Snatched Two Husbands, But They Both Remember the Fire Chapter 01

Snatched Two Husbands, But They Both Remember the Fire Chapter 01

I’m the most insufferable princess of the New York underworld.

Up here in my penthouse on the Upper East Side, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the whole damn city’s lights, I’m curled up on a leather couch, swirling a glass of amber bourbon. Ice clicks against crystal, echoing through the empty living room.

Ever since my little brother Alexander clawed his way to the Don’s seat, I’ve become the woman the Five Families call “the one you don’t fucking touch.” Not because I’m some badass fighter—though I can hold my own—but because everyone knows: piss me off, and the young Don will wipe your territory off the map, then hang your head from the Brooklyn Bridge as a warning.

And I especially love taking shit that belongs to Sophia.

Sophia. My half-sister. Mama Ross’s precious little princess. All sweet on the surface, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but underneath? A snake dripping with venom. We grew up together—no, scratch that. She grew up watching me, then spent every waking moment trying to put me in the ground. Broken glass in my food when we were kids. A car bomb when we got older. Her methods got more creative over the years, but that cruel nature of hers? Never changed.

So on the day we were both supposed to get married, I changed the lineup. On a whim.

Sophia was supposed to marry Rocco—some underboss from Brooklyn, hard as granite, been whacking people since he was twelve. The ice water in his veins. They call him “the Iceman” down in the underworld. Not because he’s quiet—though he is—but because one look from those eyes makes the cockiest wiseguy take three steps back.

I was supposed to marry Luca. The consigliere’s son. A breath of fresh air. Like a bamboo stalk that walked right out of an ink painting. Warm. Restrained. Always in a perfectly tailored suit, always polite to a fault.

But that morning, I was drinking my coffee, watching Sophia sashay past me all smug. Her wedding dress had a ten-foot train, hand-stitched by some Italian designer, covered in diamonds that caught the light like a thousand tiny knives. She had a pearl tiara on her head and that perfect little smile plastered on her face, hanging off Mama Ross’s arm like a queen about to be crowned.

She walked past me and lowered her voice.

“Big sister,” she said. “After today, you’ll be the one marrying leftovers. How pathetic.”

I put down my coffee cup.

And smiled.

“Alessia,” I called to my girl. “Go tell Rocco he’s not marrying Sophia today. He’s marrying me.”

Alessia was pouring my orange juice. Her hand jerked so bad she dumped the whole bottle on the tablecloth. She looked up at me with eyes like saucers, mouth opening and closing like a fish that just got thrown onto the dock.

“Uh… boss?”

“You deaf?” I stood up, tossed my hair into a messy bun. “And send another crew to pick up Luca. Bring him to my estate. Tell him—I changed my mind about the whole ‘first husband, second husband’ situation. Need them both there in person to sort it out.”

Alessia looked like her eyeballs were about to jump out of her skull.

“Come again?!”

“You heard me. Move.”

I didn’t explain. Because some things are more fun when you don’t. Like chess—you wait until your opponent makes her move, then you tell her: honey, your king’s been dead for three moves.

So on wedding day, at the fanciest cathedral in Manhattan, Sophia stood at the end of the aisle, smiling like a rose in full bloom. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, painting rainbows across her white dress. The priest was already at the altar. The pews were packed with the Five Families in their suits and diamonds, waiting to watch the wedding of the century go down.

Then the side door of the cathedral flew open. Kicked in.

I was standing there. In a black dress—yeah, black. White’s boring. Three black SUVs behind me, and Rocco, tied up and looking like he wanted to kill someone.

Two of my guys had him by the arms. His suit was a wreck, his tie hung sideways, but those eyes—those black, frozen eyes—were fixed straight ahead.

On me.

Sophia’s smile froze on her face like somebody hit pause.

I could’ve lived in that moment forever.

—

After the wedding, Rocco only came to me on full moons. Cold. Angry. Hate-sex, plain and simple.

Every month on that night, he’d show up at my bedroom door in a black silk robe, hair still wet like he just got out of the shower. Never knocked. Just pushed the door open, locked it behind him, and walked toward me. His eyes in the dim light—bright, wild, like an animal that’s been chained up too long and finally let out of its cage.

He hated me. I knew it. Every time we finished, he’d grit his teeth and say, “Catalina, I swear to God I’m gonna kill you.” Like he meant it. Every word dripping with enough venom to put down a horse.

But every morning, without fail, he’d be at my breakfast table. Drinking my coffee like it was his god-given right. The way he drank it was so Rocco—black, no sugar, no cream, bitter as aspirin, down in one gulp without blinking.

“You show up here every day for my coffee,” I asked him once. “You gonna pay rent for that?”

“You stole me from my wedding,” he said, deadpan. “A few cups of coffee is the least you owe me.”

“I didn’t steal you—”

“I’m not talking about her.”

He didn’t finish. Just got up and walked out.

But next morning? Same time. Same seat. Same coffee. Same sour face.

Sophia came by all the time, crying on Rocco’s shoulder about how sad her life was.

“Luca won’t touch me,” she’d whimper, all weepy eyes and trembling voice. “He says he’s saving himself for my sister.” She’d wear some pale pink dress, hair all soft around her shoulders, makeup so subtle it looked like she wasn’t wearing any—a goddamn masterpiece of manipulation. “Big sister’s little stunt really ruined all four of our lives, didn’t it?”

She’d stare right at Rocco when she said it, tears perfectly timed to roll down her cheeks at the most dramatic moment.

I watched Rocco’s fists clench. Knuckles white. Bones cracking.

It got to him.

Course it did. Here’s the thing about Rocco—when he was ten, some girl pulled him out of a pond, and he’d spent years trying to track her down. He thought it was Sophia, because the old Don had taken her to some temple that day for a blessing ceremony. So he fell for her. Hard. Spent six years watching over her from the shadows.

If I hadn’t stepped in, they’d be the golden couple.

Seeing his fists clench like that? I leaned back in my chair and thought about it for about three seconds.

Then I decided I didn’t give a damn.

Watching Sophia lose is better than any drug. Like when she used to hold my head underwater when we were kids, that same smile on her face. Only now she’s the one drowning.

Late that night, I’d had a few. Sitting alone in the estate garden, watching the moonlight hit the Italian cypresses. Shadows stretching long and dark. Roses in the air. Nightingales somewhere in the dark.

Half a bottle of bourbon in, I stood up, kicked off my heels, and walked barefoot across the stone path.

I decided to go to Rocco’s room.

“Decided” makes it sound like I thought about it. Truth is, every time I drink, I end up at his door. Like my body knows where it wants to go before my brain catches up.

I kicked his door open.

Room was dark. No lights. Just moonlight through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the dark wood floor.

He wasn’t asleep. Sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket tossed aside, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, showing off the edge of a tattoo—a wolf with its jaws open, surrounded by flames.

He looked up when I came in. Those eyes in the dark—bright, predatory.

“Late night, princess. What do you want?”

“Maybe I want to get eaten.”

He didn’t laugh at my joke. Just stood up. Bare feet silent on the floor. Walked toward me slow.

He stopped when he was close enough to touch. Put one hand on the doorframe next to my head. Boxed me in. The smell of him—cigars, whiskey, leather, gunpowder. Underworld smell. Dangerous. Rough. Addictive.

“You care whether I believe her,” he said, voice low in his chest, “or you just care that she cried on my shoulder?”

I pushed at his chest. Hard as a brick wall. Didn’t budge. Under my palm, his heart was steady. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a metronome.

“I care that you walk around with a face like I owe you eight million bucks.”

Rocco smiled. Not a nice smile. The kind of smile an animal gives when it sees its prey leave an opening.

“You don’t owe me money,” he said, leaning in close, lips almost touching my ear. His breath hot on my neck. “You owe me something else.”

He didn’t finish.

He just kissed me.

Not gentle. Not slow. A kiss that took the air out of my lungs. His hand on the back of my head, fingers in my hair, messing up the bun I’d spent ten minutes on. Other hand on my hip, holding me like he wanted to leave bruises.

He pinned me against the door and kissed me until my knees gave out.

Afterward, I lay in tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling fan going around and around. Everything hurt.

Rocco was next to me, still catching his breath. Chest rising and falling. Sweat on his forehead, dripping down his jaw.

I shoved his shoulder.

“Okay, so I humiliated your crush earlier. Didn’t mean you had to fuck me into next week.”

My back was killing me.

Rocco froze for half a second.

Then he leaned down and bit my neck. Not a kiss. A bite. Teeth breaking skin. I gasped and slapped him across the face.

*Crack.*

Loud as a gunshot in the big empty room.

Rocco didn’t even blink. Just sat there with a red handprint on his cheek, looking like nothing happened. He almost smiled. Then he grabbed both my wrists and pinned them over my head.

He looked down at me. Eyes dark. Storm-dark.

“Did Luca ever make it to this room?”

His voice was calm. Like he was asking about the weather. But I felt his fingers tighten around my wrists, and he had to feel my pulse—racing like crazy under his thumb.

“No,” I said, looking away. “He never came in.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He grabbed my chin, turned my face back to his. His fingers had calluses. Gun calluses. Rubbed against my skin. Rough. Strange.

“I asked—how far did you two go?”

For a moment, I let myself think about Luca. His eyes, red around the rims. That cold, beautiful face that couldn’t quite hide what he was feeling. Standing in the church doorway in that teal shirt, smiling at me with the sun behind him.

Suddenly I felt tired. Like someone hollowed me out from the inside.

“Get off.”

I kicked him in the chest. He grunted, rolled off, hit the bedpost with a solid *thud*.

“You kicked me. For him.”

He was holding his chest, face dark as a winter storm, jaw clenched so tight I could see the vein in his temple.

I didn’t answer.

Grabbed my robe. Bare feet on the cold floor. Walked out.

At the door, I stopped. Didn’t look back.

Behind me, nothing. Dead quiet.

Three seconds.

Then—furniture flying.

A lamp hit the floor. Glass everywhere. A chair slammed against the wall. Wood splintering. Then silence again. Deeper than before.

I heard his voice. Low. Like it came up from hell.

“Catalina. You remember this.”

I didn’t turn around.

But I stood in the hallway for a long time.

My legs were shaking. Not because I was scared.

Because—

Forget it.