The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World) Chapter 19: Spaghett About It

It’s been two weeks since I got my black eye. The swelling is now gone but the bruising remains, a yellowish-purple smudge that’s fading but still visible. Looking better though. I catch glimpses of my healing face in reflective surfaces as Caterina, and I walk through the upscale lobby of her building, her arm wrapped possessively around my waist.

Caterina holds close as we walk into her newly renovated penthouse. The elevator opens directly into the foyer, a private entrance that requires a special key card and fingerprint scan. She’s been teasing about this reveal all week, keeping in the presidential suite while the “finishing touches” were applied to what she calls our “real ho.”

“Ta-dah!” she says with uncharacteristic playfulness as we step inside. She makes a sweeping gesture with her free arm, like a ga show hostess revealing a prize.

‘Immaculate.’

That’s the first word that cos to mind. The second is ‘massive.’ The penthouse sprawls before us in an open floor plan that must take up the entire top floor of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, offering a panoramic view of Boston that makes the city look like a model train set, tiny and perfect and sohow under our control.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, taking in the space with wide eyes.

“Do you like it?” Caterina asks, and there’s sothing almost vulnerable in her voice, a note of uncertainty I’ve rarely heard from her. Her crimson eyes watch carefully, gauging my reaction.

“It’s incredible,” I say honestly because it is. The space is designed with a minimalist aesthetic that sohow manages to feel warm rather than sterile. The color palette is mostly neutral. Whites, grays, and blacks, with occasional splashes of deep crimson that match Caterina’s eyes.

She beams at my response, her entire face lighting up with pleasure. “Co, let show you around,” she says, tugging forward by the hand like an excited child eager to show off a new toy.

The living area features a sunken conversation pit with the most comfortable-looking sectional sofa I’ve ever seen, positioned to take advantage of both the view and the enormous wall-mounted television. A gas fireplace is built into one wall, its flas dancing behind glass.

“This is the main living space, obviously,” Caterina explains, gesturing around us. “The kitchen is through there. It’s been completely redesigned. The chef says it’s ’a dream to work in,’ whatever that ans.”

I catch a glimpse of gleaming stainless steel and white marble through an archway. “You have a chef?” I ask though I don’t know why I’m surprised.

“I have several,” Caterina says with a casual wave of her hand. “They rotate. But they don’t live here if that’s what you’re asking. They co in to prepare als and leave.”

She continues the tour, showing a formal dining room that looks like it belongs in a design magazine, a ho office with built-in bookshelves reaching to the ceiling, and a small gym equipped with state-of-the-art machines.

“And this,” she says with a flourish, pushing open a set of double doors, “is our bedroom.”

The master suite is bigger than the entire apartnt I had in my old life. A massive king-sized bed dominates the space, its fra a sleek platform of dark wood. The sa floor-to-ceiling windows from the living area continue here, though these are equipped with automated blackout curtains. A sitting area with two comfortable-looking armchairs occupies one corner.

“What do you think?” Caterina asks, watching my face closely.

“It’s...” I struggle to find the right words. “It’s amazing. But also kind of intimidating?”

Caterina laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “You’ll get used to it,” she assures , squeezing my hand. “This is your ho now.”

My ho. The phrase settles uncomfortably in my chest. This isn’t my ho, it’s a gilded cage, no matter how beautiful. I’m still essentially a captive, my freedom contingent on Caterina’s whims.

“And there’s one more thing I need to show you,” Caterina says, suddenly serious. She leads toward the far corner of the bedroom, where an abstract painting hangs on the wall.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, as if checking that we’re truly alone despite being in her secure penthouse, she reaches for the edge of the fra. The painting swings outward on hidden hinges, revealing a sleek electronic keypad embedded in the wall behind it.

“Look,” she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “This is important, okay?”

I nod, suddenly alert. The shift in her deanor has my full attention.

“Nothing will ever happen to ,” she continues, her crimson eyes locking with mine, “but God forbid it does... this is an armory and a safe room, okay?”

She taps the keypad with one perfectly manicured finger. “The code is 2326. Rember that.”

“2326,” I repeat, committing the numbers to mory.

She nods approvingly and punches in the code. There’s a soft beep, followed by the sound of heavy locks disengaging. A section of wall slides open, revealing a hidden room that makes my jaw drop.

The space beyond is like sothing out of an action movie. One wall is lined with weapons, sleek rifles mounted on racks, handguns displayed in glass cases, boxes of ammunition stacked neatly on shelves. Another wall holds monitors showing security feeds from around the building.

But what catches my eye is the money. Stacks and stacks of cash, bound in neat bundles, filling a large safe with its door standing open.

“I keep five hundred thousand on hand at all tis, okay?” Caterina says matter-of-factly, as if having half a million dollars in cash is the most normal thing in the world. Maybe for her, it is.

Her hand suddenly grips my arm with surprising strength, her fingers digging into my flesh with an urgency that startles . Her eyes, those unnerving crimson pools, bore into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“If you ever, EVER are in an ergency,” she says, each word deliberate and heavy with aning, “you take whatever you need from this room.”

I nod, unable to look away from her gaze. “Okay.”

She doesn’t release my arm. If anything, her grip tightens. “I an it, Adam. The guns, the money, whatever you need to stay safe.”

My eyes drift past her to the contents of the room, and I notice sothing else, a small cabinet with several passports visible through its glass door. They appear to be from different countries, though I can’t make out the details from where I stand.

“Those are passports,” Caterina says, following my gaze. “German, Canadian, Brazilian, and Swiss. Clean identities, untraceable.”

“Even for ?” I ask, surprise evident in my voice.

Her eyes find mine again, fierce and unwavering. The crimson seems to burn with an inner fire as she leans closer, her face inches from mine.

“Adam, yes,” she says, her voice dropping to an intense whisper. “I would rather die than leave you behind.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, genuinely touched despite myself. But in my mind, I can’t help thinking that feels like a hell of a lot of pressure. The intensity of her devotion is both flattering and terrifying.

My eyes drift back to the stacks of cash, neat bundles of hundreds arranged with military precision. I find myself calculating, almost unconsciously, how much I would need to grab for a fresh start sowhere far away. Enough for a plane ticket, a few months’ rent while I figure things out...

‘I an… Fuck it, right? I’d probably be safer if I left.’

Caterina’s gaze follows mine, her expression shifting as she watches staring at the money. Sothing cold and dangerous flickers in those crimson depths. Before I can react, she’s pushing against the wall, her forearm pressed against my chest with pinning in place.

“If you ever think about running away, Adam and I catch you,” she says, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “do you know what I’ll do to you?”

I gulp, my heart hamring against my ribs as I stare into eyes that have gone from passionate to glacial in seconds. “I wouldn’t do that.” I say as if that’s not what I was just considering.

“I will make you feel pain you didn’t even know was possible,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken, her voice eerily calm despite the violence of her words. “Pain that will make you forget your own na.”

“This is so over the top,” I protest weakly, trying to defuse the situation. “I’m not going to leave.”

Her hand shoots up, fingers gripping my jaw with bruising force, forcing to look directly into her eyes. “If you try to leave , Adam,” she says, each word precise and deadly, “I will make sure to leave proper marks next ti. Ones that won’t fade so quickly.”

“Okay, okay,” I say quickly, fear snaking through at the casual way she threatens violence, reminding of the bruise still healing around my eye.

As suddenly as it began, the storm passes. Caterina’s expression transforms, the cold rage lting away to be replaced by tender concern. She releases my jaw and wraps her arms around instead, pulling into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my neck, her breath warm and slightly unsteady. “I just don’t want you to run away.”

Her arms tighten around , clinging with a desperation that feels at odds with the powerful, controlled woman who, monts ago, had pinned against the wall. I can feel her heartbeat, rapid and strong, against my chest.

“I’m not going to,” I say. Not really sure how to feel.

‘Her temper really does scare the shit out of .’

Caterina pulls back slightly, her crimson eyes searching mine as if looking for the truth behind my words. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her because the tension drains from her shoulders, and a small smile curves her lips.

“Alright,” she says, her voice returning to its normal confident cadence. She steps back, straightening her already immaculate white suit with quick, efficient movents. “Go put on the suit I laid out for you in your closet. We’re going out to eat.”

She smiles at and points to a door I hadn’t noticed before, set into the wall opposite the bed. There’s sothing playful in her expression now, like a child who can’t wait to show off a surprise.

I raise an eyebrow but comply, crossing the room to the indicated door. When I pull it open, I’m confronted with what can only be described as a boutique-sized closet. The space is easily as large as the bedroom in my old apartnt, with rows of hanging clothes, built-in drawers, and a center island with what looks like jewelry displayed under glass.

“Jesus,” I mutter, taking in the sheer volu of items. “Is all this for ?”

“Of course,” Caterina calls from the bedroom. I can hear the smile in her voice. “Your old clothes were... well, let’s just say they didn’t do you justice.”

‘I never really was a clothes guy.’

I move deeper into the closet, my fingers trailing over fabrics that feel expensive to the touch. Shirts in every color imaginable, though heavy on the blues and greens. Suits arranged by shade and season. Casual wear that looks anything but casual in its apparent quality. Shoes lined up with military precision along one wall.

And there, hanging prominently on a display at the far end, is a white suit that’s clearly ant to match Caterina’s signature look. The fabric gleams softly under the recessed lighting, crisp and pristine.

“Jesus, this is really fancy.”

*****

The restaurant is nestled in the heart of Boston’s North End, an elegant establishnt that sohow manages to be both traditional and modern at the sa ti. De Luca’s, Caterina’s nasake and, as I recently discovered, her family’s flagship restaurant for three generations. The space is all polished wood, crisp white tablecloths, and subtle lighting that makes everyone look airbrushed.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, hyperaware of how the pristine white suit Caterina selected for stands out against the darker decor. It’s like wearing a neon sign that says, “Look at , I’m with the boss.” The fabric feels strange against my body, too luxurious, too perfect, like I’m wearing soone else’s skin.

‘Is this the power Buffalo Bill wished to wield?’

A waiter appears at my elbow with a bottle of wine, pouring a small amount into Caterina’s glass. She swirls it, sniffs, tastes, and nods her approval. Only then does he fill her glass and mine.

I notice a couple at a nearby table stealing glances in our direction. The woman whispers sothing to her companion, her eyes flickering to my face, specifically to the yellow-purple bruise still visible around my eye. But the mont Caterina turns slightly in their direction, they both suddenly beco intensely interested in their nus.

It’s been happening all evening. A look, a whisper, then a hasty retreat when they realize who I’m dining with. It’s like watching prey animals suddenly realize there’s a predator in their midst.

The server returns, this ti carrying two plates with what can only be described as culinary architecture. My dish is a complex arrangent of colors and textures that bears little resemblance to anything I’d recognize as food. There’s a piece of what I think is fish surrounded by foams, purees, and tiny vegetables arranged with tweezers. It looks more like modern art than dinner.

I stare at the plate, fork hovering uncertainly over the elaborate presentation, not sure where to begin. There are elents on this plate I can’t even identify, let alone know if I’ll enjoy eating.

“Why are you staring at it? Eat it, baby, it’s good,” Caterina says, already cutting into her own equally elaborate dish with practiced ease.

“There’s a lot of things on this plate I’ve never tried before,” I admit, poking tentatively at sothing purple that might be a beet but might also be sothing from the ocean floor.

Caterina pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth, and studies with those unsettling crimson eyes. A small smile plays at the corners of her perfect lips.

She sets her fork down, her crimson eyes studying with new interest. “Don’t most n love fancy, expensive foods? I thought this would impress you.”

I shift in my seat, feeling suddenly self-conscious under her scrutiny. The white suit feels even more restrictive like I’m wearing a costu in a play I never auditioned for.

“Look, I grew up lower middle class,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “My mom, when she was still alive, would take us to Applebee’s as a fancy place to go. That was our special occasion restaurant.”

Caterina’s expression softens, sothing like understanding flickering in those crimson depths. She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine.

“But why the frown?” she asks, her voice gentler than usual.

I look down at the artistic arrangent on my plate, the vibrant purples, greens, yellows, and reds all competing for attention, the foams and gels and powders defying my understanding of what food should be.

“All these colors are overwhelming,” I admit. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s like eating a painting.”

A small laugh escapes her, not mocking but genuinely amused. “Are you a picky eater?” she asks, her head tilting slightly as she continues to study .

I consider the question, thinking about my relationship with food throughout my life. “I’m a work in progress,” I say finally.

Caterina nods slowly, then signals for the waiter with a subtle gesture that sohow commands imdiate attention. When he appears at her side, she speaks in a low voice. “Bring us the spaghetti and atballs from the family nu, please. Two portions.”

The waiter’s eyes widen slightly, but he recovers quickly. “Of course, Ms. De Luca. Right away.”

As he hurries off, I stare at Caterina in surprise. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She shrugs elegantly, taking a sip of her wine. “I want you to enjoy your al, not endure it. Besides,” she adds with a small, almost shy smile, “my grandmother’s spaghetti and atballs is actually the best thing we make here.”

“I love spaghetti and atballs. I bet I could eat it every day, honestly.”

Caterina furrows her brow. “Adam, you would die.” Her voice is laced with maternal fear.

“No, I bet it’d…”

Caterina cuts off. “Don’t even consider it.”

“Understood.

A/N I'm up to chapter 26 on discord. Only join if your cool af though.

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