Page 63 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

I glance around again, this sea of glittering gowns, tuxedos, and power, and then back to him. "I'm just trying to take it all in. This… isn't a life I ever imagined for myself."

"You look like you were born for it."

Something in the way he says it—quiet, certain, and with so much unshakable confidence—unlocks a part of me I didn't know was waiting. I'm not there yet, not entirely, but in his eyes, I catch a glimpse of the woman I could become. And for the first time, I believe she might actually fit here.

The laughter, the opulence, the weight of diamonds at my throat and silk pooling at my feet—it all feels different now. Like it belongs to me. Like I belong to it.

I'm not just surviving anymore. I haven't stumbled into a life I don't deserve. I've arrived. I've stepped into the world I was meant for. And I'm standing beside the man I'm slowly falling in love with.

Some might think that's backward, that love should come first. That I shouldn't be about to marry a man that I'm not already head-over-heels in love with.

But our lives aren't built like that. This is something I learned the hard way, back with the Giordanos.

In the mafia world, love's a luxury—and a liability.

Our lives are forged in shadows, in loyalty and blood.

Around here, feelings have to wait their turn, behind instinct, behind control, behind the need to stay alive.

Dating? That luxury doesn't exist here. In Enrico's world—my world, now—affection is vulnerability.

Time is risk. If you hesitate, you bleed.

If you're not claimed, you're hunted. Marriage isn't just about romance; it's a shield, a warning, a statement of belonging.

If I want to stay at his side, if I want to truly explore what this —what we —could become, then marriage is the only path forward. Because in this world, I'm not safe until I wear his name. And strangely… that doesn't scare me.

It steadies me. Anchors me. Because I know what it means to be rootless. I've known what it feels like to belong to no one. Now, for the first time, I feel like someone's —not because I was bought or traded, but because I was chosen .

By him .

And I think, no, I know, I'm choosing him right back.

A little while later, after another round of dessert and champagne, I excuse myself as gracefully as I can. Enrico watches me stand, and his hand ghosts across the small of my back as I slip away. That single touch is grounding and reassuring; he's telling me he'll be right here when I return.

The gilded hallways are quieter than I expected.

The murmurs of the dining room fade into a hum as I follow the discreet signs to the powder room.

The walls are a pale ivory, gilded with floral reliefs, and each sconce flickers with warm candlelight.

Everything is immaculate, tasteful, and absurdly beautiful.

Which is why I don't see her at first.

Not until I step around the corner into the arched foyer leading to the restrooms and hear the soft click of heels behind me. I turn and stop short.

Donna Margarita.

Resplendent in deep burgundy satin, her posture is perfect, her lips painted in a venomous red. The faintest smile curves her mouth, but her eyes are sharp as glass. I haven't seen her since I left the Giordano house, and even then, she barely ever paid me any attention.

"Catalina," she says smoothly, as though my name is a bitter candy she's letting melt on her tongue. "I hoped we'd get a moment alone."

I don't move. My fingers curl against the beaded clutch in my hand.

She tilts her head, her eyes rake down my gown, then up again. "You look… lovely," she says. "Very polished. Almost like you belong here."

"Thank you," I say carefully, politely, keeping my voice neutral.

But every alarm in my body is going off.

I didn't have much contact with her at the Giordano's house, thank God, but the little I had left a cold fingerprint on my spine.

Every instinct tells me that she's a threat wrapped in silk and perfume.

She never raises her voice; she doesn't have to.

Her words are cut from glass, and if she chooses, she can make a killer cry with them.

Our gazes lock in the intimate hush of the corridor. Her perfume is sharp, expensive, and cloying, somehow making the air feel thinner. I steady my breath, and she drinks in my hesitation like it's an aperitif.

She glides closer, her shadow pools over me—elegant, deliberate, and not failing to raise the fine hairs on my neck.

"Of course," she continues, stepping closer, "appearances can be deceiving." Her voice lowers, not quite a whisper, but quieter than conversation. "It's impressive, really. The way you've slipped into Enrico's life like water finding a crack in stone."

Her smile sharpens. "You're clever, I'll give you that. It takes no small amount of cunning to worm your way into the heart of a family that doesn't belong to you. Into the arms of a man who… well." She lifts a manicured brow. "Let's say I know the cost of a kiss from a Sartori."

My heart pounds. I still say nothing.

She steps even closer, keeping her voice a silky whisper. "But I do wonder… what happens when the fantasy wears off? When you wake up and realize you're tethered to a man who has blood on his hands and fire in his name. Men like Enrico don't love. They consume."

Her gaze hardens. "And girls like you? You don't survive consumption. Not for long."

I lift my chin, refusing to shrink. "If you're trying to intimidate me, Donna Margarita, you'll have to do better."

Her laugh is soft, amused. "Intimidate you? No, dear. I'm simply offering… perspective." She leans in, her perfume nauseatingly sweet. "Tread carefully. What you're playing at, this… union… will not end well. Not for you. And certainly not for him."

She brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder like we're old friends and whispers, "There are forces at work far older and crueler than your girlish heart can imagine."

Her eyes burn into me. "You'd better remember who took you under their wings for the past few years. And you better remember who runs that family." She says, venom curling under her breath.

"Oh, I remember," I retort in a steady voice. "I remember exactly what they did while I was under their wings." I hold up my hand with the missing finger. "Every day. And I can't wait for whoever is left alive to get their payback for it."

She laughs. "Careful, ungrateful little girls who play with fire get burned."

Then she glides past me, every inch the queen of vipers, leaving the air colder in her wake. I stand frozen for a moment, pulse hammering, her words curling around me like smoke. Then I exhale, straighten my shoulders, and step into the powder room. Because she's wrong.

This time, I won't be the girl who gets swallowed whole or burned. This time, I'll fight back.

Determined not to let her get to me, I wash my hands and stare at my amber eyes in the mirror. You want war, you old hag? You've got it .

I stride out of the bathroom, so committed to my righteous anger that I go the wrong way, moving past an open arch that leads into a sort of sitting room.

My eyes fly over it automatically, assessing the strange, beautiful place, taking it all in.

That's when I notice two figures standing in the shadows.

One of them is my sister, Sabine. I hastily retreat.

I don't know why. I should have just waved hello, but something about her and the man—who isn't the one from the dining room—strikes me as odd.

I only catch a glimpse of him as I backpedal from the room, but he looks strangely familiar.

Still driven by my anger at Donna Margarita and puzzling over the odd encounter with Sabine, I'm totally caught off guard when a large hand grabs my wrist and yanks me from the corridor into a room.

Before I have time to scream, I'm pulled into a familiar chest, and warm lips descend on me with a hunger that can only come from one person.

Enrico.

His kiss is searing, unrelenting. There's no gentle lead-in this time. No teasing flirtation or slow build. It's hunger. Raw and aching. Like the world is falling down around him, and I'm the only thing keeping him upright.

And I melt.

My fingers clutch at his jacket, curling into the fabric over his arms to feel the muscle beneath. I let him take whatever he needs, whatever he wants, because I want it too. I want him to consume me.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me," I gasp between kisses.

"You shouldn't look that good when I'm already half out of my mind," he growls, his voice ragged, his mouth tracing down the line of my jaw to my neck. "God, I've been wanting to do this all night. You look so hot in that dress, and all I can think of is ripping it off you."

Again, his lips descend, he groans into my mouth, and makes me so hot, I feel my panties soak. Unrelentingly, his tongue takes my mouth hostage, and I surrender. A soft moan escapes me as I cling to him like I'm drowning.

"Cat," he mumbles, breaking the kiss. His hot breath is on my face, my heart is beating erratically, and my entire body burns with an alien heat. I need him. My body needs him.

The memory of his thick cock buried deep inside me rears up, spreading an ache through me that goes so deep I know only he can fill it. It's reckless and wicked, but I know what I need.

"We need to stop," he rasps.

"Don't stop," I reply, rising on my tiptoes. My body is so coiled with need, I throw every caution I've ever learned to the wind. "Please don't stop."

"You don't know what you're saying," he replies breathlessly. His hands move over my body, cup my ass, and grab my hips.

"I do. I know what I'm saying," I pant, reaching for the bulge in his pants, spanning my hand as far as it can reach over it, rubbing it. He's so hard, and my pussy is dripping, and the ache is only growing.