Page 16 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

Enrico taps something on his phone before he hands it to me.

Then he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The silence that follows feels like a held breath.

I force my eyes from the closed door to stare at the screen for a beat.

The contact is already pulled up: my father's number.

It used to mean nothing. A gesture. A cruel illusion of connection.

I called my family once a week, supervised, of course, which made the conversations stiff. Someone was always watching from the shadows to make sure that none of us said the wrong thing. It was more of a leash than a lifeline.

But now? The phone rings. And rings. I close my eyes, letting my head fall forward slightly as the familiar tone loops in my ear. A single tear slips down my cheek.

Then—

"Pronto?" The sound of my father's voice rushes through me and fills my chest with a blooming heat.

" Papà... " I whisper.

There's a beat of stunned silence. Then, all at once, the line fills with sound. "Catalina? Oh my God—Dio mio, sei tu ? "

"Sì, Papà... sono io . "

His voice cracks. "They told me you were alive. That I'd speak to you soon. I didn't believe them."

My voice shakes. "Are you all safe?"

A breath that sounds like a sob escapes him. "We are. We're all here. We're safe."

My hands shake so badly that I have to use both to hold the phone up to my ear. It feels like I'm hearing his voice for the first time in years.

"They came for me at City Hall," he says. "Two men. At first, I thought they came to kill me, but then they said they were there to extract me for my protection. I thought it was a setup… I thought it was finally the end."

"Oh, Papà, I'm so sorry."

"What did you do, Catalina? You didn't sell your soul to the devil, did you?"

A laugh slips out of me, cracked and wet with tears. "Maybe I did," I whisper, "but I think this devil might have a heart."

Papà exhales. I can hear his breath shaking. "You sound like your mother. She said the same thing when she married me."

That makes me laugh harder, and I press the heel of my hand against my eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling faster.

"Is Mamma there?" I ask, voice barely holding steady.

"She's right here." A rustle. A moment. Then her voice fills the line, soft, warm, and trembling.

" Tesoro... my baby girl."

"Mamma." My breath breaks. " Mamma. I'm okay."

She's crying. I can hear it. "I can't believe I'm hearing your voice without someone staring over my shoulder. Without having to watch every word."

"I know. I know. Me too."

Then another voice chimes in, bright, quick, breathless. "Cat? Cat! It's me—it's Sabine!"

My little sister. "Sabine." Her name cracks through my lips like a blessing. "I can't believe it's you."

"It's all of us," she says, her voice hitching on a laugh. "It's me, Lucas, and Nico; we're all here. We've been waiting."

"Lucas ? " I ask.

"Right here," comes the deeper voice of my older brother. "I've been dreaming of this moment, Sorella . You sound strong."

I cover my mouth, sobbing now. "I didn't think I'd ever get to say your names out loud."

"We said yours every day," Lucas says. "We never stopped."

"And Nico ? "

"Hey, gatto selvatico , " a teasing voice drawls. It's sharp and clever and unmistakably Nico—the second-oldest. I can practically hear the smirk in his tone. "Still sneaking around and surviving? Or are you finally going to let someone fight beside you?"

I laugh again, hiccupping through it. "Still sneaking. But I think I might be done running."

"Good," he says. "Because we're done waiting."

Their voices blend together; everyone is talking at once, overlapping, laughing, crying. It's chaotic. Messy. Beautiful. I press the phone harder to my ear, like I could crawl through the speaker and into their arms.

"I want to come to see you," I cry.

"Soon," Papà promises. "They said we're only waiting on some papers, and then they'll take us to you."

"Tell me everything," I whisper. "I want to know everything."

They start talking again. My mother's voice mixes with Sabine's laughter, Nico teases someone in the background, and Lucas tries to speak but gets drowned out in the joyful chaos.

I'm smiling so hard it hurts, and tears slip freely down my cheeks, soaking the collar of my shirt.

I want to live in this moment. Freeze it.

Breathe it in forever. Way too soon, the door opens softly behind me.

Heavy footsteps enter. I turn slightly, still holding the phone close.

Enrico steps into the room, slow and quiet.

His eyes meet mine across the space. He doesn't speak.

He doesn't have to. His eyes say it all. It's time.

"I have to go," I say, in a trembling voice. "But I'll see you soon. I love you all. Vi voglio bene . "

The chorus of goodbyes hits me like a warm wave. "We love you, Cat."

"Soon, Sorella."

"We'll be there soon."

I end the call.

The silence is deafening in its tenderness. I sit there, the phone still clutched in my hands like it might ring again with their voices. For a long moment, I can neither move nor speak. When I finally think I have my voice under control, I look at Enrico. "Thank you."

Enrico watches me. His expression doesn't change—it's still carved from stone—but something in his eyes softens, just a fraction. "I told you I'd take care of them," he says. His voice is quiet, but there's weight behind it . "I do what I promise. Always."

I nod, swallowing hard.

And then—like a flash, uninvited and searing—I remember the way he looked at my hand earlier, at the scar where my finger used to be.

I've hidden it for years. Most people avert their eyes, pretend not to see it, or worse, stare as if it makes me less whole.

But not him. He looked at it as if the fact that the finger was missing didn't bother him at all.

It was how it was taken that made him angry.

It was one more reason to be furious on my behalf.

He touched it so gently, so reverently, making me think it mattered to him.

I mattered to him. He didn't flinch. He didn't pity me. He just wanted blood.

And for the first time, the shame I've carried around that injury—the way I've tucked my hand into pockets or behind my back—faded.

Because if a man like him can look at me like I'm worth avenging… maybe I'm not broken after all.

I know now that Enrico has Giovanni. And I know what that means. He's going to torture him. There's no question. There won't be any debate. Giovanni's fate is already sealed; Enrico will make sure of it.

The strange part is… I'm not sure how I feel about it. I sit with the thought for a long moment, listening for guilt, for hesitation— for compassion . But there's nothing. Not a flicker. Not even a whisper. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe.

But if it does, it's something I can live with.

Because if it had only been the finger, maybe I could've found some shred of grace.

Maybe I could have chalked it up to cruelty bred from power, from fear.

Even the other things—the screaming behind closed doors, the public humiliations, the way he twisted every kindness into a threat—I might have learned to live with that too.

But not the years.

Not the fourteen stolen years I spent locked in that house like a caged shadow. Not the birthdays I missed. The siblings I never got to hold. The ache in my mother's voice when she said, Tesoro, my baby girl, like she had to say it out loud to believe it was real.

Giovanni didn't just hurt me. He erased me. So no, I don't pity him. I won't waste tears on a man who carved my life into silence and shadows.

Enrico takes a slow step toward me, then another, until he's standing just in front of the couch. I look up at him with burning eyes, my heart still raw from the call.

"Keep trusting me, Piccolina," he says, voice low and steady. "Even when it's hard. Especially then."

The nickname wraps around me like velvet. His eyes hold mine, those dark, unreadable pools that feel bottomless and dangerous but safe, all at once. I think I could get lost in them without ever wanting to return.

Something shifts between us; electricity seems to charge the air.

His hand lifts just slightly, like he's debating touching me.

He doesn't. Not yet. But the hesitation crackles like static.

And God, I want him to. I want his hand on my cheek.

His palm at my waist. I want to know if the heat burning low in my stomach is as reckless as it feels.

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he's forcing himself not to close the last inch between us.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "About protecting you. Your family."

I nod, barely trusting myself to speak. My voice would shake. My body already is. And then he does touch me. Just a fingertip, brushing beneath my chin. Tilting it up. Holding me there.

"I see you," he says, so quietly I almost think I imagined it.

Then he drops his hand and steps back, leaving me breathless and aching and somehow more exposed than I've ever been, even when I was tied to a chair in Giovanni's basement.

"Izzy is waiting outside for you." He offers me his hand, and without a second thought, I take it.

His fingers are warm and steady when he helps me up, and a subtle shiver races through me.

I blame the emotions. The adrenaline. The exhausting ache of remembering I have people in this world who love me.

But that's not the whole truth.