted windows and a driver who looked like he could bench-press a truck.

"Thank you for dinner, Mr. Connelly," she said, extending her hand.

I took it, and her grip was firmer than I expected. Strong. Almost challenging.

"Jameson," I said. "If we're getting married, you might as well use my first name."

"Jameson," she repeated, and something about the way she said it made my name sound different. "Then you should call me Cat. Everyone does."

"Cat." I released her hand. "I'll see you at the wedding, then."

"I'll be the one in white." She smiled, slid into the backseat of the Mercedes, and was gone before I could respond.

I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear into Chicago traffic.

Two weeks until I married a woman I didn't know and didn't particularly want to know.

Two weeks until Catarina Vitale became my problem.

I headed back to my own car, already putting her out of my mind. There were more important things to focus on—the transition of power, the territories that needed securing, the threats that would inevitably come once I took over.

Cat Vitale was just a box to check. A requirement fulfilled.

Nothing more.

---

CATARINA

I waited until we were three blocks away before I let the smile drop.

"Well?" Marco, my driver and one of my father's most trusted men, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "How'd it go?"

"About as expected," I said, pulling off the uncomfortable heels and flexing my toes. "He's exactly what I thought he'd be. Arrogant, dismissive, thinks I'm a vapid idiot who cares more about flower arrangements than anything of substance."

"And you let him think that."

"Of course I let him think that." I leaned back against the leather seat, closing my eyes. "It's easier this way. Let him underestimate me. Let him think he's got me figured out."

The meeting had gone exactly as I'd planned. I'd played the part of the spoiled princess perfectly—giggling at the right moments, asking inane questions about wedding details, touching my hair and smiling like I didn't have a brain in my head.

And Jameson Connelly had eaten it up.

I'd seen it in his eyes—the dismissal, the barely concealed contempt, the certainty that he was dealing with someone far beneath his intellectual level. He thought I was a pretty face and nothing more. A decorative wife who'd show up at events and stay out of his way the rest of the time.

Perfect.

Let him think that. Let him believe I was just another society princess playing dress-up in the mafia world. It would make my job so much easier when the time came.

And the time would come. I'd seen the way he carried himself—confident to the point of arrogance, certain of his own invincibility. He had no idea how many people would be gunning for him the moment he took over his family. Had no idea that the alliance between our families would paint a target on his back the size of Lake Michigan.

But I knew.

And I'd be ready.

"He's attractive," Marco said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "I'll give him that."

"He's tolerable," I said, which was a lie.

Jameson Connelly was more than tolerable. He was infuriatingly attractive in that rugged, dangerous way that probably had women throwing themselves at him everywhere he went. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp green eyes that missed nothing and a jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite.

I'd noticed the way he'd looked at me when I walked in—that quick, assessing sweep that men did when they were cataloging a woman's assets. He'd noticed my body, noticed my face, and then dismissed both as irrelevant to the business at hand.

Which was fine. I didn't need him to find me attractive. I needed him to underestimate me.

And he had.

The whole dinner had been a performance on both sides. Him playing the gruff, no-nonsense businessman who couldn't be bothered with emotional entanglements. Me playing the shallow socialite who cared more about wedding flowers than the actual implications of the marriage.

But there had been moments—brief, fleeting moments—where I'd caught something else in his expression. A flicker of curiosity. A hint of interest that went beyond the purely physical.

Like when I'd laughed at his comment about low expectations. For just a second, he'd looked at me like he was seeing something he hadn't expected. Something that didn't fit the narrative he'd built in his head.

Then it was gone, and we were back to our respective roles.

"Two weeks," I said, more to myself than to Marco. "Two weeks until I'm Mrs. Jameson Connelly."

"You don't have to go through with this, you know," Marco said quietly. "Your father would understand if you refused."

Would he? I wasn't so sure. Carmine Vitale didn't make decisions lightly, and he certainly didn't change his mind once a course was set. This marriage was strategic, necessary, and I was the piece being moved into position.

But Marco was loyal to me first, family second. He'd been my trainer, my protector, my friend since I was eight years old and first picked up a blade. If I asked him to drive me to the airport right now, he'd do it without question.

I wouldn't, though.

Because despite everything—despite the anger and resentment and the feeling of being used—I understood why this had to happen. The alliance between the Vitales and the Connellys would shift the entire power structure of Chicago. It would give both families leverage they'd never had before.

And it would put Jameson Connelly directly in the crosshairs of every rival family in the city.

Which was where I came in.

"I'm going through with it," I said firmly. "But on my terms. Let Jameson think he's got this all figured out. Let him think I'm just a pretty face who'll stay out of his way. And when the threats come—and they will come—I'll be ready."

"You always are," Marco said, and there was pride in his voice.

We drove in silence for a while, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. I thought about the wedding, about the life I was about to step into, about the man I'd be shackled to for the foreseeable future.

Jameson Connelly was arrogant, dismissive, and clearly thought he was God's gift to the criminal underworld. He'd looked at me like I was a problem to be managed rather than a person to be known.

Fine.

Let him think that.

Let him believe I was nothing more than a spoiled princess who'd lucked into a strategic marriage. Let him underestimate my intelligence, my skills, my ability to read people and situations with the same precision I used to throw a blade.

Because when the moment came—when someone inevitably tried to put a bullet in his head or a knife in his back—I'd be there.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd enjoy the look on his face when he realized exactly who he'd married.

"Take me home," I said to Marco. "I need to train."

"It's almost midnight."

"I know what time it is."

He didn't argue. Just changed course, heading toward the compound where I'd spent the last twenty years honing myself into a weapon.

Two weeks until I became Mrs. Jameson Connelly.

Two weeks until I stepped into a role I'd never wanted but would play better than anyone expected.

I smiled to myself in the darkness of the car.

Jameson Connelly had no idea what he was getting into.

And I couldn't wait to show him.