“Caterina --”
“I said I’ll be there.”I gave her my sweetest smile, the one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood pressure spike.“You can count on me.”
Mama studied me for another long moment.I could see her weighing her options -- push further and risk a fight or let it go and hope for the best.She chose the latter.She always did.
“Seven o’clock,” she repeated, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
I stared at the closed door, my nails still drumming.The sound echoed in the suddenly quiet room, matching the rapid beat of my heart.Part of me felt guilty for the worry I’d seen in Mama’s eyes.She’d been trying, in her own limited way, to bridge the gap between us.
But I couldn’t be what she was.I couldn’t smile and nod and pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t.I couldn’t accept my fate with grace and dignity when that fate felt like a prison sentence.
I turned back to my vanity, catching my reflection again.My jaw was set, my eyes bright with defiance.This was who I was -- sharp edges and rebellion, not soft compliance.
Papa wanted properly dressed?I’d give him properly dressed.
Just not in the way he expected.
I pushed away from the vanity and headed for my closet with renewed purpose.The restless energy that had been building all afternoon now had a direction, a goal.If tonight was going to be a performance -- and with Papa, everything was a performance -- then I’d make damn sure I controlled my part in it.
My phone buzzed from where I’d left it on the chaise.Probably Adriana, checking to make sure I was still alive and not actually plotting anything dramatic.
Too late for that.
I ignored the phone and stepped into my closet, surrounded by clothes that were supposed to make me into the perfect Mafia princess.Time to show them what a real Lombardi looked like when she stopped playing by the rules.
The late afternoon light streamed through my bedroom windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor.In a few hours, the sun would set.The guests would arrive.Papa would hold court at the head of the table, and Mama would smile her perfect smile.
And I would remind them all that I wasn’t as easy to control as they thought.
I moved through my closet with purpose now, pushing aside the gowns Mama would approve of -- modest necklines, appropriate hemlines, colors that whispered instead of screamed.My fingers trailed over silk and satin, rejecting each one.Too safe.Too boring.Too exactly what they expected from Giuseppe Lombardi’s obedient daughter.
Fuck that.
I pushed deeper into the closet, past the appropriate dinner dresses and charity gala gowns, toward the back where I kept the things I’d bought on impulse.The pieces that had made my father’s jaw tighten when he’d seen them in shopping bags but that he’d never actually forbidden me from buying.Papa’s control had limits, even if he didn’t like to admit it.
And there it was.
I pulled the dress free from where it hung between a conservative navy sheath and a pale pink cocktail dress, both of which had probably been purchased to make this one look less obvious.The black fabric seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it -- heavy silk that would cling in all the right places.Or all the wrong places, depending on who was looking.
The neckline plunged to a point that would make Mama clutch her pearls.The slit ran nearly to the hip.It was the kind of dress that made a statement, and that statement was “fuck your rules.”
I’d bought it six months ago on a trip to Milan, tucked it away, and waited for the perfect moment to wear it.Apparently, tonight was that moment.
Holding it against myself, I walked back to the full-length mirror in my bedroom.The black fabric created a stark contrast against my skin, making my dark hair and green eyes stand out even more.I turned slightly, remembering how the slit would fall open to reveal leg all the way up.
Perfect.
I felt a smile curve across my face.Not the sweet, practiced smile I used for family photos or charity events.This was something else entirely -- sharp-edged and satisfied, with a hint of cruelty that would have made Papa proud if he wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of it.
I could already picture his face when I walked into the dining room.The way his jaw would tighten, his eyes would narrow.He’d want to say something, to order me to change, but he couldn’t.Not in front of guests.Not when that would show weakness, show that his own daughter didn’t respect his authority.
He’d be furious.And I’d smile through the entire dinner, sweet as sugar, while he choked on his rage.
The thought made me feel alive in a way nothing else had all day.
I laid the dress carefully on my bed and returned to the closet, this time headed for my shoe collection.The rack of heels stretched along one wall -- organized by designer, then by color, because even my rebellion had structure.Most of the time.Sometimes my clothes and shoes bore the brunt of my frustration, much like they had earlier.
I skipped past the sensible pumps and elegant kitten heels, my fingers trailing over boxes until I found what I wanted.Black Louboutins with a heel so high and sharp they could be classified as weapons.I’d worn them once, to a club, and nearly broken my ankle on the stairs.But they made my legs look incredible and added a dangerous edge to any outfit.
