Page 46 of Unholy Union
Cato made a mess of me, then he cleaned me up with that smug, satisfied grin.
I let out a hiss at the memory, tearing off the blouse and tossing it on the floor. Cowl-neck sweater it is. At least I’ll be able to pretend to the world—and myself as well—that Cato Valente didn’t have his hands all over my body a few hours ago.
It reflects in my entire outfit, from the sweater to the loose-fit boyfriend jeans I slide into. I cover myself up from head-to-toe, stubbornly looking dowdier than I know the Valentes prefer.
They like things to be tailored and neat. They wantpolished.
My baggy, wrinkled cowl-neck sweater, distressed boyfriend jeans with a rip down the front, and wild, uncombed curls dangling off my shoulders are anything but.
When I show up downstairs to the breakfast room, it’s the first morning since I’ve married Cato that the entire family except Celeste is home at once.
Not only are Cato and his right hand, Lazaro Zanetti, seated at the table, so are his younger brother and mother, Cassian and Allegra.
His father, Don Valente himself, is also home. I know this because his main bodyguard, Pello Severino, is standing by the head of the table, next to the chair where Augusto would sit.
As the daughter of a don, I know exactly what it means. The don will be with us shortly.
You’d think that’d make me rethink my show of defiance.
Instead, as I enter the room and the others look up, I tilt my chin higher and stride over to the empty chair on Cato’s left, taking my rightful spot as his wife.
He’s already looked me up and down. His dark eyes have narrowed, tension drawing his brows closer.
He’s not the only one with a visceral reaction. Cassian’s grinning from ear to ear, practically on the verge of laughter, and Allegra’s eyeing me as if I’ve just climbed out of a dumpster. Lazaro looks about as irritated as his boss, his glare comparable to an attack dog.
I cast a bright smile around the table at my newest family members. “Good morning! I hope everyone is well rested. I know I am.”
My gaze lingers longest on Cato, savoring every angry tic of his jaw. He’d like nothing more than to grab me like he had last night and start another round of what he called punishments. But, unfortunately, his hands are tied at the moment.
We’re not alone, locked away in the confines of our bedroom.
We’re in the breakfast room with the bright morning sun streaming in through the long windows. His brother and mother sit across from us, and there’s a huge table of Italian breakfast sprawled out in front of me.
I turn my gaze onto the feast of cured meats, cheeses, eggs, pastries, breads, jams and jellies, and then moan to dramatic effect.
“I don’t know about you, but I’mstarving. I worked up quite an appetite last night thanks to Cato. This all looks sooo good!”
I rise halfway out of my seat, bypassing the silver tongs in favor of my bare hands, and snatch a slice of Prosciutto di Parma straight off the marble slab at the center of the table.
“Mmm, my favorite,” I mumble through a mouthful, not bothering to be ladylike enough to chew and swallow first.
The coppa is my next victim. I scoop up a handful, undoing the meticulous cascade of cured meat with a flick of my wrist, sending a few slices sliding off the side of the marble slab.
Across the table, Allegra stares at me like I’ve just spat in her cup of espresso. She’s forgotten about hers, gawking at me in slow, horrified blinks as if my very presence disturbs her spirit.
When I snatch a croissant from the basket and tear it open to flaky crumbs scattering everywhere on her pristine white tablecloth, sheflinches. And when I dip one torn end of the croissant into a jar of raspberry jam, skipping a knife altogether, then bring it to my mouth to bite off, her face pinches in disgust.
More crumbs sprinkle everywhere—down the front of my cowl-neck sweater, in my curls, across the table, a few flying onto the edges of Cato’s plate of breakfast.
Cassian howls in laughter, smacking a hand on the table and raising his cup of espresso. “Finally, someone else entertaining around here. I could get used to this.”
“Are you alright, babe?” I ask, folding my legs up in the chair and half turning toward Cato. There’s a protruding vein on his temple, pulsing almost as hard as the muscle in his jaw. I set down my half-bitten croissant on his plate and reach out to stroke his cheek. “You look a little tense. Did you not sleep well—ah!”
Cato’s seized me by the wrist before my hand could ever touch his face. His reflexes are that fast, catching me by surprise.
My gaze connects with his, finding his dark eyes narrower and stormier than usual.
He’s pissed.
