Another Assassin

CATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t. Dante never looked up when we arrived.

But I did.

Our bedroom window was open.

Just a sliver. Just enough to catch the wind and let the curtain breathe out into the night like a whisper.

It was supposed to be locked. I always lock it. I never forget.

We were the last ones to leave this morning, and we came back together.

So who opened it?

I didn’t ask. I just followed him in, my heels quiet against the marble.

He didn’t speak either, he just disappeared into his office, shutting the door behind him like he always does when he wants the world to go silent.

Click.

Locked.

Good.

I climbed the stairs alone.

Not in a rush.

There’s something calming about walking toward danger with your heart steady. Like you already know you’ll survive it.

The hallway was too quiet.

I pushed the bedroom door open with the back of my hand, just enough to slip inside.

I didn't even make it to the bed.

A blade touched the base of my throat.

Cool. Dull. Not sharp enough to kill with one strike.

Amateur.

“If you scream, you die,” he said, breathing too close to my ear. Too confident.

I let out a tiny gasp. Soft. Shaky. The kind that makes men think they’re in control.

“P-please,” I whispered. “Don’t hurt me.”

He chuckled.

“I thought the Don married a bitch with claws,” he said. “Guess I was wrong.”

I kept my eyes wide. My lips parted. My body still.

I waited.

He thought I froze.

But I was counting.

One.

Two.

I moved.

Grabbed the wrist holding the knife, twisted it hard enough for him to cry out.

My knee found his thigh, my heel slammed down on his foot.

He buckled.

I elbowed him in the ribs and felt it crack. A clean, brittle sound.

The knife clattered to the floor.

He tried to reach for it.

I kicked it beneath the dresser.

“I don’t claw,” I said softly. “I crush.”

He lunged at me. Sloppy. Angry.

I stepped aside, caught him by the jaw and the back of his head.

Twist.

His body went limp in my arms like a cut puppet.

I didn’t flinch.

Just dragged him to the window and looked down.

My men were already there. Waiting.

I’d messaged them from Dante’s car, the second I saw the window cracked.

They held out the tarp.

I pushed the body through the gap and let gravity do the rest.

A soft thud. Then silence.

I tossed the knife after him.

Closed the window.

Locked it.

Not a single breath wasted.

I straightened the sheets. Sat on the edge of the bed. Brushed invisible dust off my lap.

The door downstairs didn’t open.

Dante was still in his office.

He didn’t know a man died five steps from where he slept. Or maybe he did.

But he wouldn’t ask.

And I wouldn’t tell.

I lay back, eyes on the ceiling.

A wife.

A sweet one.

With clean hands, and a very quiet room.

I showered longer than usual.

The scent of steel lingered under my nails, even though there was nothing left to scrub.

No stain.

No bruise.

I stepped out and wiped the mirror clean with my palm, catching my reflection as the fog retreated.

Still me.

Still whole.

I ran my fingers down my sides, down the curve of my hip, pausing just beneath my ribs.

Nothing.

Not a single mark.

I slipped into the silk nightgown he bought me months ago but never saw it on me.

It clung like water. Barely there.

Good.

He was already in bed when I walked in, half-dressed, half-watching, his eyes following the sway of my hips without bothering to hide it.

He was still tense.

Still thinking.

Probably about the man he tortured last night.

Or maybe about me.

I climbed into bed like a secret.

No words.

Just the soft brush of my fingers over his chest, tracing the lines I knew he pretended didn’t ache.

He turned to face me, his hand already reaching for my waist, but I stopped him.

Gently.

“I’ll take care of you tonight,” I said.

His brow furrowed. But he didn’t argue.

I kissed him first, slowly. Letting him taste calm for once.

He always took.

He always devoured.

But tonight, I gave.

I moved over him like silk sliding down warm skin.

Guided his hands to stay still.

To feel.

To breathe.

He was used to teeth and claws. Violence dressed in lust.

He wasn’t used to this.

To gentleness wrapped around him like mercy.

I let him feel my warmth, every inch of it, until he forgot how to hurt.

Until he let go without needing to conquer.

And when he closed his eyes and whispered my name like a confession, I stayed beside him.

Not pretending.

Not afraid.

Just there.

Like I was always meant to be.