His Unwanted Wife, The Unbeatable Lawyer

Caterina POV:

I arrived at the heavily fortified hotel two hours early.

The Commission summit was the most important event in the underworld calendar, and I treated it like a battlefield. My battlefield.

I meticulously checked all my secure interpretation equipment in the soundproof booth overlooking the main conference hall.

My professionalism was my armor.

Bianca appeared at the door of the booth, her eyes puffy.

She wore a pale pink dress, trying to project an image of innocence.

"Can we just talk for a minute?"

I didn't even look up from the console. "I'm working," I said.

She lingered for a moment before scurrying away.

From my elevated position, I watched them all file in-the Dons, the Underbosses, the Consiglieri.

Jared took his seat at the main table, looking every bit the powerful mafioso. A slight stiffness in his shoulder was the only sign of his recent 'heroism.'

The summit began.

I slipped into my professional persona, becoming a seamless extension of the technology around me.

My mind became a conduit, my voice a neutral instrument.

Sicilian. Russian. English. The words flowed through me, flawless and precise.

I was invisible, yet essential.

During the first recess, the Dons of the Chicago and New York Families approached me, their faces etched with respect.

"Incredible work, Ms. Quinn," the Chicago Don said, his voice a gravelly rumble.

"Your skill is unmatched."

Just then, Jared materialized at my side, a proprietary smile on his face.

"She's the best," he said, attempting to place a hand on the small of my back.

"My wife," he added.

I sidestepped the touch with a grace born of years of practice.

"Thank you, Don Moretti," I said, addressing the Chicago boss directly while completely ignoring Jared.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for the next session."

I walked away, leaving Jared standing there, his hand awkwardly suspended mid-air.

In the hallway, I saw Rocco Walsh conferring with his head of security.

He saw me and gave a curt nod.

I approached him.

"Don Walsh," I said quietly.

"A hypothetical question, if I may."

His steel-grey eyes fixed on me.

"Go on."

"Hypothetically," I began, "if someone on your crew jeopardized a critical operation and the lives of your soldiers for purely personal reasons... how would you handle it?"

His expression didn't change, but his eyes grew colder, harder.

"On my crew?" he said, his voice flat and final.

"They'd be permanently removed."

I nodded slowly.

"I understand."

Back in my booth for the afternoon session, I felt a new sense of clarity.

During a lull in the proceedings, a Don from a neutral territory-a man I knew to be a close associate of Giuliano Wilson-keyed his microphone.

"Ms. Quinn," he said, his voice echoing through the silent hall.

"A question for you. Of all your professional principles, which one are you most proud of?"