She's Starting to Matter

CATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at me like he hadn’t before.

Like I was new.

Like I was something… more.

It wasn’t love. I knew that. It was never love with him.

But it was something. A shift.

A hunger in his eyes that wasn’t just about release.

It was attention.

And for someone like Dante Lucchese, that was enough to feed me.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t make it obvious. I kept my lashes low and my hands soft as I rinsed him off, gently running the cloth down his chest, arms, thighs. I dried him without a sound, careful not to meet his eyes unless I had to.

He didn’t stop me.

Didn’t flinch.

Let me move around him like I belonged there.

When I handed him his clothes, he took them without a grunt. Let me pull his shirt over his head, smooth the sleeves, press the hem down against his stomach. I buttoned each one in place, slow and silent.

And still… he let me.

When we returned to the bedroom, I reached for the blanket as he sat down. He didn’t push me away.

Not even when I climbed beside him.

For the first time since I became his wife, he let me lean into him.

Head against his chest.

His arm around my waist.

No words. No orders. Just quiet breathing and the steady rise and fall of him behind my cheek.

I closed my eyes. Pretended not to feel the way my chest tightened.

Pretended it wasn’t a crack forming deep beneath my innocent smile.

Because this?

This was enough.

His heartbeat against my ear. His warmth draped over me like something borrowed. Something earned.

And as sleep crept in, I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just held onto the silence like a secret.

~~~~

By morning, the bed was cold beside me.

I reached for him anyway. Out of habit. Out of hope.

But the sheets were smooth, undisturbed. He must’ve left a while ago.

I blinked up at the ceiling.

No note. No sound from the hall. Just the faint rustle of birdsong outside the window.

Still, I didn’t mind.

Because last night… he stayed.

Because for once, Dante Lucchese let me lie against him without feeling like a ghost.

And that was more than I ever expected.

I carried the coffee with both hands, careful not to spill. The scent was strong, rich, dark, just how he liked it.

The hallway was quiet, like always, the Lucchese estate never fully awake until he was. I paused outside his office for a second, straightened the hem of my dress, then nudged the door open.

Empty.

The chair behind his desk was pulled back slightly, as if he left in a hurry. Papers in place. Curtains drawn. No scent of cigar smoke yet.

He wasn’t here.

Disappointment tried to rise, but I swallowed it down. I moved to set the coffee gently on the edge of the desk.

“Señora.”

I turned.

Malcolm stood in the doorway, envelope in hand. His suit pressed, his expression unreadable as always.

“Malcolm,” I greeted, soft and neutral.

He stepped in and held out the envelope. “These are the locations Don Lucchese approved for the bookstore. He asked me to show them to you personally.”

A small part of me warmed at that.

He could’ve just sent someone. Could’ve left me to read them alone. But no. He made sure it came through Malcolm.

I nodded. “Let’s look at them.”

He moved to the desk, unbuttoned his coat, and laid the contents out methodically. Brochures, maps, building permits, photos.

Five options.

Each one more polished than the next.

“These are all within the city’s safer zones,” he explained, pointing one by one. “High-end foot traffic. Security already present. The third one here used to be a boutique. Clean conversion.”

I scanned each carefully.

Didn’t rush. Didn’t feign ignorance. Just took my time like I always did when something mattered.

“This one,” I murmured, tapping the corner of the third profile. “Is it crowded?”

Malcolm studied me. He never looked too long. But I felt his gaze linger just a second longer this time.

“Not overly,” he said. “Weekends see a small crowd, but most days it’s quiet. The adjacent lot is unused. No high-rise buildings nearby, just a corner bakery and a flower shop.”

My lips twitched faintly. “And this one?”

I motioned to another, further out.

“More remote,” he answered. “But it’s harder to secure. No nearby checkpoints.”

I nodded slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the chosen photo again. The third one.

“I’ll take this,” I said. “It’s clean. Unassuming.”

Malcolm gave a small nod. “I’ll begin the paperwork today.”

I gave him a gentle smile, just enough.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t respond verbally. Just nodded again, gathered the rest, and packed the envelope back.

And when he left, I stayed behind for a few minutes longer.

Running my fingertips across the grain of the photo.

A place of my own.

Quiet. Small. Hidden in plain sight.

I slipped the selected profile under my arm and walked back toward our room, barefoot like always, the paper warm against my chest.

I wanted to look at it again.

Not just because it would be my bookstore.

But because it would be my first space untouched by blood, by power, by the name Lucchese.

Just books.

Just peace.

Just mine.