His Unwanted Wife, The Unbeatable Lawyer

Caterina POV:

The day before the Commission summit, my phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.

I answered cautiously.

"Caterina?" The voice was soft, hesitant, and instantly recognizable.

Bianca.

"It's Ms. Quinn," I corrected her, my tone leaving no room for familiarity, no hint of our shared past.

"And you are Associate Brooks. We are not on a first-name basis," I reiterated, my voice an unyielding steel.

"I... I just wanted to talk. To meet. Perhaps we could... clear the air?"

"There is nothing to clear," I stated, my voice a frigid whisper. "Tomorrow, we will be in a professional setting.

You would do well to remember that."

Her voice cracked, the practiced vulnerability seeping into every syllable. "You're being so cruel.

Can't you forgive him? He got hurt trying to save me. He made a mistake."

A cold fury washed over me.

"A mistake?" I echoed, the word a bitter taste.

"You think crying on the phone to a married Underboss, in the middle of a firefight, was a simple mistake? Whispering that you were afraid to die, that you couldn't bear to never see him again?"

You knew exactly what you were doing, Bianca. You were manipulating a weak man.

The line went silent, a sudden, stunned void.

She was shocked that I knew her exact words.

"Starting tomorrow," I warned, my voice dropping to a lethal, silken whisper, "you are nothing more than an Associate of a rival Family.

You would do well to remember your place."

I hung up before she could respond.

An encrypted message from Jared popped up on my screen just a few minutes later.

"Can we please just have a truce for the summit? You're turning this into a circus."

I deleted his contact information, without even a flicker of hesitation, without replying.

Later that night, a sharp knock rattled my hotel room door.

I peered through the peephole.

It was Jared, his face tight with a raw mixture of anger and desperation.

"Kathy, open the door. We need to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about," I stated, my voice muffled but firm through the thick wood.

"Don't do this," he pleaded, his voice rising. "Don't throw everything away!"

"You already did that," I replied, my voice dangerously calm. "Leave, or I'll call Don Walsh's security."

I heard him curse, a guttural sound, before his heavy footsteps receded down the hall.

For a fleeting moment, a strange sense of loss washed over me.

Not for the man he was, but for the man I thought I had married.

It was quickly overwhelmed by a profound feeling of liberation.

My phone chimed, vibrating on the nightstand.

It was Rocco Walsh.

"Any issues with your security detail?" he asked, his voice direct and devoid of pleasantries.

"No, Don Walsh. Everything is fine."

"Good. Contact me directly if that changes. Good luck tomorrow, Ms. Quinn."

The line went dead.

It wasn't a social call, not really.

It was a message, delivered with the cold precision of a sniper.

The unspoken words resonated: You are under my protection.