Page 1 of Cross + Catherine: The Companion

The Beginning

Catherine Cecelia Marcello Donati (yes, she kept her maiden name before her married name) is an enigma. Surrounded by beautiful things, with her neck draped in a diamond necklace, that likely costs more than my small car, she sips on cheap wine and admits she’s got a taste for the European band her nineteen-year-old son—Nazio—enjoys when I ask about her musical tastes.

“But don’t tell him that,” she tells me, “because apparently, that’s not cool, and I don’t want to listen to him go on about it.”

“What about Cece?” I ask. “Or is she out of that stage in her life, now?”

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Cece was my little twin from the moment she learned how to talk. Nothing I do could be uncool when she idolized me.”

Despite the way she says it so offhandedly, almost dismissively, I can hear warmth in her words, too. A love so strong, it’s tangible, really.

There’s respect there, too.

When I point it out, Catherine simply says, “Cece’s earned her respect.”

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

So is the way of their life. While she’s open about discussing her family and husband, any remarks she gives me about business is short, and to the point.

They just don’t talk about business.

Her daughter’s raising was a bit unconventional, too, by all standards. The daughter of a Queen Pin, Cece, saw and did more things than most grown women before she was even a teenager. She grew up watching her mother run a criminal empire, and the same with her father, too.

Although, always more her mother.

I’m curious, and so I ask, “Do you think you should have given Cece a … normal life? Maybe kept her out of harm’s way more than you did when you always had her following along when you did business?”

Catherine thinks about it for a long while, but doesn’t immediately answer. No, she nurses her wine instead, and mulls it over.

Finally, she settles on a simple, “No.”

I press, but it remains the same.

No.

“Why not?”

“Because she is my child, and not anyone else’s,” Catherine says. “She grew up in our life, not someone else’s. Rose-tinted glasses are dangerous eyewear.”

And of course, she’s right.

“And also, not very cute,” she adds, smirking.

A joke, it seems.

Yeah, she’s an enigma.

We’re sitting in her library surrounded by the smell of leather, and old books. This is her happy place—where she comes to relax. “Cross has his music room,” she says with a smirk, “and I have this.” She doesn’t mind, though, because books are an escape, and, “Every woman occasionally needs an escape.”

“Even when your husband is Cross Donati?” I dare to ask.

Catherine tips her head to the side a bit, and nods. “Sometimes, more so because my husband is Cross Donati.”

He can be fickle, she admits. He’s easy to please, and then tough to understand all at the same time. Together, it’s always just them, but sometimes, she knows he needs space, too. Like she does.

They’re them.