Chapter 39: Princess Pizza

The SUV pulls up to the curb with a gentle lurch, the engine purring to a stop outside Princess Pizza. Through the tinted windows, I can see the Leaning Tower of Pizza jutting out from the roof of the restaurant, its cartoonish tilt and faded paint a nostalgic sight that sends a strange wave of emotion through me. The tower looks smaller than I remember, tackier even. But it’s real, a piece of my life before Caterina that somehow still exists in this twisted new reality.

‘Granted, it was called Prince Pizza before, but this is close enough.’

“We’re here, Boss,” Lara announces.

Caterina surveys the restaurant with poorly disguised disdain, her crimson eyes narrowing slightly at the neon sign flickering in the early evening light. The parking lot is half-full, occupied mostly by minivans and sensible sedans, regular normal people having normal dinners with their regular families.

“You two stay with the car,” Caterina instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We shouldn’t be long.”

Maddy nods professionally while Lara slouches in her seat with a dramatic sigh. “Whatever you say, Boss. We’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Caterina’s expression softens into that practiced tenderness that still makes my skin crawl. “Ready, baby?” she asks, her hand already reaching for the door handle.

I nod, unable to hide the spark of genuine excitement that flares in my chest. For a moment, I feel almost like my old self, like Adam Evans going to get pizza on a Friday night, not Caterina De Luca’s broken toy on a supervised outing.

The door swings open, and the smell hits me immediately, tomato sauce, baking dough, garlic, and oregano. The scent of normalcy. Caterina slides out first. She turns back to me, extending her hand with that carnivorous smile.

“Come on, baby,” she says with affection. “Let me help you.”

I awkwardly maneuver my way out of the SUV, my massive casts bumping against the doorframe. The movement sends a jolt of pain through my broken hands, and I hiss through clenched teeth. Caterina’s arm wraps around my waist, steadying me with surprising strength.

“Careful,” she murmurs, pulling me against her side. “I’ve got you.”

As we step inside, the familiar atmosphere washes over me, the worn linoleum floor, the buzzing fluorescent lights, the constant chatter of families and the distant clatter of kitchen staff shouting orders. The counter is unmanned, a small handwritten sign reading “Please wait to be seated” propped against a stack of laminated menus.

I inhale deeply, letting the smell of pizza and cheese fill my lungs.

“Yeah, this place fucks,” I say with unexpected enthusiasm, the slang slipping out naturally.

Caterina chuckles beside me, her crimson eyes scanning the restaurant with clinical detachment. “Sure, sure,” she replies, clearly humoring me.

A teenage server approaches, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in Caterina’s imposing height and expensive attire, so out of place among the families in jeans and t-shirts. Her gaze drops to my casts, curiosity flashing across her face before professional courtesy masks it.

“Just two tonight?” she asks, already reaching for menus.

“Yes,” Caterina answers before I can speak. “Somewhere private, if possible.”

The server nods, leading us through the maze of tables toward a booth in the corner. I catch glimpses of normal life as we pass, children coloring on paper placemats, couples sharing slices, friends laughing over pitchers of soda.

“Here you are,” the server says, placing menus on the table. “Can I get you folks something to drink?”

Before I can answer, Caterina slides into the booth and pats the space beside her. Not across from her, beside her. Her meaning is clear. We’re sitting together like lovers would. My stomach twists with a mixture of resignation and humiliation, but I comply, awkwardly maneuvering my casted hands as I settle next to her.

“I’ll have water,” Caterina says, not bothering to look at the drinks menu. “Bottled, preferably.”

The server nods, scribbling on her notepad before turning to me with a sympathetic smile. “And for you, sir?”

“Coke, please,” I say.

As the server walks away, Caterina’s arm slides around my shoulders, her fingers tracing idle patterns against my upper arm. Her crimson eyes scan the restaurant with the detached interest of an anthropologist observing a primitive culture.

“The red and white checkerboard pattern for the tables is a bit simple, isn’t it?” she remarks, running her free hand over the plastic tablecloth. “Very... quaint.”

I stare at her, annoyance flaring hot and sudden in my chest. For a moment, I consider saying something cutting, something to puncture her perpetual air of superiority. But the dull throb in my casted hands reminds me of the price of defiance, and I swallow the words before they can escape.

Instead, I shrug and look down at the menu, though I already know what I want. The same thing I’ve ordered since I was five years old, a large cheese pizza.

‘I’m a simple man.’

I scan the walls, taking in the faded photographs of local sports teams and newspaper clippings yellowed with age. There, above the kitchen entrance, hangs the same signed Red Sox jersey that’s been there since I was small enough to need a booster seat.

The server returns with our drinks, placing a sweating glass of Coke before me and a bottle of water for Caterina. She looks at my casts with sympathy.

“Those look rough,” she comments. “Skiing accident?”

“Rock climbing,” Caterina interjects smoothly, her arm tightening around my shoulders. “He’s still learning his limits.”

“Yikes.” The server nods, pulling out her notepad. “Ready to order?”

“Large cheese pizza,” I say eagerly.

The girl scribbles on her pad. “Great choice.”

Caterina waves her hand dismissively. “That will be sufficient.”

The server walks away, seemingly happy to be far from Caterina, her scary-ass gaze.

“This place is my favorite,” I say, my voice softening with genuine emotion. “My mom took me here when I was a kid before she, well...” I trail off, the memory of her death still painful after all these years.

Caterina watches me intently, her crimson eyes missing nothing.

“And then Jessica would take me here,” I continue, lost in recollection. “We never had a dad to come with us. I don’t know how to explain it. I just really love it here.” I look around at the bustling tables, the families sharing meals together. “Connor and I came here all the time in college.”

Caterina’s crimson eyes seem to glow in the dim lighting of the restaurant as she studies my face with that predatory intensity that never quite leaves her, even in moments of apparent tenderness. Her fingers trace delicate patterns on my shoulder, each touch a subtle reminder of ownership.

“Did you ever go on dates here?” she asks suddenly, her voice deceptively casual as she takes a sip of her bottled water.

The question catches me off guard, and I find myself sifting through memories that feel increasingly distant as if they belong to someone else entirely.

“I don’t think so,” I reply with a shrug, watching condensation bead on my untouched Coke glass. “I don’t really remember.”

Caterina’s perfect eyebrows arch slightly. “Never with Claire?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I never dated Claire.”

Something shifts in Caterina’s expression, a subtle hardening around the eyes, a tightening of her perfect lips. Her hand stops its gentle caress of my shoulder, instead gripping it with barely concealed frustration.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice dropping to that maternal tone that slowly is becoming a turn-on. “I know you have your false memories. It looks like you may never regain your real ones.”

I stare at her, remembering she doesn’t believe that I’m from a different world. And thats fair.

I look at Caterina, this beautiful monster who’s systematically destroyed every part of my life, and make the only choice available to me. I lie.

“Yup, that’s true,” I say, forcing a small, defeated smile.

She looks at me with her crimson eyes narrowing slightly, head tilted in curiosity. “So this place means everything to you?”

I glance around at the worn booths, the buzzing overhead lights, the faded posters of old sports teams. Everything here is cheap, dated, and ordinary, the exact opposite of Caterina’s world of luxury and violence. Yet somehow, it feels more real than anything I’ve experienced in weeks.

“Yeah,” I answer simply, surprised by the genuine emotion in my voice. “It does.”

Something shifts in Caterina’s expression, a subtle softening around the edges of her predatory features. She runs her fingers along the plastic tablecloth, examining the red and white checkerboard pattern she’d dismissed moments earlier.

“Then I’m sorry I was unkind about it,” she says, the words coming out awkwardly, as though she’s unpracticed in genuine apology. “I’m happy you took me somewhere special on your first chance.”

I study her face, searching for the manipulation, the calculation that must be hiding behind those crimson eyes. But all I find is what appears to be sincerity.

She pulls me in close, her arm sliding around my shoulders with practiced ease. Despite everything, the broken hands, the drugs, the torture, the threats, I feel surprisingly safe in this moment. The contradiction of it makes my stomach lurch more than any medication she’s forced down my throat.

I lean into her embrace, breathing in her scent. Expensive soap and a hint of sweat, clean and somehow primal at the same time. I breathe it in deeper without thinking, my nose brushing against her neck as I inhale again.

“Are you smelling me?” she asks, amusement coloring her voice.

I chuckle, not caring what I do as long as I don’t break her rules. “Yeah,” I admit, feeling strangely lightheaded from the closeness, from the momentary illusion of normalcy.

Her lips curve into that possessive smile that simultaneously terrifies and enthralls me. “Good,” she says simply, pressing a kiss to my temple.

*****

The empty pizza tray sits between us, nothing but crumbs and a few stray flecks of cheese remaining from what had been, I have to admit, a perfect pizza.

Caterina dabs at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin, somehow managing to make even this mundane gesture look elegant. Despite her initial disdain, she had eaten three slices, her perfect composure slipping just enough to reveal genuine enjoyment.

“I must admit,” she says, folding the napkin into a neat square, “that was actually quite good. Not Michelin star, obviously, but there’s something... authentic about it.”

I smile, a real smile that reaches my eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. “Told you,” I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “Best pizza in Massachusetts.”

She reaches across the booth, her fingers gently brushing against my cheek in a tender gesture that feels almost normal. “I like seeing you happy,” she says softly, her crimson eyes studying my face with that unsettling intensity. “Your whole face lights up.”

The server approaches with our check, placing it on the table with a practiced smile. “How was everything?” she asks, glancing between us.

“Perfect,” I reply before Caterina can speak.

Caterina slides her black card into the leather folder without even glancing at the total. The server whisks it away, returning moments later with the receipt for Caterina to sign.

“Thanks for coming in,” she says, collecting the signed receipt.

As the server walks away, Caterina turns to me, her expression softening into something almost human. “Ready to go, baby?”

I nod, suddenly exhausted from the simple act of being in public, of pretending that everything is normal when nothing will ever be normal again. The pain medication is wearing off. The pain is throbbing, yet worse than that, I’m starting to feel a bit sweaty and a little bit aggravated.

Caterina helps me slide out of the booth, her arm wrapping supportively around my waist.

As we make our way toward the exit, I notice a young couple near the entrance, their heads bent close together over a shared dessert. The girl is tall and blonde. Her posture radiates defiance. The smell of cigarettes reaches me despite the distance between us. Across from her sits a brown-haired boy with hazel eyes that seem too gentle for the girl’s carefully cultivated aesthetic.

They’re watching us, not even trying to be subtle about it. The boy leans forward, his eyes fixed on my massive casts and Caterina’s protective grip on my waist.

“See that couple with the scared guy?” he says, loud enough for us to hear as we pass their table. “That’s goals, Erica.”

The blonde girl, Erica, tosses her head back in laughter, the sound bright and careless in a way that makes me ache with nostalgia for a time when I could laugh like that.

“Jason, I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she protests, punching his arm playfully.

The boy, Jason, shakes his head earnestly, his hazel eyes following us with something like admiration. “You’re not getting it. I want to be afraid of you.”

Their conversation fades as we move past, but I catch the girl’s rolled eyes and the boy’s dreamy sigh as they return to their dessert, oblivious to the reality of what they’re romanticizing.

‘Kid, you do not want my life. You’d never make it even one day in my shoes.’

I chuckle despite myself, glancing up at Caterina as we push through the glass doors into the cool evening air. “Did you hear that?” I ask, nodding back toward the teenagers. “We’re ‘goals’ for that kid.”

Caterina’s crimson eyes gleam with amusement. Her arm tightens possessively around my waist as she guides me toward the waiting SUV.

“As we should be,” she replies with casual confidence, her perfect lips curved in a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Every man should want to be held captive by such a loving woman.”

Princess Pizza: