Chapter 11 Cassio
Cassio
I sit on the edge of the mattress, my elbows resting on my knees, staring at the small, dark crimson stain as if it holds the secrets of the fucking universe.
The shower is running in the adjoining bathroom, the hiss of the water is masking the chaotic, violent storm currently tearing through my mind.
Noemi is in there. Washing my sweat off her skin. Washing away the lingering ache of a claiming that neither of us saw coming.
A virgin. I run a hand roughly over my face, the stubble on my jaw scratching against my palm. A harsh, humorless laugh escapes my chest, echoing in the cold, sterile room she’s been trapped in for the last week.
I have been living with a blindfold on, completely duped by a rumor cooked up by a pathetic, weak little boy.
Dario Lombardi.
The pieces fall into place with a sickening, enraging clarity.
Lombardi never touched her. He never even got close enough to her lips.
But he’s a coward with a fragile ego, the useless son of the weakest family in the syndicate.
He couldn’t handle the fact that the Genovese spinster shot him down, so he let the rumors fly.
He let men whisper over their cigars that he was the only one brave enough to tame Orlando’s feral daughter.
He let the entire city believe she was his dirty little secret.
And her arrogant, archaic piece of shit father let the rumors spread because he didn’t give a fuck about his eldest daughter’s reputation. He only cared about protecting his precious Lucia. He used the whispers to justify tossing Noemi aside like garbage.
A red, blinding haze drops over my vision. My hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles pop.
I treated her like a whore. For a week, I let her rot in this freezing east wing suite, treating her like a disease because I thought she was carrying the stench of another man.
I let my men sneer at her. I let the maids serve her cold food.
I looked her in the eye at the altar and told her I would never touch her because she was leftover trash.
In a man like me, guilt is a weapon, and right now, it is carving me open from the inside out, fueling a territorial, psychopathic need to protect her that defies all logic.
She took my punishment. She took my harsh words, my cold indifference, and my brutal claiming, and she didn't break. She bled on these sheets for me. She shattered under my hands.
The Volatile Prince finally found his queen, and I’ll be damned if I let another soul in this city disrespect her ever again.
I stand up, grabbing my dark slacks from the floor and pulling them on.
I fasten the silver buckle of my belt, the calculating Don slipping back into place, heavily reinforced by a new, lethal obsession.
I don't bother with a shirt. I grab my 1911 from the nightstand, checking the chamber out of habit, and tuck it into the small of my back.
I walk out of the guest suite and step into the east wing corridor.
The two guards stationed outside the door snap to attention immediately. They try to keep their faces neutral, but I see the slight widening of their eyes at the sight of me emerging from the unwanted bride’s room, half-naked and looking like I want to murder someone.
"Get Matteo on the radio," I bark at Gianni, my voice a deadly, quiet rasp that makes the younger man flinch. "Tell him I want him on the second floor in two minutes. And tell him to bring Carla."
"Yes, Boss," Gianni stammers, immediately fumbling for the radio clipped to his tactical vest.
I lean against the wall opposite Noemi's door, crossing my arms over my bare chest. The adrenaline from the night is still making my muscles twitch with the need for violence.
I am mentally redrawing the borders of my entire world.
The perimeter needs to be fortified. The security protocols need an immediate, total overhaul.
Within ninety seconds, the heavy doors at the end of the hall swing open.
Matteo strides down the corridor, his sharp eyes take in the situation instantly.
Trailing nervously behind him is Carla, the head housekeeper of the estate.
She is a severe, older Sicilian woman who runs the staff with an iron fist, but right now, she looks like she’s walking to her own execution.
"Boss," Matteo greets, stopping a few feet away. He doesn't ask questions. He waits for orders.
"We are shifting protocols, Matteo. Effective right fucking now," I state. "The east wing is closed. Noemi’s belongings are being moved to my penthouse suite in the west wing. Have two men pack her shit while she’s in the shower.
And then, I want the perimeter doubled. Bring in the night shift to overlap the day shift.
Nobody, not a single goddamn soul, enters the west wing without my explicit, verbal clearance. Not even the Capos."
Matteo’s eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, that is the only sign of his surprise. Moving the despised Genovese bride into my personal sanctuary is a massive shift, but he just nods. "Understood. The perimeter will be locked down."
"If a Russian rat so much as sniffs the iron gates of this estate, I want them shot on sight," I continue, my paranoia is spiking.
The thought of the Bratva getting anywhere near Noemi makes my blood run cold.
"And put a detail on her. Three men. Hand-picked. They do not leave her sight if she sets foot outside the wing. But they keep their distance. If I catch them breathing down her neck, I’ll bury them. "
"I'll handle it," Matteo says smoothly.
I turn my gaze to Carla. The older woman swallows hard, her hands wringing her apron.
"Carla," I say softly. The softness is a trap, and she knows it.
"Don Cassio," she murmurs, keeping her eyes respectfully glued to the floorboards.
"My wife has been in this house for a week," I begin, pushing off the wall and taking a slow step toward her. "And in that week, I have noticed some disturbing trends regarding the hospitality of my staff."
Carla pales. "Don Cassio, we only—"
"I didn't tell you to speak," I cut her off.
She snaps her mouth shut instantly. "I have heard the maids muttering in Sicilian when they clean the corridors.
I have seen the trays of cold, inedible food sent up to this room.
I have watched the guards look at her like she is an intruder in her own home. "
I step fully into her space, towering over the terrified woman.
"I allowed it," I admit, the twisted guilt flaring into raw anger. "Because I was settling a score. But the score is settled. And the rules have changed."
I lean down, forcing Carla to look up at me.
"Noemi is the Lady of the Vellutini family," I hiss, making sure every single syllable brands itself into her brain.
"She wears my ring. She sleeps in my bed.
She is my wife. If I ever hear a maid utter a single disrespectful syllable about her again, I will cut out her tongue.
If a meal is served to her cold, I will break the chef's hands.
If she asks for a glass of water, you will treat it like an order from God himself. Do you understand me, Carla?"
"Y-yes, Don Cassio. I swear it. Completely," Carla stammers, trembling violently now.
"Good. Go to the kitchens. Fix her a proper breakfast. Have it waiting in the west wing dining room in twenty minutes."
Carla practically sprints down the hallway to escape my wrath.
I turn back toward the door of the guest suite just as the latch clicks.
The door pulls open. Noemi steps out into the corridor.
The breath stalls in my lungs.
She is wearing my black dress shirt from last night.
It swallows her delicate frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, leaving her long, pale legs entirely bare.
Her dark hair is wet, combed back from her face, and water droplets cling to the sharp, aristocratic line of her collarbone.
Her lips are still swollen from my kisses. Her skin is flushed from the hot water.
She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful. She looks like mine.
She freezes when she sees the audience in the hallway. Her dark eyes dart from me to Matteo, then to the two guards stationed by the door. Instinctively, she reaches up and pulls the collar of my shirt tighter around her neck, her chin tilting up defensively, preparing for a fight.
"Cassio?" she asks, her voice is still slightly raspy.
Before I can answer, my peripheral vision catches movement.
Marco, the younger guard stationed to her right, shifts his weight. He’s twenty-two, a cocky kid from the south side. And for a fraction of a second, his eyes drop.
He looks at her bare legs. He traces the line of her thigh up to the hem of my shirt. And then, the stupid, suicidal fucker smirks.
It is a tiny expression. A microscopic twitch of his lips, perhaps remembering the rumors of the ruined Genovese girl, or perhaps just enjoying the view of the Don's supposedly despised bride half-naked in the hallway.
The snap of my control is instantaneous. It doesn't even register as a conscious thought.
I move so fast it’s a blur.
I cross the five feet of space between us, my hand shooting out. I grab Marco by the tactical vest, lift his feet entirely off the ground, and slam him backward into the plaster wall with a force that actually cracks the drywall.
"Cassio!" Noemi gasps, jumping back in shock.
Marco’s eyes bulge, his hands flying up to grip my forearms, but I am immovable. I draw the 1911 from the small of my back in one fluid motion and jam the hot steel barrel directly under his jaw, pinning his head back against the wall.
"Boss!" Matteo barks, stepping forward instinctively, but he stops when I shoot him a look that promises death to anyone who interferes.
I turn my attention back to the gasping, terrified guard pinned to the wall.
"Where the fuck are your eyes, Marco?" I whisper. The unhinged violence in my voice makes the kid start shaking uncontrollably.
"B-boss, I swear, I didn't—"
I press the barrel harder into the soft flesh beneath his chin, cutting off his pathetic excuse. I cock the hammer back. The metallic click is the loudest sound in the hallway.
"I saw where you looked," I tell him softly, leaning in close so he can see the certainty of his own death in my eyes. "You looked at my wife."
"Please, Don Cassio, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!" A tear leaks out of the corner of the kid's eye. He knows his life is over. He knows I kill for less.
"Cassio, stop," Noemi’s voice cuts through the red haze.
She steps closer, her hand reaching out to touch my bare arm. Her fingers are trembling, but her grip is surprisingly firm. "Stop it. You're scaring everyone."
I don't look at her, but the feel of her skin against mine acts like a grounding wire. The feral, psychopathic beast roaring in my head settles, just a little bit.
"Listen to me very carefully, Marco," I breathe, never breaking eye contact with the guard.
"I am going to let you live today because my wife asked me to.
But if I ever catch your eyes tracking above the floorboards when she walks past you, if I ever catch you looking at a single inch of her skin again, I will gouge your fucking eyes out of your skull with my bare hands and feed them to the dogs. Do you understand me?"
"Yes! Yes, Boss, I swear on my mother's life!"
I unlock the hammer and shove him away in disgust. He stumbles, collapsing against the opposite wall, gasping for air and clutching his throat.
I holster my weapon and turn to Noemi.
She is staring at me, her dark eyes are wide, her chest is heaving under the thin fabric of my shirt.
She is terrified of the violence, but I see something else flickering in the depths of her gaze.
She realizes exactly what just happened.
She realizes the cold, indifferent man who ignored her existence for a week just nearly executed one of his own soldiers for looking at her legs.
I step into her space, crowding her against the doorframe. I reach out, my hand cupping the side of her neck, my thumb stroking the damp hair at her nape.
"You aren't staying here anymore," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low, possessive murmur meant only for her.
"You really meant it?" she whispers, her pulse fluttering wildly under my fingers.
"You belong with me, in my suite." I don't give her room to argue. I slide my hand down to grip hers, interlacing our fingers perfectly. "The east wing is closed. Your cage just got an upgrade, moglie."
"I told you I don't want to be around you twenty-four hours a day," she tries to protest, but she doesn't pull her hand away.
"And I told you that you breathe when I tell you to breathe," I remind her, bringing her knuckles to my lips and pressing a kiss to her skin.
I look over her head at Matteo. "Get her things moved. Now."
"Yes, Boss."
I gently pull Noemi forward. We walk down the hallway, leaving the terrified guards and the sterile guest room behind us. Her bare feet pad softly against the hardwood, her small hand is swallowed completely by mine.