Chapter 6 Noemi
Noemi
The drive from the cathedral inside the armored Maybach is a shitty affair.
Cassio sits on the opposite side of the plush leather seat, his body is angled away from me as if my mere existence is an offensive stench.
He hasn’t spoken a single word since he forced his mouth over mine at the altar, branding me with a kiss that felt more like a death sentence.
He spends the entire ride staring out the tinted window at the rain-slicked streets, like a dark, brooding storm cloud in a bespoke tuxedo.
I stare straight ahead, my spine stiff, my hands are clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles ache. I refuse to look at him. I refuse to let him see the violent trembling that is threatening to tear my body apart.
When the car finally glides to a halt, the heavy iron gates of Cassio’s estate close behind us with a loud, final clang. I get my first look at my new prison.
It isn't a house. It’s a fortress.
Built on a secluded cliffside overlooking the churning black waters of the ocean, the estate is a massive, jagged structure of brutalist concrete, black steel, and floor-to-ceiling tinted glass.
It looks exactly like the man who owns it.
There is no old-world Italian charm here.
No marble statues, no blooming gardens. Just sharp angles and sterile, unforgiving stone.
The door opens. Cassio steps out first, not bothering to offer me a hand. I gather the heavy, ridiculous skirts of my white silk wedding dress and climb out into the freezing drizzle, shivering as the coastal wind bites through the lace sleeves.
Waiting on the front steps are a dozen armed guards and a handful of household staff. As I walk up the steps behind my new husband, I feel their eyes on me. I expect the usual subservience I received at my father’s house, the fearful respect demanded by my bloodline.
Instead, I am met with thinly veiled disgust.
The maids look at me with cold eyes. The guards outright glare, their hands resting lazily near their holsters.
They don't see the new Lady of the house. They see the enemy. They see the daughter of Don Orlando, the man who has been killing their brothers and cousins in the streets for two years. Worse, they know exactly what I am to Cassio: a pawn. An insult. Dario Lombardi’s leftover trash shoved down their Don’s throat.
"Matteo," Cassio barks, not even looking back at me as he strides into the cavernous, minimalist foyer of the estate. "Put her in the east wing guest suite. Post two men at the corridor entrance. If she tries to wander into my side of the house, shoot her in the leg."
He doesn't wait for a response. He simply unbuttons his suit jacket and walks away, disappearing down a long, shadows-drenched hallway, leaving me standing alone in the center of the foyer like a piece of unwanted luggage.
Matteo steps forward. He looks at me with zero sympathy, gesturing vaguely toward a glass-paneled staircase. "This way."
He doesn't offer to carry the train of my dress. He doesn't offer a polite welcome. He leads me up two flights of floating stairs, down a long, white hallway that feels like a psychiatric ward, and shoves open a heavy black door.
"Don't cause problems, princess," Matteo grunts. "Cassio might have promised your father a truce, but nobody in this house gives a fuck about your last name. Keep your head down."
He pulls the door shut. The heavy deadbolt clicks loudly from the outside.
I am locked in.
I stand in the center of the room. It’s massive, aggressively modern, and completely devoid of personality. White walls, a charcoal gray bed that looks like a slab of granite, and a wall of windows facing the churning, violent sea. It’s another cage. A beautiful, sterile, freezing cage.
The adrenaline that has been keeping my spine straight for the last five hours suddenly evaporates.
A ragged, choking sound claws its way up my throat. I look down at my hands. I am still holding the massive, stupid bouquet of white roses my mother forced onto me. White roses for purity. White roses for a fresh start.
"Fuck you," I whisper.
I pull my arm back and hurl the bouquet against the far wall with every ounce of strength I possess. It hits the plaster with a satisfying smack, the crystal ribbon snapping, white petals exploding across the dark hardwood floor like a burst of snow.
I storm into the adjoining bathroom, a sprawling nightmare of black marble and harsh fluorescent lights. I catch sight of myself in the massive mirror, and I freeze. I look like a ghost. But it’s not the pale skin or the dark, hollow eyes that make my stomach heave.
It’s my lips. They are swollen, and the red lipstick is smeared outside the lines from where Cassio crushed his mouth against mine.
I can still feel him. I can still feel the brutal, bruising pressure of his lips, the terrifying strength of his fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, holding me in place while he took what he wanted just to prove that he could.
"I will never touch you." His venomous whisper rings in my ears. He kissed me like I was something vile, something to be conquered and discarded.
A sob rips through my chest. I grab a white washcloth from the counter, turn on the scalding hot water, and shove the cloth under the stream. I bring it to my mouth and scrub.
I scrub the red lipstick off, but I can still feel the phantom weight of his kiss. I press harder, the rough terrycloth grinding against my sensitive skin. I scrub until my lips are raw, until they burn, until a bright bead of blood wells up on my lower lip, tasting like copper and salt.
I throw the bloody washcloth into the sink, breathing heavily, staring at my wrecked reflection.
My father paid forty thousand dollars for this silk prison of a dress. It’s supposed to be unbuttoned carefully by a team of maids.
I reach around to my back, my fingers clumsy and shaking, and I just start pulling.
The delicate Chantilly lace rips with a loud, satisfying screech.
I grab the silk bodice and tear it forward, popping the pearl buttons off the fabric.
They scatter across the marble floor like hail.
I don't care. I rip the sleeves, I tear the skirts, panting with the exertion as I strip the heavy, suffocating weight of my father’s betrayal off my body.
I step out of the ruined pile of white silk in my underwear, kicking it away with a bare foot as if it’s diseased.
I sink down onto the cold bathroom floor, pulling my knees tight to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs, burying my face in my knees, and finally, the angry tears come. They burn my eyes, hot and fast, soaking into my skin.
I hate my father. I hate my mother for throwing me to the wolves to save her golden child. I hate Don Salvatore for playing God. And most of all, with a ferocity that scares me, I hate Cassio Vellutini.
I am completely alone in enemy territory. And they are going to make me bleed for every single day I am trapped here.
Three days pass.
Three days of living as a ghost in a mausoleum.
Cassio meant what he said. We live entirely separate lives under the same massive, reinforced roof. He is a phantom. I only ever see him from a distance, striding across the courtyard with Matteo, or sitting at the far end of the ridiculous forty-foot dining table, ignoring my existence entirely.
He doesn't speak to me. He doesn't look at me. He treats me like a piece of ugly furniture that he was forced to inherit and can’t be bothered to throw away.
The staff follows his lead. The food brought to my suite is cold.
The maids refuse to look me in the eye when they clean my room, muttering insults in rapid Sicilian under their breath.
The guards stationed outside my door treat me like a maximum-security prisoner, their hands resting on their guns whenever I step out into the hallway.
If Cassio thought this isolation would break me, if he thought I would cower in my room and weep like a frightened little bride, he vastly underestimated the amount of spite running through my veins.
By the fourth day, I need a fight. I need to remind him that I am not a fucking ornament.
The rules of my cage were laid out by Matteo on the first morning in a gruff, bullet-point list. Stay in the east wing. Do not enter the Don’s study. Do not go near the armory. Dress appropriately for dinner, even if you eat alone. So, naturally, I decide to break every single one of them.
I wait until the late afternoon, when the house is quiet, and the storm outside is raging against the glass.
I bypass the closet full of conservative, elegant dresses my mother packed for me.
Instead, I dig out a pair of worn, oversized gray sweatpants and a faded black tank top.
I leave my feet bare, my dark hair is tangled and loose down my back.
I look like a street rat. I look exactly like the kind of woman a Don would be mortified to call his wife.
Perfect.
I walk out of my room. The two guards at the door stiffen.
"Excuse me, ma'am," one of them says, stepping into my path, his eyes sweeping over my inappropriate attire with obvious disdain. "You are not permitted—"
"I am the Don’s wife," I snap, my voice cracked like a whip. I channel every ounce of Orlando Genovese’s arrogant entitlement and focus it directly into my stare. "If you put your hand on me, I will tell Cassio you tried to feel me up. Move."
The guard pales slightly, his jaw clenching, but he steps aside.
I walk straight out of the east wing and cross the invisible border into the west. Cassio’s territory. Somehow, even the air feels different over here. It smells like expensive cigars, leather, and gunpowder.
I find him in the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen. He is leaning against the black marble island, a glass of bourbon in one hand, a file folder in the other. He is wearing a dark, unbuttoned dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink swirling up his forearms.