Chapter 6 Noemi #2
He doesn't look up as I enter, though I know he hears my bare feet slapping against the tile.
I walk directly to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, open it, and grab a green apple. I bite into it loudly.
Cassio slowly closes the file. He turns his head, his pitch-black eyes dragging over my messy hair, the faded tank top, and the baggy sweatpants. A muscle feathers in his jaw, his lip curls into a sneer of absolute revulsion.
"You look like a fucking vagrant," he says softly. His voice sends a treacherous shiver down my spine.
"And you look like a mobster cliché," I fire back around a mouthful of apple, leaning against the counter opposite him, crossing my arms defensively. "Are we just stating the obvious today, or do you have a point?"
His eyes narrow into lethal slits. He sets his glass down with a sharp clack. "You were given a wardrobe, Noemi. I expect the woman carrying my name to look like she belongs in civilized society, not begging for change on a street corner."
"I’m not carrying your name. I am a Genovese," I spit, the venom rising instantly.
"And since you treat me like a prisoner, I decided to dress like one.
If you want a pretty little doll to parade around, you should have negotiated better with my father.
You got the spinster, remember? Leftover goods. "
I throw his own insult back at him, wanting it to sting. It does. I see the flash of pure, murderous irritation cross his features.
Cassio pushes off the island, closing the distance between us in three long, predatory strides. He doesn't touch me, but he crowds my space, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. The scent of bergamot, whiskey, and danger is overwhelming.
"Do not test my patience, Noemi," he whispers, leaning down until his mouth is inches from my ear. "I can make your life in this house infinitely worse than it already is. Go upstairs. Put some fucking clothes on."
"Make me," I challenge, my heart is beating violently against my ribs, driven entirely by adrenaline and spite.
For a second, I see the violence simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at my mouth, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second, before snapping back up to my eyes.
"I don't play games with brats," he sneers, stepping back, completely dismissing me. He turns his back to me, picking up his file. "Get out of my kitchen."
I stand there, my chest is heaving, vibrating with a desperate need to scream. He didn't hit me. He didn't yell. He just treated me like I was nothing. And somehow, that hurts infinitely worse.
I throw the half-eaten apple into the sink and storm out, my bare feet hitting the floor hard.
I need a lifeline. I need someone on the outside. I need someone to remind me that I am a human being, not just a pawn in this sadistic game of chess.
As I storm down the west wing corridor, I pass an open door. An office. Sitting on the pristine mahogany desk, forgotten, is a sleek black burner phone. One of Matteo’s men must have left it behind.
I freeze. I look over my shoulder. The hallway is empty.
I slip into the office, my heart in my throat, and snatch the phone off the desk. I duck behind the heavy leather door, my fingers trembling violently as I wake the screen. No passcode. Thank God for arrogant, lazy mobsters.
My mind races. I can't call my mother; she wouldn't listen to me, afraid of my father. I can't call my father; he'll dismiss me as the nuisance he thinks I am. Lucia is out of the question.
There is only one other number I know by heart. The only person who looked at me at the wedding with something resembling regret.
Dario.
I punch in the digits, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop the device. I press the phone to my ear, holding my breath.
Ring. Ring. Ring. "Yeah?"
The sound of Dario’s smooth, familiar, and normal voice hits me like a physical blow. The crushing weight of my isolation suddenly caves in on my chest. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
"Dario," I whisper frantically, terrified of being overheard. "Dario, it’s me. It’s Noemi."
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Noemi? Jesus Christ, are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I’m—I’m a prisoner," I choke out, the tears finally spilling over. "They keep me locked in. He won't let me speak to anyone. Dario, you have to help me, I can't stay here, I can't—"
The heavy oak door of the office swings open with such violent force it slams into the wall, splintering the plaster.
I scream, dropping the phone.
Cassio is standing in the doorway. He looks like the devil incarnate. His chest is heaving, his dark eyes are wide and completely feral.
He crosses the room before I can even take a step back. He grabs my upper arm in a bruising, iron grip, yanking me away from the desk.
With his other hand, he snatches the burner phone off the floor. He looks at the active call screen. He looks at the number.
I watch the exact moment he realizes who I called.
The color drains from Cassio’s face, replaced by a terrifying, ghostly pallor. The muscle in his jaw ticks so hard I think his teeth might shatter. The air in the room drops ten degrees.
"Who," Cassio whispers, his voice dropping to a demonic, guttural register, "were you talking to?"
"Let me go!" I thrash against his grip, kicking at his shins, panic making me reckless. "You can't keep me cut off from the world! I have a right to—"
"I SAID WHO!" Cassio roars, the sound is so deafening it rattles the windows.
He drops the phone onto the floor and brings his heavy boot down on it, crushing it into a dozen jagged pieces of plastic and glass.
I flinch violently, shrinking away from him, but his grip on my arm is inescapable. He hauls me flush against his chest, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave deep, black bruises.
"Dario," Cassio hisses, leaning down, his face is inches from mine, his eyes are burning with a possessive, psychotic fury that steals the breath from my lungs. "You called the Lombardi rat. From my house. On my network."
"He’s my friend!" I cry out, tears of pain and terror blurring my vision. "He’s the only one who actually cares what happens to me!"
Cassio’s free hand snaps up, his fingers wrapping around my throat. The sheer violence radiating off his body is suffocating.
"Listen to me, you stupid, defiant little bitch," Cassio snarls, his breath hot against my lips. "You are my wife. You wear my ring. You bleed for my family now. You do not call another man. You do not look at another man. You do not breathe the name of another man while you live under my roof."
"You said I was a pawn!" I scream back, fighting through the terror. "You said you didn't want me!"
"I don't want you," he vows, his thumb pressing dangerously against my pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter of my heartbeat.
"But you belong to me. And if I ever catch you trying to contact Lombardi again, I won't just break your phone.
I will carve out his fucking heart and serve it to you on a silver platter. "
He shoves me backward. I stumble, hitting the edge of the desk to catch my balance, gasping for air.
Cassio stands over me, he points a finger at me, his chest heaving.
"The games are over, Noemi. You are on lockdown. No phones. No internet. You don't leave your suite without an armed escort. You are mine. And you will learn to submit."
He turns on his heel and storms out of the office, barking orders at Matteo in the hallway to strip my room of anything connecting to the outside world.
I slide down the edge of the desk, collapsing onto the floor next to the shattered pieces of the burner phone. I wrap my arms around myself, shaking violently as the reality of my situation finally sinks in.
Cassio doesn't love me. He doesn't even want me. But his twisted, psychopathic pride refuses to let anyone else have me.