Page 10 of Wicked Sinner
CAESAR
Three weeks later
A blonde in an expensive-looking red silk dress is talking about her charity work, something involving literacy and fundraising galas, but I've long since stopped listening. Her voice has that particular cadence that screams expensive finishing school—every word perfectly enunciated, every syllable dripping with the kind of polish that comes from a lifetime of being groomed for exactly this moment. I’m willing to bet for all her talk of kids reading, she’s never actually sat with one and helped tutor.
Just thrown money at problems and charged thousands of dollars for gala dinner plates while she and those around her preen over how good they are.
"The annual gala raised over two million dollars last year," she continues, her perfectly manicured hand resting on my forearm. "Don't you think it's important to give back to the community? Especially those of us who've been blessed with so much?"
"Absolutely," I reply automatically, taking another sip of my whiskey and scanning the room over her head. "Your work sounds very… fulfilling."
Isabella Torrino beams at me like I've just declared her the most fascinating woman alive, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is the fourth woman I've spoken with tonight, and they're all variations of the same theme: beautiful, well-bred, perfectly acceptable, and boring as hell.
The party is being held at Konstantin's waterfront mansion, the kind of sprawling estate that has old money built into every stone and tile.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble floors, and the sound of a string quartet mingles with the gentle crash of waves against the private beach outside.
It's a lavish affair designed to look like a casual social gathering, but I know better.
This is nothing more than a sophisticated meat market, and I'm the prize bull being paraded in front of potential buyers.
I never would have pictured Konstantin Abramov as a matchmaker, but he’s really gone all out on this. Maybe it’s just the power of putting barriers up to my re-entry into criminal society, but he seems to actually be enjoying this.
The guest list reads like a who's who of the most eligible mafia princesses from the middle of the country to the East Coast, each one more eager than the last to catch the eye of the newly returned Caesar Genovese.
Their fathers control shipping companies, construction firms, restaurant chains, and judicial connections.
Their mothers have been grooming them since birth for exactly this moment—the chance to marry into power and secure their families' positions in the hierarchy. None of them are from a family that can rival Konstantin or Tristan in power, but several are a little higher on the food chain than my father was. A way for Konstantin to remind me of his power and my lack of it—he’ll want me to pick a bride that can raise my station, but not above his.
"I'd love to show you the children's wing of the hospital sometime," Isabella continues, her blue eyes bright with practiced enthusiasm. "We've just finished renovating the playroom, and the children are so excited about it."
"That sounds wonderful," I say, though the thought of touring a children's hospital with this woman fills me with a strange sense of dread.
Not because I dislike children or charitable work, but because I can already see how it would play out.
She'd guide me through the halls with her perfectly practiced smile, introducing me to staff members who would gush about her dedication, all while photographers from the society pages captured our every move. All the while, it would be clear that she hadn’t gotten her hands dirty in the slightest.
It would be a performance. Just like this entire evening is a performance.
I detest lies. I detest anything fake, and so much of this world is posturing. The life I lived before this was gritty and dangerous, but it was real.
Nothing about this feels real in the slightest.
"Caesar!" Konstantin's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn to see him approaching with a tall, elegant woman by his side. "I'd like you to meet Catherine. Her father knew yours—they did business together. She’s from South Carolina."
Isabella's smile falters slightly—the first genuine emotion I've seen from her all evening—but she recovers quickly. "Of course, I should let you two get acquainted. It was lovely talking with you, Caesar. I hope we'll have another chance soon."
She glides away gracefully, and I'm left facing Catherine Torrino.
Where Isabella was blonde and bright, Catherine is dark and sophisticated.
Her black hair is swept into an elegant chignon, and her wine-colored dress hugs her curves in all the right places.
She's stunning, with the kind of classical beauty that belongs in Renaissance paintings.
A little more full-figured than Isabella, but it suits her.
"Mr. Genovese," she says, extending her hand. Her voice carries just the hint of an accent—Italian tempered with a bit of Southern, though refined by years of expensive education. "I've heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," I reply, the words paining me with how canned they feel, and taking her hand to press a brief kiss to her knuckles. The gesture makes her eyes sparkle, and I can see Konstantin's approving nod in my peripheral vision.
"Your reputation precedes you," she says with an inviting smile. "Though I suspect most of what I've heard is exaggerated. People do love their stories."
“Stories can be exaggerated. And I haven’t been home in years. I’m sure it’s all fiction.”
"Indeed, they can. But they can also be illuminating, don't you think? Sometimes the stories people tell reveal more about the storyteller than the subject." She smiles, and I know that she knows she’s clever. She’s trying to draw me in with her intellect instead of only her beauty, and that does interest me. If I were going to agree to a farce of a marriage, I’d like for it to be someone who I could at least have a conversation with over the dinner table.
I find myself genuinely curious about her, which is more than I can say for most of the women I've met tonight.
"Would you like to get some air?" I suggest, gesturing toward the French doors that lead to the terrace. "It's a beautiful night."
"I'd like that very much."
We make our way through the crowd, past clusters of Miami's criminal elite.
I recognize faces from my father's old photographs—men who were young associates when I was a child, now aged into positions of power and influence.
They nod respectfully as we pass, their eyes calculating as they take in my companion.
The terrace overlooks Biscayne Bay, and the moonlight turns the water into a sheet of silver. The sound of the party fades to a pleasant murmur behind us, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves against the seawall.
"It's beautiful," Catherine says, moving to stand beside me at the railing. "I've always loved the water. There's something peaceful about it."
"Peaceful isn't a word I'd associate with Miami," I say, watching as a yacht passes in the distance, its lights twinkling against the darkness.
"No, I suppose not. But there are moments, aren't there? Quiet moments when you can almost forget about all the… complications." She smiles. “Or maybe it’s less complicated in South Carolina.”
I glance at her, surprised by the wistfulness in her voice. "You sound like you speak from experience." I clear my throat. “I’m sure there are complications everywhere, given the lives our parents lead.”
“And those complications drove you away.” She says it flatly, not as a question. “And now you’ve come back.”
“My father died.” My guard goes up—I have no intention of divulging too much to this woman, no matter how interesting she might be.
“A prodigal son.” Catherine smiles. It’s not a fake, pretty smile, but a real one. “How has Miami treated you since you’ve come home?”
The question is more direct than I expected, and I find myself appreciating her boldness, despite my reluctance to open up. "With difficulty," I admit. "This world has changed in the twenty years I've been gone. The rules are different now."
“I suppose learning how to navigate those rules is part of this life. Power is always the thing that matters most. Who has it, who wants it, who can take it.”
“I’m surprised you notice so much.”
"My father has been navigating these waters for forty years. I've been watching and learning." She smiles, but there's steel beneath the sweetness. "I may have been born into privilege, but I wasn't born naive."
We talk for another thirty minutes, and I find myself genuinely engaged for the first time all evening.
Catherine is intelligent, well-educated, and refreshingly honest about the realities of the world we inhabit.
She doesn't pretend that marriage in our circles is about love or romance—she acknowledges it as the political alliance it is, but she does so without cynicism. She would be a good partner, I’m loath to admit.
She wouldn’t ask more of me than I’m willing to give, and her mind could be useful.
If my marriage won’t be one of love or passion, one of mutual respect and companionship could be possible, I think. But even as I do, I feel something wrench within me, a sensation that just by thinking something like that, I’ve given up a little bit of myself.
I never really thought about marriage. But if I had, I would never have wanted it to be a compromise. A choice made with my head instead of my heart.
I’m not a man built for love, but I am one who follows my desires. My instincts. I’ve never crammed myself into a box that’s the wrong shape and size. And now I’m being forced to do exactly that, to talk myself into something that I have no desire to participate in.