Chapter 5 Cassio
Cassio
The Cathedral of San Lorenzo smells like burning myrrh and melting beeswax.
I stand in the quiet, shadowed alcove of the sacristy, gazing at my reflection in an ornate gold mirror.
The custom black tuxedo fits my shoulders perfectly, and the white shirt beneath is spotless and smooth.
I lift my hand and carefully adjust my platinum cufflinks.
I look like a man stepping into a boardroom to seal a multi-million dollar deal.
I certainly don’t look like a man being forced to the altar with a gun to his back.
"Perimeter is locked down, Boss," Matteo’s voice pulls my attention away from the glass.
My underboss is leaning against the heavy oak door, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his formalwear.
"We have snipers on the adjacent rooftops.
The Russians haven't twitched. Not a single Bratva rat within a five-mile radius. "
"Good," I flatly reply. I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the slight tension coiling in my muscles. "And Orlando's men?"
"Seated on the right side of the nave. Our boys are on the left. The Rossi men are stationed in the aisles to keep everyone from reaching for their holsters." Matteo chuckles, though there is no humor in the sound. "It feels less like a wedding and more like a fucking hostage exchange."
"That’s exactly what it is, Matteo."
I turn away from the mirror. I pat the reassuring weight of the customized 1911 holstered at my ribs.
I’m not supposed to wear it out there, it's a blatant violation of the Capo dei Capi's peace terms, but I'll be damned if I stand at an altar completely unarmed with Orlando Genovese twenty feet away.
Despite the bitter taste of being manipulated into this union by Don Salvatore, a sense of satisfaction tingles my skin. I outmaneuvered Orlando. He thought he could stall, dictate terms, and use this mandate to humiliate me. Instead, I demanded his prize.
Lucia Genovese.
I’ve seen her at a few of the syndicate galas.
She’s a pretty, fragile little bird who keeps her eyes glued to the floorboards and only speaks when spoken to.
She is exactly what I need: a beautiful, silent ghost. She will look perfect standing next to me in photographs, she will warm my bed when I require it, and she will stay out of my fucking way while I run the Vellutini empire and prepare for the war against the Russians.
I will lock Orlando's golden child in my penthouse, and every time the old man breathes, he will have to remember that I own the best part of him.
The resonant hum of the cathedral’s pipe organ begins to vibrate through the stone floor beneath my leather shoes. It’s time.
I roll my shoulders, letting the icy, impenetrable mask of the Don slip perfectly into place, and push open the door.
Stepping out into the main sanctuary is like stepping into a heavily armed powder keg.
The cathedral is massive, a towering monument of stained glass and vaulted ceilings.
As I walk toward the altar, the silence from the pews is deafening.
Hundreds of men, dressed to the nines, staring at each other across the center aisle with barely concealed murderous intent.
Don Salvatore is seated in the very front row on the left, acting as the ultimate, terrifying chaperone. He meets my eyes and gives a single, solemn nod.
I take my place at the altar, folding my hands casually in front of me, exuding absolute control. I let my gaze sweep over the Genovese side of the church. My eyes scan the front rows, bypassing the old Capos and the bitter widows, until they lock onto a face in the third row.
Dario Lombardi.
The son of the fourth family is sitting stiffly in his pew, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.
He looks pale, his jaw ticking frantically.
It’s a strange reaction for a man who has nothing to lose today.
I narrow my eyes slightly, filing away his erratic behavior for later.
Right now, the music swells, the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the cathedral groan open, and the entire congregation rises to their feet.
Orlando Genovese steps through the archway, a woman clinging to his arm.
The dress is a massive, ostentatious explosion of white silk, diamonds, and imported Chantilly lace. It’s exactly the kind of obnoxious display of wealth Orlando would insist upon. The bride’s face is completely obscured by a thick, heavy traditional lace veil that falls all the way to her waist.
But the second she takes her first step down the aisle, a cold, sharp prickle of unease slides down my spine.
Something is wrong.
Lucia Genovese is a timid creature. She walks like she's apologizing for taking up space.
But the woman marching down the aisle beside Orlando isn't gliding.
She isn't trembling. Her spine is a rigid, unyielding rod of steel.
Her chin is angled up so sharply I can see the aggressive tilt of it even through the thick lace.
She is walking to the altar the way a soldier marches toward a firing squad, with defiant hostility.
My brow furrows. Beside me, I hear Matteo shift his weight, sensing the sudden, dangerous spike in my tension.
Orlando reaches the end of the aisle. As he stops before the altar, he doesn't look like a father giving away his beloved youngest daughter.
He looks like a man who just pulled off the heist of the century.
His dark eyes lock onto mine, and there is a sickly, triumphant, venomous gleam dancing in them.
"Take care of her, Cassio," Orlando murmurs, his voice is filled with a mockery that only I can hear over the organ music.
He takes her hand and places it forcefully into mine.
Her fingers are freezing. There is no delicate, nervous flutter. Her grip is rigid, the muscles in her hand tense and practically vibrating with an anger so palpable it feels like an electrical current.
I don't look at the priest. I don't look at Salvatore. I reach up with my free hand, grab the edge of the heavy lace veil, and violently flip it back over her head.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sudden, silent rush.
Dark, furious, fathomless eyes glare back at me. High cheekbones set in a sharp, unforgiving jawline. Lips painted a deep, blood-red, pressed into a flat line of uncompromising loathing.
Noemi.
The shrew. The unwanted, bitter spinster. The woman who looked me in the eye a year ago, spilled wine on my shoes, and told me I was a thug playing dress-up.
For three agonizing seconds, the entire cathedral ceases to exist. The organ music fades into a dull, distant buzz.
The blood roaring in my ears sounds like a hurricane.
A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated, homicidal rage crashes through my veins, so intense my vision actually darkened at the edges.
Orlando switched them.
The arrogant, archaic piece of shit actually played me. He kept his precious, untouched Lucia safe in her gilded cage, and he gift-wrapped his useless, sharp-tongued headache of an eldest daughter and shoved her down my throat.
I snap my gaze toward the front pew. Don Salvatore’s face is completely blank.
He knew. The Capo dei Capi knew Orlando pulled the bait-and-switch, and he allowed it.
Salvatore didn't give a single, solitary fuck which of the Genovese wore the white dress, as long as the bloodlines were tied to secure the port.
I have been humiliated. I have been outmaneuvered in front of the entire syndicate.
My fingers tighten around Noemi’s hand, my thumb digging brutally into the delicate bones of her knuckles. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't whimper. She just stares at me, her dark eyes reflecting my own violent hatred perfectly.
"You have made a fatal mistake, Genovese," I whisper, my voice so low, and so saturated with venom.
"I didn't choose this, you arrogant prick," she breathes back, her tone just as lethal, not backing down an inch. "If I had a choice, I'd be standing over your grave right now, not beside you at an altar."
I let out a dark, breathless chuckle that holds absolutely no humor. "We can arrange that."
The priest clears his throat, completely oblivious to the fact that he is standing between two people who are mentally visualizing how to butcher each other. He begins the Mass in Latin. The ancient, sacred words wash over us, but they are hollow and utterly meaningless in my ears.
I force myself to look away from her face, staring blankly ahead. As my gaze sweeps over the Genovese side of the aisle again, my eyes land back on Dario Lombardi.
He is leaning forward in the pew now, staring at Noemi. The look on his face isn't just tension anymore; it’s a sick, obsessive desperation.
Suddenly, another layer of Orlando’s betrayal slams into me, making my stomach churn with a violent, acidic disgust.
The rumors. Everyone in our world whispers, and I hear everything.
They say the Genovese spinster couldn't land a match not only because her attitude was too foul, but also because of the darker whisper, the one men share over scotch and cigars when they think no one is listening, that she’s been letting the Lombardi boy warm her bed. They say she’s ruined. Spoiled goods.
Orlando didn't just deny me his best daughter. He pawned off Dario Lombardi’s sloppy seconds on the Don of the Vellutini family. He is using me as a fucking garbage disposal for his family's shame, tying my name to a woman who has already spread her legs for the weakest family in the city.
I look back at Noemi. The pristine white silk of her dress suddenly looks like a sick joke. A mockery of purity. The sheer disrespect of it makes my trigger finger itch with a desperate need for violence.
"He's watching you," I murmur, leaning in just a fraction, keeping my face angled toward the altar so the audience only sees a groom whispering intimately to his bride.
Noemi’s jaw clenches, but she refuses to turn her head to look at the pews. "I don't know what you're talking about."