LOGINI needed to get out of that breakfast room before I lost my mind.
Jameson's questions had been pointed, his skepticism barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of casual curiosity. He didn't believe my story about my father's paranoia and family tradition. I could see it in his eyes—that sharp, assessing gaze that missed nothing.
He was going to keep digging. Keep asking questions. Keep watching me with that infuriating intensity un
JAMESONI didn't sleep.Couldn't stop thinking about Cat standing in her room, surrounded by weapons and secrets, telling me I couldn't handle who she really was.Like I was some fragile civilian who needed protecting.I'd been running operations since I was twenty-three. Had blood on my hands before I could legally drink. Had survived three assassination attempts, two hostile takeovers, and more betrayals than I could count.And she thought I couldn't handle the truth about her?By the time dawn broke, I was already dressed and heading downstairs to the breakfast room, my jaw tight and my patience thinner than usual.Grandfather was already there, reading the morning paper with a cup of black coffee at his elbow. He looked up when I entered, his sharp eyes taking in my mood immediately."Rough night?" he asked mildly."You could s
CATARINAI waited exactly forty-five minutes after Jameson disappeared down the hallway before I made my move.Long enough that the servants would assume I'd gone to bed. Long enough that Jameson would be buried in whatever war council he was holding with his men.Not long enough for my father to wonder where the hell I was.I changed quickly—dark jeans, a black fitted jacket, boots with good traction. I strapped two blades to my thighs and one to my ankle. Just because I was meeting family didn't mean I was going in unarmed.Old habits.I slipped out through the servant's entrance I'd mapped on my second day here, the one that led to the gardens and then to a side gate that was poorly monitored. Security was focused on keeping threats out, not keeping the new wife in.Their mistake.Marco was waiting three blocks away in an unmarked sedan, engine running.
JAMESONThe study smelled like leather, whiskey, and old money.Three generations of Connelly men had conducted business in this room. My great-grandfather had built the empire from this desk. My grandfather had expanded it, fortified it, turned it into something that commanded respect—and fear—across Chicago's underworld.And now it was mine.I stood in front of the massive mahogany desk, my hands clasped behind my back, watching as the last of the senior family members filed into the room. Uncle Issac. Cousin Declan. My father's old lieutenant, Sean Murphy. A handful of others who'd proven their loyalty over decades of service.And Brendan, of course. Sitting in the leather chair behind the desk like a king on his throne, watching me with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.This was it. The moment I'd been working toward my entire life.Leadership. Control. Power.
CATARINAI needed to get out of that breakfast room before I lost my mind.Jameson's questions had been pointed, his skepticism barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of casual curiosity. He didn't believe my story about my father's paranoia and family tradition. I could see it in his eyes—that sharp, assessing gaze that missed nothing.He was going to keep digging. Keep asking questions. Keep watching me with that infuriating intensity until he figured out the truth.And I couldn't let that happen.I needed to move. Needed to burn off this anxiety and frustration before I did something stupid like snap at him or, worse, let something slip that would blow my cover wide open.I needed the gym.I threw on workout clothes—black leggings and a fitted tank top—and headed out into the hallway. A maid was passing by with fresh linens, and I stopped her."Excuse me," I sa
CATARINAI woke to sunlight streaming through the gauzy pink curtains and immediately wanted to set them on fire.The bedroom was still too feminine, too soft, too not me. But that wasn't what made my stomach clench as I stared at the ceiling.It was the memory of last night.Of Jameson standing in my doorway, watching me destroy my wedding dress with a blade in my hand.Of the way his eyes had tracked over my body, cataloging every weapon, every holster, every piece of evidence that I was not the spoiled princess he'd assumed I was.Fuck.I sat up, running my hands through my tangled hair. The remains of my wedding dress were still scattered across the floor—white silk and lace in shredded pieces, like the corpse of some elaborate lie.He'd seen the weapons. All of them. Or at least enough of them to know I was carrying serious hardware under that dress.
CATARINAThe reception was a special kind of torture.Four hours of smiling for photographers, cutting a cake I had no intention of eating, and dancing with a man who held me like I was a business asset he'd just acquired. Which, technically, I was.The first dance had been particularly excruciating. Jameson's hand on my waist, his other hand holding mine, while hundreds of people watched us sway to some romantic ballad that meant absolutely nothing. He'd looked down at me with those intense green eyes, and I'd looked back with my perfect princess smile, and neither of us had said a single word.What was there to say?Thanks for that aggressive kiss at the altar that made me want to stab you?Lovely weather we're having for our sham marriage?No. Silence was better.The jealous women were everywhere. I'd felt their eyes on me all night—sharp, envious glares from every corner of the reception hall. Women in designer dresses who'd probably fantasized about being in my position, about wea







