The Night Before

CATARINA

The dress hung in my room like a ghost.

White silk and lace, layers upon layers of tulle that made it look less like a wedding gown and more like a monument to everything I wasn't. Everything I'd never wanted to be.

My mother had chosen well. It was traditional, elegant, suffocating. The kind of dress that screamed Vitale princess to anyone who saw it. The kind of dress that would make me look exactly like what society expected—delicate, refined, ornamental.

Useless.

I stood in front of it, still wearing my training clothes—black leggings and a tank top, both damp with sweat from the two hours I'd just spent in the compound's gym. My knuckles were raw from the heavy bag, my muscles pleasantly sore, and I could still feel the adrenaline humming through my veins.

And yet, looking at that dress made me feel more trapped than any opponent ever had.

"Fuck," I muttered, reaching out to touch the fabric. It was soft. Expensive. Beautiful, if you were into that sort of thing.

I wasn't.

Tomorrow, I'd put this thing on. Tomorrow, I'd stand in front of hundreds of people and smile and play the part of the blushing bride marrying the powerful Jameson Connelly. Tomorrow, I'd become Mrs. Connelly, and the world would see exactly what they expected to see.

A princess. A prize. A pretty little thing on the arm of a dangerous man.

Not the weapon I actually was.

I pulled my hand back from the dress like it had burned me.

Just once, I wanted to be true to myself. Just once, I wanted to walk into a room as me—Catarina Vitale, trained killer, protector of my family, the woman who could take down three men before they even realized she was armed.

But that wasn't the role I'd been given.

A knock on my door interrupted my spiral into self-pity.

"Come in," I called, already knowing who it was.

Marco stepped inside, his expression carefully neutral. He'd been my shadow since I was eight years old, the one person who knew exactly who I was and never asked me to be anything else.

"Your father needs you," he said simply.

I raised an eyebrow. "Now? It's almost midnight."

"There's a meeting at Lombardi's. Your skills are required."

Translation: someone might try something stupid, and my father wanted his best protection in the room.

I felt a smile tug at my lips. Finally. Something I was actually good at.

"Give me five minutes," I said, already moving toward my closet.

Marco nodded and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

I stripped out of my training clothes and pulled on black jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and boots with reinforced toes. Then I opened the hidden panel in the back of my closet and surveyed my collection.

Blades. Always blades.

I strapped a knife to my right thigh, another to my left ankle. Two more went into sheaths at the small of my back, hidden beneath my shirt. A small dagger slipped into my boot, and finally, I secured my favorite blade—a seven-inch Italian stiletto with a bone handle—to my forearm beneath a leather cuff.

I caught my reflection in the mirror as I finished. This was who I was. Not the woman in the white dress. Not the princess everyone expected.

This.

I grabbed my leather jacket and headed for the door, leaving the wedding dress hanging in the darkness behind me.

---

JAMESON

The heavy bag swung violently as my fist connected, the impact reverberating up my arm and into my shoulder. Sweat dripped down my face, my knuckles were raw, and my muscles screamed in protest.

Good.

I needed the pain. Needed the distraction.

Tomorrow, I was getting married.

Tomorrow, I was shackling myself to a woman I barely knew and didn't particularly like, all so I could finally take my rightful place as head of the Connelly family.

Another punch. Another chain rattling as the bag swayed.

It was a business transaction. Nothing more. Catarina Vitale was a means to an end—a pretty face attached to a powerful name, a strategic alliance that would strengthen both families and expand our territories.

I didn't need to like her. I didn't need to know her. I just needed to marry her.

My phone lit up on the bench across the gym, the screen flashing with another incoming call.

I ignored it.

It had been going off for the past hour. Calls, texts, voicemails—all from the same person.

Fiona Fitzpatrick.

I hit the bag again, harder this time.

The phone buzzed with a text notification. Then another. Then another.

Christ.

I grabbed my water bottle and took a long drink, trying to ignore the incessant buzzing. But curiosity—or maybe just irritation—got the better of me, and I picked up the phone to scroll through the messages.

Fiona: Jameson, please call me. We need to talk.

Fiona: You can't actually be going through with this wedding. Everyone knows it's not real.

Fiona: She's not right for you. You know that. I know that. Everyone knows that.

Fiona: This alliance is a mistake. The Vitales are using you.

Fiona: I could be so much better for you. We could be so much better together.

Fiona: Please, Jameson. Just talk to me. Give me five minutes.

Fiona: Don't do this. Don't marry her.

I stared at the screen, my jaw clenching tighter with each message.

Fiona Fitzpatrick had been circling me for years—showing up at family events, making excuses to be wherever I was, dropping hints that she'd be the perfect wife for a man in my position. Her father was a mid-level associate in our organization, which apparently made her think she had some kind of claim on me.

She didn't.

I'd never encouraged her. Never given her any reason to think I was interested. And yet here she was, the night before my wedding, sending increasingly desperate messages like I was going to suddenly change my mind and run off with her instead.

Pathetic.

I deleted the messages without responding and tossed the phone back onto the bench.

Then I turned back to the heavy bag and unleashed everything I'd been holding in—frustration, anger, resentment at being forced into this situation, irritation at Fiona's delusions, and something else I couldn't quite name.

The bag took it all.

I was mid-punch when I heard the gym door open behind me.

"You're going to break your hand if you keep that up," my grandfather's voice echoed through the space.

I didn't stop. Didn't turn around. Just kept hitting.

"Jameson."

One more punch, then I finally stepped back, breathing hard, and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from my face.

Brendan Connelly stood near the door, leaning on his cane, watching me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. He was in his seventies now, but he still carried himself like the dangerous man he'd been in his prime. Still commanded respect with a single look.

"Rough night?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"You could say that," I muttered, wrapping the towel around my neck.

He moved further into the gym, his cane tapping against the concrete floor. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"Tomorrow's a transaction," I corrected. "Let's not pretend it's anything more than that."

Brendan's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "A transaction that will secure your position as head of this family and strengthen our alliance with the Vitales. That's not nothing, boy."

"I know what it is." I took another drink of water, trying to cool the frustration still burning in my chest. "I know why it's necessary. That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"No one's asking you to be happy," Brendan said. "Just asking you to be smart. This marriage benefits everyone—us, the Vitales, the entire organization. With the Irish and Italian families united, we'll control more of Chicago than any single family has in decades."

I knew all of this. Had heard it a hundred times. It didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"She's a spoiled princess," I said, voicing the thought that had been circling my mind since I'd met Catarina Vitale. "She showed up to our meeting in a designer dress and heels, smiled like she was posing for a magazine cover, and said all the right things without actually saying anything at all. She's exactly what I expected—pretty, polished, and completely useless."

Brendan was quiet for a moment, and when I looked at him, I saw something in his expression I couldn't quite read.

Amusement.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

"That's what I know," I said. "I've seen women like her my entire life. They're decorative. They look good on your arm at events and know how to play the part in public, but that's all they are. A pretty face attached to a powerful name."

Brendan chuckled—actually chuckled—and shook his head.

"What?" I demanded, irritation flaring again.

"Nothing," he said, still smiling. "Just... keep thinking like that, Jameson. Keep thinking exactly like that."

I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell he meant by that. But his expression had already shifted back to neutral, giving nothing away.

"Get some rest," Brendan said, turning toward the door. "You've got a wedding to get through tomorrow, and you'll need your strength."

He left before I could respond, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

I stood there in the empty gym, my grandfather's words echoing in my head.

Keep thinking like that.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I looked down at my phone, still sitting on the bench, the screen dark now. No more messages from Fiona. No more distractions.

Just me and the heavy bag and the growing sense that I was missing something important.

Something about Catarina Vitale that I hadn't seen yet.

I shook my head, dismissing the thought. I'd met her. Talked to her. Watched her play the perfect princess role without a single crack in the facade.

There was nothing more to see.

Tomorrow, I'd marry her. Tomorrow, I'd take control of my family. And tomorrow, this whole mess would finally be behind me.

I hit the bag one more time, then headed for the showers.

---

CATARINA

Lombardi's was one of our family's oldest restaurants—a front for meetings that required privacy and discretion. The dining room was closed to the public tonight, the lights dimmed, and the only people inside were the ones who mattered.

My father sat at the head of the table, flanked by his most trusted men. Across from him sat representatives from two smaller families looking to negotiate territory agreements. It was a routine meeting, the kind that happened every few weeks to keep the peace and maintain boundaries.

But routine didn't mean safe.

I stood in the shadows near the back corner of the room, perfectly still, perfectly silent. From here, I could see every face, every movement, every hand that reached for a glass or shifted beneath the table.

Marco was positioned near the entrance, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Two more of our men were stationed outside, and another was in the kitchen.

We had this covered.

But I still watched. Still waited.

Still hoped someone would be stupid enough to try something.

I was wound tight tonight—too much adrenaline, too much frustration, too much of everything I couldn't express anywhere else. The confrontation with Fiona at the boutique had helped, but it hadn't been enough. I needed a real fight. Needed to feel the satisfying impact of my fist connecting with someone's face, the weight of a blade in my hand, the rush of adrenaline that came with actual danger.

But the meeting was going smoothly. Too smoothly.

The men talked about territory lines and profit splits, about shipments and schedules. My father listened, asked questions, made decisions. It was all very civilized.

Boring.

I shifted my weight slightly, feeling the comforting press of the blade against my forearm. Tomorrow, I'd be wearing that ridiculous dress, playing the role of the blushing bride, standing next to Jameson Connelly while everyone watched and smiled and pretended this was a love match instead of a business deal.

Tomorrow, I'd be trapped.

But tonight, I was still me.

The meeting dragged on for another twenty minutes before my father finally stood, signaling that they were finished. Hands were shaken, agreements were made, and the representatives from the other families filed out with Marco escorting them.

I remained in the shadows, waiting.

"Catarina," my father's voice cut through the silence. "You can come out now."

I stepped into the light, moving with the easy grace that came from years of training. My father's men nodded at me as they gathered their things and headed for the door, leaving just the two of us in the empty restaurant.

Carmine Vitale looked at me with those dark eyes that had always seen too much. He was in his sixties now, his hair more gray than black, but he still carried himself like the dangerous man he'd always been.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Quiet night," I said, which was both an answer and a complaint.

He smiled slightly. "You were hoping for trouble."

"I'm always hoping for trouble."

"I know." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."

I did, folding myself into the seat and meeting his gaze directly.

"Tomorrow's the wedding," he said, as if I could possibly forget.

"I'm aware."

"Are you ready?"

I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms. "I'll play my part perfectly, Papa. I always do. I'll smile for the cameras, say my vows, and be the perfect Vitale princess everyone expects me to be."

"That's not what I asked."

I held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed. "I'm ready. I know what this marriage means for the family. I know why it's necessary. I'll do what needs to be done."

Carmine nodded slowly, studying me. "Jameson Connelly doesn't know who you really are."

"No," I agreed. "He thinks I'm a spoiled princess. Which is exactly what we want him to think."

"For now," my father said. "But eventually, he'll need to know. Eventually, you'll need to show him."

"When the time comes," I said. "When it's necessary."

"It will be necessary sooner than you think," Carmine said quietly. "The moment he takes over the Connelly family, he'll have a target on his back. Every rival family in Chicago will be looking for a weakness, an opening. They'll come for him, Catarina. And when they do—"

"I'll be ready," I finished. "That's why you arranged this marriage, isn't it? Not just for the alliance. But because you knew he'd need protection, and I'm the best you have."

My father's expression softened slightly. "You're the best anyone has, figlia mia. But yes. Jameson Connelly is about to become one of the most powerful men in Chicago, and that makes him one of the most vulnerable. He'll need you. Even if he doesn't know it yet."

I thought about the man I'd met at the restaurant—arrogant, dismissive, so certain he had me figured out. So certain I was nothing more than a pretty face and a useful name.

He had no idea what was coming.

"He'll figure it out," I said. "Eventually."

"He will," Carmine agreed. Then his expression shifted, something almost like concern crossing his features. "The dress your mother chose—"

I groaned. "Don't. Please don't."

"It's very traditional."

"It's a nightmare," I corrected. "I won't be able to move in that thing. If something happens tomorrow, if someone tries something during the ceremony, I'll be completely useless. I won't be able to reach my weapons, won't be able to fight, won't be able to do anything except stand there and look pretty while people die around me."

The sarcasm in my voice was thick, but beneath it was real frustration. Real concern.

My father was quiet for a moment, then he reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"Nothing will happen tomorrow," he said firmly. "We'll have security everywhere. Marco will be there. I'll be there. You'll be safe."

"I don't want to be safe," I said. "I want to be useful."

"You are useful, Catarina. More useful than you know." He released my hand and stood. "Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

I stood as well, following him toward the door. "Papa?"

He turned back.

"After tomorrow," I said carefully. "After I'm married to Jameson Connelly and living in his compound... I'm still yours, right? I'm still part of this family?"

Something flickered in his eyes—understanding, maybe. Or sadness.

"You'll always be a Vitale," he said quietly. "No matter what name you carry. You'll always be mine."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

We left the restaurant together, Marco falling into step behind us as we headed for the car. The Chicago night was cold and clear, the city lights reflecting off the buildings around us.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Tomorrow, I'd become Mrs. Jameson Connelly.

But tonight, I was still Catarina Vitale.

And I was going to hold onto that for as long as I could.