Chapter 13 Cassio
Cassio
I stand in the doorway of the master bathroom, a towel slung low around my waist, water dripping from my dark hair down my chest. I stare across the massive, sunlit expanse of my penthouse bedroom.
Noemi is still asleep in my bed.
She is tangled in the dark charcoal sheets, her dark hair is a wild, beautiful mess across the pillows.
The oversized black dress shirt she wore yesterday has ridden up, exposing the long, pale curve of her thigh.
She looks exhausted, this must be due to the emotional whiplash I’ve put her through over the last forty-eight hours.
I walk quietly over to the bed, and I reach out, my knuckles lightly grazing the warm, soft skin of her exposed thigh before I gently pull the heavy sheet down to cover her.
She sighs in her sleep, turning onto her side, completely oblivious to the fact that she has entirely rewired the violent, volatile machinery of my brain.
I leave her to sleep. She needs it, and I need to go to war.
I dress quickly in the sprawling walk-in closet, a charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp black shirt, no tie. I strap my shoulder holster into place, the customized 1911 against my ribs, and grab a spare magazine.
When I walk downstairs into the main foyer, I see the men checking weapons, radios crackling, and Matteo standing by the front doors, a tablet in his hands, his face set in grim, unyielding lines.
"Update," I bark, buttoning my suit jacket as I cross the marble floor.
"The cleanup crew finished at the warehouse an hour ago," Matteo replies, falling into step beside me as we head out the front doors into the brisk, gray morning. "Three Bratva dead. One Irish rat we caught trying to flank the loading bays. We lost two men, Boss. Pauli and Silvio."
My jaw clenches. Two men whose widows I now have to pay off.
"And the shipment?" I ask, sliding into the back of the idling Maybach.
"Secure. The guns are being moved to the secondary safehouse in the meatpacking district," Matteo says, climbing into the front passenger seat.
Dante puts the car in drive, and we roll smoothly toward the heavy iron gates.
"But Orlando Genovese is blowing up my phone. He heard about the hit. He’s demanding a sit-down immediately. "
"Of course he is," I sneer, pouring myself a finger of bourbon from the console to chase away the lingering chill of the morning. "Where?"
"Neutral ground. The old shipping foreman’s office overlooking Pier 3. He’s already there with a dozen of his men."
"Let the old man wait," I murmur, downing the whiskey.
The drive to the docks is tense. The city outside my tinted windows looks normal, civilians rushing to work, oblivious to the fact that the streets they walk on are currently a goddamn chessboard covered in blood.
The Port of San Marco is a sprawling, industrial monstrosity of rusted cranes, massive cargo containers, and dark, churning water. It is the lifeblood of our syndicate, and right now, it is the most dangerous piece of real estate on the eastern seaboard.
Dante parks the Maybach behind a line of black SUVs.
I step out into the freezing, salty wind blowing off the water.
Orlando’s men are everywhere, their hands resting lazily on their weapons, but they straighten up the second they see me.
They know what happened last night. They know the Vellutini family shed blood while the Genovese slept.
I bypass the guards without a single word, Matteo and four of my top soldiers flank me as I climb the rusted metal stairs to the foreman’s office.
I kick the door open.
The office is small, smelling heavily of stale coffee and expensive cigar smoke. Don Orlando Genovese is pacing behind a battered metal desk, his face flushed and angry, mottled purple. Enzo, his right-hand man, stands in the corner, looking grim.
"It’s about fucking time," Orlando snaps the second I cross the threshold.
He slams his hands down on the desk, glaring at me with unfiltered hatred.
"You reckless, arrogant little prick! You had a shootout on the south docks?
The feds are swarming the perimeter as we speak!
Do you have any idea the kind of heat you just brought down on us? "
I don't blink. I walk slowly into the room, exuding a calm that I know infuriates him even more.
"I protected our territory, Orlando," I state.
"The Bratva made a move on the munitions manifest. If they had gotten their hands on it, they would know exactly where every single one of our supply lines originates.
So, instead of bitching about the police sirens, you should be thanking me for saving your goddamn life. "
"Thanking you?!" Orlando roars, completely losing his composure. "You think you’re a hero because you shot up a warehouse? You’re a liability, Cassio! You handle everything with a sledgehammer! If you had told me they were moving, we could have set a trap. We could have starved them out quietly."
"Quietly doesn't work with the Russians," I snap back, stepping up to the desk, bringing myself inches from his furious face.
"They don't respect your old-school, back-alley politics.
They understand violence. They understand a pile of bodies.
My men held the line while yours were sitting in their penthouses with their thumbs up their asses.
So do not presume to lecture me on strategy. "
Orlando’s chest heaves, his dark eyes are blazing with murderous intent. For a second, I think the old dinosaur is actually going to draw his weapon on me.
But then, he curses violently in Italian, turning away from me to grab a crystal decanter of scotch resting on a filing cabinet. He pours two massive glasses.
He shoves one glass toward me across the metal desk.
"They’re getting bold," Orlando mutters, his hysterics are replaced by exhaustion.
I pick up the glass. "They’re testing the fences. Volkov, the Bratva Pakhan, wants to see if this peace treaty Don Salvatore forced on us is real, or just a piece of paper."
Orlando takes a heavy swallow of his scotch, grimacing as it burns down his throat. He leans against the filing cabinet, looking older than his sixty-five years.
"The Russians are savages," Orlando spits in disgust. "They don't give a fuck about honor. They don't care about the Commission or the rules of engagement. They traffic in human misery, and they leave a mess wherever they go."
I take a sip of my drink, watching him. It’s a strange, surreal moment.
Orlando and I despise each other. I want to put a bullet in his skull for the way he treated Noemi, and he wants to gut me for humiliating him and taking over his territory.
But right now, standing in this freezing, rusted office, there is a twisted thread of camaraderie binding us together.
We are Italians. We belong to the Cosa Nostra. We are monsters, yes, but we are monsters with a code. The Bratva are just a plague of locusts trying to consume our city.
"They hit the south bay because it’s the weakest link in the chain," I say, pulling a folded territorial map from the inner pocket of my suit jacket.
I spread it out over the metal desk, smoothing the creases.
"It sits right on the border between my sector and yours.
They assumed our men wouldn't coordinate a defense. "
Orlando steps up to the desk, looking down at the red-and-black lines drawn across the grid. "Your men were faster. I’ll give you that, Cassio. My soldiers were ten minutes out when the shooting stopped."
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I have ever received from the man. I don't acknowledge it. I just point a finger at the map.
"Volkov is going to try again. But next time, he won't use a half-dozen grunts. He’s going to bring the Irish in to overwhelm the docks.
We need a unified front. I need your Capos communicating with Matteo directly.
No middlemen. If a rat sneezes on your side of the port, my men need to know about it instantly. "
Orlando nods slowly, his eyes tracing the map. "I’ll give the order. We form a hard line along Pier 4. We shoot anyone who doesn't speak Italian."
He looks up at me, the hostility banked for the moment, replaced by a grudging pragmatism. "Salvatore was right. If we don't hold this port together, we both drown."
"We aren't going to drown," I state coldly. "We’re going to turn the docks into a fucking graveyard for the Bratva."
Orlando finishes his scotch, setting the glass down with a heavy clack. "How is the girl?"
The sudden, jarring shift in conversation makes the muscles in my back lock up instantly.
The girl. He doesn't even say her name. He just refers to her like a misplaced piece of luggage he successfully managed to pawn off.
"My wife is perfectly fine," I say, my voice dropping back to that lethal octave. I deliberately emphasize the word wife.
Orlando scoffs, a bitter, dismissive sound that makes my trigger finger itch.
"Don't play the devoted husband with me, Cassio. I know you hate her. I know you’re punishing me by keeping her locked in that glass tower of yours.
But keep her in line. If she runs her mouth and embarrasses the family name during this war, I won't be the one to discipline her. "
It takes every ounce of self-control I have meticulously cultivated over the last decade not to draw my 1911 and shoot him point-blank in the chest.
He thinks I hate her. He thinks I’m treating her like garbage, exactly the way he did.
The sheer, blinding ignorance of the man is staggering.
He has no idea that the woman he threw away has completely brought the Vellutini Don to his knees.
He doesn't know that she is untouched, that she is brilliant, that she is currently sleeping in my bed, wrapped in my scent.
"She is a Vellutini now, Orlando," I say softly, my eyes lock onto his, letting him see the absolute, psychopathic darkness lurking just beneath the surface.
"Her discipline, her safety, and her life are entirely my concern.
If you ever speak about her with that tone again, the Bratva will be the least of your fucking problems."
Orlando’s eyes widen slightly, entirely caught off guard by the venomous possessiveness in my threat. He opens his mouth to respond, likely to hurl another insult to protect his fragile pride, but he doesn't get the chance.
I look back down at the map spread across the desk. I look at the red line marking my territory, and the black line marking his. I look at the port, the massive, chaotic bridge connecting the two.
And then, I look at the treaty.
We form a hard line, Orlando had said. Salvatore was right. If we don't hold this port together, we both drown.
A sudden, violent realization washes over me, completely freezing the blood in my veins.
The Russians didn't just hit the warehouse last night to steal guns. They hit it to test our response time. They hit it to see if the Genovese and the Vellutini families were actually working together, or if the marriage was just a fragile, hollow threat.
They know we are united. They know Don Salvatore forced a blood alliance to hold the port.
How do you break an army that has just united?
You break the treaty.
My heart stops dead in my chest.
You destroy the physical embodiment of the alliance.
You sever the link between the two families.
If the link dies, the paranoia returns. If the link dies, Orlando blames me, I blame Orlando, the warm war reignites, and the Italians tear each other apart while the Russians walk right through the front door.
Noemi.
She is the goddamn target.