Chapter 4: The mafia princess

Catherine’s eyelids fluttered open, her head pounding like a drum. A sharp ache pulsed behind her temples, and her limbs felt heavy, as if her body were weighed down by chains she couldn’t see. Her surroundings came into focus slowly: a room bathed in soft indirect light, its walls adorned with intricate carvings and heavy, dark wood. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and something metallic she couldn’t place.

Her stomach churned as memories from the night before clawed their way back. The rehearsal dinner. Marcel’s psychotic smile. The doors crashing open. Masked men. And then… Him. Kieran. Back from the dead.

Her fingers instinctively touched her face, recalling the damp cloth he’d pressed against her mouth twice, once at the wedding and then again when he shoved her into a car. The drug’s bitter tang lingered faintly on her lips. Her pulse quickened. She sat up too quickly, dizziness threatening to topple her as she scanned the opulent room, panic rising like a tide.

The sound of the door opening made her flinch. A tall woman strode in, her presence commanding despite her casual attire. Her long black hair was tied back into a sleek ponytail, and tattoos curled up her neck and down her arms, bold against her olive skin. She held a tray in one hand and a pile of clothes in the other.

“Hello, princess,” the woman said, her voice low and calm but carrying an edge. She set the tray on a nearby table, revealing a steaming teapot and a delicate porcelain cup. “Time to get up.”

Catherine’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Laura. I’m here to keep an eye on you,” she said with a smirk, gesturing toward the en-suite bathroom. “Bath’s ready. Clothes are there. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Catherine stared at her, fury bubbling under her skin. “I’m not doing anything! Let me out of here!”

Laura raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Suit yourself. But I’d rethink that if I were you. The boss doesn’t like waiting, and I’m not in the mood to argue.”

“The boss?” Catherine spat, her voice trembling. “You mean Kieran. The man who kidnapped me.”

Laura crossed her arms. “Call it what you want. Just get in the bath, doll.”

Catherine pushed herself out of bed, stumbling as her legs threatened to give out. She ignored the weakness, grabbing a nearby vase and hurling it at the wall. The crash reverberated through the room as shards of porcelain scattered across the floor. “I’m not a fucking doll!” she screamed, her voice raw with desperation.

Laura sighed and stepped forward, swift and unrelenting. Before Catherine could react, Laura’s hand cracked against her cheek. The slap stung, sending Catherine reeling.

“Enough,” Laura said, her voice cold. “You’re a fucking grown woman. You want to scream, cry, throw things? Fine. But it won’t change where you are or who’s in charge. Now, get in the fucking bath.”

Catherine froze, stunned by the slap and the woman’s unflinching gaze. Her cheek throbbed, humiliation simmering beneath her skin, but she bit her lip and nodded stiffly. Resigned, she shuffled toward the bathroom, refusing to let Laura see the tears pooling in her eyes.

The bathwater was warm and fragrant, the lavender-scented bubbles a cruel mockery of comfort. There were drops of dried blood on her body. Maybe it was her own blood, maybe it was Alex’s blood, maybe it was unknown blood. Catherine scrubbed her skin with a fury, as though washing away the nightmare of the last twenty-four hours.

There was a black lingerie set waiting for her next to the bathtub. When she stepped out of the bathroom, Laura was waiting, holding a hairdryer and a makeup kit. Catherine glared but didn’t resist as the woman guided her to a vanity. Laura worked swiftly, pulling her hair into an elegant updo and applying makeup that highlighted her sharp cheekbones and full lips. When Catherine caught her reflection, she barely recognized herself. Her father used to only allow her to wear neutral tones, she never had that much black mascara and eyeliner highlighting her blue eyes.

“You look nice,” Laura said, tossing the brush aside. She handed Catherine a sleek black dress that clung to her curves and left little to the imagination. “Put this on.”

Catherine hesitated, but the memory of Laura’s slap kept her silent. She slipped into the dress, the fabric cool against her skin, and glared at Laura.

“Good,” Laura said with a nod. “Now, let’s go. He’s waiting.”

The sharp sound of Laura’s boots on the polished marble floors echoed behind Catherine as she descended the grand staircase. The dress Laura had forced her to wear clung to her every curve, its silky fabric brushing her thighs with each step. Her heels clicked against the floor, and though she fought to keep her head high, a knot of dread twisted in her stomach.

The grand hall spread out before her, opulent and suffocating. High ceilings adorned with gold filigree and a massive chandelier cast an almost regal glow over the gathering below. Men dressed in expensive suits lounged in leather chairs or leaned against tables laden with liquor and cigars. Their conversations ebbed and flowed in low, hushed tones.

At the center of it all stood Kieran. He was every inch the mafia kingpin, his sharp black suit tailored to perfection, his scarred face a striking contrast to his composed demeanor. His presence dominated the room, and when his cold eyes lifted to meet hers, the murmurs ceased.

“Gentlemen,” Kieran called out, his voice smooth yet commanding, carrying effortlessly across the hall. He gestured for her to join him, his hand outstretched like a dark invitation.

Laura’s hand pressed firmly against Catherine’s back, propelling her forward. Catherine hesitated, glaring at the woman before reluctantly descending the last few steps.

As she reached Kieran, he took her hand and pulled her to his side, his grip firm and unyielding. “Allow me to introduce our guest,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. He turned her slightly toward the crowd, as though presenting a prize. “Caterina Stefania Campedelli Santoro… You probably know her as Catherine, the mafia princess.”

A ripple of tension spread through the room. The men exchanged glances, their gazes lingering on her with a mix of curiosity and something darker. But none dared to make a move, their fear of Kieran palpable.

“She’ll be staying here with me for a while,” Kieran continued, his lips curling into a smirk.

Catherine stiffened, heat rising to her cheeks. She wanted to lash out, to scream that she wanted no part in his twisted game. But the weight of the stares and the feel of Kieran’s hand on her arm kept her silent.

One of the men, a burly figure with a scar running down his jaw, leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Pretty thing,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Kieran’s smile vanished, his gaze snapping to the man with a sharpness that could cut steel. Viktor held up his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk faded under Kieran’s glare. The room fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken tension. Catherine curiously watched that silent exchange.

Kieran guided Catherine to a high-backed chair near the head of the table and gestured for her to sit. She hesitated but complied, feeling every eye in the room on her as he took the seat beside her.

“Now,” Kieran began, turning his attention back to the table. “Let’s get down to business.”