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In truth, she’d been the most polished “mafia princess” the Academy had ever produced.A distinction worth bragging about at parties…though not particularly useful when it came to, say, discovering your fiancé was busy hosting a private circus act with two other women.

Funny how that little honorific didn’t stop her from feeling so cold.

In the bar’s mirror, she caught sight of the very same women as they stepped out of the elevator.Their dresses—shiny, ruched, and clinging for dear life—barely managed to cover their admittedly spectacular butts.They leaned on each other, laughing at some private joke, utterly oblivious.

Catarina raised her hand.“Another,” she told the bartender, flicking her chin toward the empty glass.

He poured quickly, about to whisk the bottle away.

“Leave it,” she ordered.

He hesitated, a rookie mistake.Catarina leveled him with the full weight of her bestmafia princess glare.The kind that said,I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with, but it isn’t a debutante in pearls.He surrendered instantly, setting the bottle down like it might explode, then scurried off to safer customers.

Catarina tossed back the next measure, then poured herself a generous double.She held the glass up to the light, studying the fractured reflections dancing amber and gold through the liquid.

If her life looked that distorted through a glass of scotch, it was probably an accurate metaphor.

“Yes,” she sighed, and downed it in one swallow.“Definitely.”

Chapter 2

SalvatoreRomanowatchedthewoman at the bar, noting the way her petite, perfect ass balanced on the edge of the stool as if she didn’t belong there.An adorable ass, wrapped in a demure sheath of pale pink.And those legs—Madonna santa!—those legs could bring a man to his knees.Long, smooth, sculpted, ending in black heels that whispered temptation with every shift of her weight.

Even her hair caught his imagination.Dark, glossy, wound into a prim twist at the back of her head, like some headmistress.But he imagined pulling those pins free, watching that glossy mass tumble over her shoulders, while she wore nothing but the pearls and those killer heels.

Sal cleared his throat and took a slow sip of his scotch, cooling the rush of heat spreading in his chest.A sip, yes.The woman at the bar didn’t sip.She threw back another double like it was water.The corner of his mouth tugged upward.A lady in pearls who could drink like a sailor.Intriguing.

She was beautiful, yes—but it wasn’t only her face.Those eyes—dark, restless, sharp even through the veil of whatever storm cloud hovered in her head—were striking.But it was the ass.Always the ass.Small, perfectly shaped, perched like it was waiting to be spanked.He could write an ode to it, and probably would if he were a poet instead of a Romano.

His mind ticked off the things he wanted to do to her—things that would make her prim little mouth drop open in shock before it softened into something far more interesting.Naughty, decadent things that had nothing to do with respectability.

But was it her beauty that drew him?Or the fact that she was Catarina Bianchi, daughter of Enrico Bianchi, his rival, his enemy?Perhaps both.Forse tutte e due.The forbidden always did taste sweeter.

He raised his glass again, taking another sip just as she wiggled on the stool, adjusting herself.That tiny movement nearly made him choke.Dio santo!She really shouldn’t do that.

Sal’s gaze flicked around the room.Several men had noticed the same movement, their eyes fixed on her curves.His jaw tightened.The weight of his glare traveled across the bar, sharp as a knife.One by one, the men dropped their gazes to their drinks, suddenly fascinated with the condensation on their glasses.

Good.Whether it was fear of his glare or his reputation, he didn’t care.All that mattered was that no one else stared at the lush beauty he had already claimed in his mind.

A waitress appeared, leaning forward so far that her breasts nearly spilled over the neckline of her strapless black top.“Would you like another, Mr.Romano?”she asked, her blue eyes glittering with forced sweetness through a mask of fake tan and pale lipstick.

He gave her one look, long enough to take in the leathery skin, the desperation in the tilt of her smile.Why did women do that to themselves?He found nothing attractive in it.

“Nothing else,” he told her curtly, before dismissing her with the barest flick of his eyes.She lingered a moment, adding sway to her hips as she walked away, no doubt hoping for a generous tip—or better, a summons to his bed.

She would be disappointed.Sal wasn’t interested in meaningless one-night stands anymore.The idea bored him.Mistresses, too, had lost their shine.He’d let his last one, Lana, go three months ago when she started getting too attached.Six months was always the limit.At that point, they began to think they could demand more.

That was when he ended things.Always cleanly, always firmly.

But he hadn’t replaced Lana.Not yet.His gaze returned to Catarina.For a dangerous moment, he considered it—imagined her in Lana’s place, warm in his bed, those dark eyes looking up at him with something other than boredom.

And the thought of Enrico Bianchi’s face—when his daughter appeared on Salvatore Romano’s arm—was nearly enough to make him laugh aloud.Cristo!The man would lose his mind.

But that wasn’t the way.Daughters and wives of his world, even his enemies, were not playthings.They were to be respected, protected, placed above the games of men.Even he, Salvatore Romano, lived by that rule.

So instead of calling her over, instead of sending a drink that would draw her to him, he stayed where he was.He let the anticipation simmer, let himself enjoy the view of her delectable ass and those pearls shining against her skin.

Until—!