Page 9 of Sinner
The clink of glasses follows—a toast to my future, decided without a single word to me. I press my hand against my mouth to stifle the sound trying to escape my throat. Not a scream, not a sob, but something worse—a whimper of defeat.
Because this is how it’s always been. The daughters of men like Paolo Benetti don’t get choices. We get duties, expectations, and sacrifices for the greater good of the family. I’ve watched my cousins, my childhood friends, all paired off to strengthen alliances and expand territories. Why did I ever think I’d be different?
I rise on unsteady legs, forcing myself to walk into the dining room where Mama arranges flowers in a crystal vase, humming softly to herself. Does she know? The way she avoids my eyes suggests she does.
“Mama,” I whisper, but she shakes her head slightly—a warning.
“Not now, Caterina. Go help Greta with the antipasti.”
I move mechanically toward the kitchen, my mind racing. Anthony Romano. The man who will share my bed, father my children, own my body and my future. A man whose business involves things I’ve carefully avoided knowing about, whose hands have surely done things I can’t bear to imagine.
And Father Nico—the forbidden thought I can’t seem to banish—will stand at the altar and bless our union, his blue eyes watching as I’m given to another man. The cruelest irony.
The dinner proceeds like a play where I’ve forgotten my lines. Papa and Leonardo emerge from the study, all smiles and backslapping camaraderie. Anthony isn’t with them tonight, small mercies. I serve wine with trembling hands, nearly spilling Barolo on Leonardo’s expensive suit. His eyes linger on my chest as he thanks me.
“Your daughter is even more beautiful than I remembered, Paolo,” he says, raising his glass in my direction. “Anthony is a lucky man.”
My father beams with pride while my mother squeezes my knee under the table—a silent command to smile, to play my part. I do, my cheeks aching with the effort.
“To family,” Leonardo toasts.
“To family,” everyone echoes.
I sip my wine and imagine the glass shattering in my hand, blood and Barolo mingling on the pristine tablecloth. But I don’t move. I was raised better than that.
The conversation flows around me—business disguised as small talk, threats veiled as pleasantries. I pick at my osso buco, each bite tasting like ash. Six weeks of freedom before I become Mrs. Anthony Romano. Before I’m locked into a life I never chose, with a man I fear more than I can admit.
And all I can think about is Father Nico’s face in the candlelight, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at me, how for one breathless moment I thought he might actually?—
“Caterina will make you a tiramisu,” my mother announces, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s her specialty.”
“I’d be honored,” Leonardo says, patting his stomach. “Though I should watch my waistline. Unlike your father, I don’t have the discipline for morning runs.”
I excuse myself to the kitchen, grateful for the momentary escape. As I layer mascarpone and espresso-soaked ladyfingers, I realize my hands have stopped shaking. The numbness issetting in—the same detachment I’ve cultivated through years of being the perfect Benetti daughter.
Later, as Leonardo kisses my cheeks goodbye, his lips lingering too close to the corner of my mouth, he whispers, “Anthony can’t wait to see you at the gala. He has a surprise for you.”
I know what the surprise will be. A diamond ring, probably ostentatious, definitely expensive. A beautiful cage to match my gilded life.
“How wonderful,” I manage to reply.
After he leaves, Papa pulls me into his study, his arm heavy across my shoulders. “You’ve made me proud, Caterina,” he says, pouring himself another scotch. “This alliance with the Romanos—it’s important for our family’s future.”
I look at him—really look at him—for the first time in years. The silver at his temples, the lines etched around his eyes, the way his suit hides the gun I know is holstered at his side. My father, who taught me to ride a bike and checked under my bed for monsters, is now handing me over to a monster of a different kind.
“Do I have a choice, Papa?” I ask, the words escaping before I can stop them.
His expression softens, but his eyes remain hard. “We all have our duties, Cat. Our responsibilities. This is yours.”
I nod, because what else can I do? In our world, family comes first. Always.
That night, back in my apartment, I stand before the mirror in my bathroom, studying my reflection. The same face that Father Nico couldn’t look away from. The body that will soon belong to Anthony Romano. I touch my wrists where Nico’s fingers had been, remembering the electricity of that touch.
In six weeks, I’ll walk down the aisle at St. Francis’s. Father Nico will preside over my wedding to another man, his voicesteady as he asks if I take Anthony as my lawfully wedded husband. And I will say yes, because that’s what good daughters do.
Unless...
The thought forms slowly, dangerously in my mind. A desperate, impossible thought that I should banish immediately. But instead, I hold it close, nurturing it like a tiny flame in the darkness.
