Chapter 14 Noemi
Noemi
Ever since Cassio returned from his meeting with my father yesterday, a terrifying, suffocating shift has occurred.
The perimeter guards have tripled. The windows of the penthouse have been reinforced with heavy, automated steel shutters that close at the push of a button.
And Cassio… Cassio has become a shadow I cannot shake.
He hasn't left the west wing. He conducts his business from the penthouse study, keeping the door wide open so he can track my every movement with his eyes; they make my skin prickle.
I understand why, even if he hasn't explicitly said the words.
The Russians want to break the alliance. The easiest way to sever the tie between the Vellutini and the Genovese families is to snap the physical link connecting them.
Me.
I stare into the gilded mirror of the master vanity, watching Carla’s trembling fingers fasten the heavy clasp of a diamond necklace around my throat. The stones are icy cold against my collarbone, a staggering fortune glittering under the chandelier’s light.
"Perfect, Signora," Carla murmurs, taking a quick, nervous step back. "You look beautiful."
I look terrifying.
I am wearing a floor-length gown of dark, liquid emerald silk.
It’s backless, the fabric clings to the curves of my hips before pooling at my feet, the deep V-neckline is completely unapologetic.
My dark hair is swept up into a severe, elegant twist, with a few loose tendrils framing a face that I have painted like a war mask.
Sharp contour, blood-red lips, dark eyes.
I look exactly like the wife of the most volatile Don in the city.
"Thank you, Carla. You can go," I say quietly. She practically scurries out of the massive walk-in closet.
I press my hands flat against the cool marble of the vanity, taking a slow, shaky breath.
Tonight is the ultimate test. Don Salvatore mandated a dinner.
A physical, undeniable display of unity to signal to the Bratva and the Irish that the Italian syndicate is a solid, impenetrable wall.
My father is coming. Don Lombardi is coming.
And Dario is coming.
The sound of footsteps echoes against the hardwood floor. I look up into the mirror just as Cassio steps into the closet behind me.
He is wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo that fits his broad, heavily muscled frame with perfection. He stops a foot behind me, his black eyes locking onto my reflection in the glass.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us speaks.
"You look..." Cassio’s voice drops to a rough, gravelly rasp. He steps closer, his hands coming up to rest heavily on my bare hips, his thumbs brushing the exposed skin of my lower back. "Fucking lethal."
"That’s the point, isn't it?" I murmur, forcing myself not to lean back into the solid, radiating heat of his chest. "We’re going to war."
"Yes," he says softly. He leans down and presses a kiss to the curve of my neck, right below the diamond necklace.
A treacherous shiver runs down my spine.
"Listen to me, Noemi. The house is secure, but the men sitting at that table tonight are vipers.
Orlando is still stinging from the dock shootout.
Lombardi is a coward looking for an angle. And Dario..."
His grip on my hips tightens. "If Lombardi’s rat looks at you for more than a second, I am going to gut him over the risotto."
"Cassio, don't," I warn, turning my head slightly to look at him. "You promised a united front. If you kill the son of the fourth family at a peace dinner, Don Salvatore will have your head, and the Russians will walk right through the front door."
"Then do not give him a reason to think he still has a chance with you," Cassio orders, his eyes burning into mine. "Sit next to me. Smile. Eat your food. Play the quiet, obedient wife, and let me handle the politics."
A spark of rebellion flares in my chest.
Play the quiet, obedient wife. That is exactly what my father wanted from Lucia. That is the role I have spent twenty-four years despising.
I don't argue with him. I just offer a thin smile. "Let’s go down. Our guests are waiting."
The grand dining room on the ground floor is a masterpiece of intimidation. The table is forty feet of polished mahogany, set with crystal glasses, sterling silver, and arrangements of white and blood-red roses. Armed guards line the perimeter of the room; their faces are carved from stone.
When Cassio and I descend the floating staircase, the heavy oak doors of the estate have already opened to admit the guests.
My father, Don Orlando, is standing near the fireplace, a glass of scotch in his hand. My mother, Serafina, is beside him, looking pale and tense. And there is Lucia, wearing a soft pink dress, looking exactly like the fragile, innocent doe my parents desperately protected.
And then, I see Dario Lombardi.
He is standing near the arched doorway with his father, holding a glass of champagne. He looks up as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
I expect to feel the familiar, pathetic flutter in my chest. I expect to feel the desperate longing for the man who was supposed to be my escape.
But as I look at his sandy blonde hair, his handsome, completely unscarred face, I feel absolutely nothing.
The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow.
He looks weak. He looks like a boy playing dress-up in a man's world.
Cassio’s hand wraps around my waist as he guides me into the room.
The silence that falls over the dining area is deafening.
My father’s eyes widen as he takes me in.
He expects to see the bitter, miserable spinster he forced into a cage.
He expects to see a woman broken by the Volatile Prince.
Instead, he sees a woman dripping in Vellutini diamonds, draped in emerald silk, walking with her chin held high and a predator’s hand resting casually on her hip.
"Orlando," Cassio greets smoothly. "Welcome to my home."
"Cassio," my father replies, his voice comes out stiff. He looks at me. "Noemi. You look... well."
"I have never been better, Papa," I reply smoothly, my voice carrying perfectly. I don't look at my mother, who is staring at my diamond necklace with poorly concealed shock.
We take our seats. Cassio sits at the head of the massive table, and I am placed immediately to his right. My father sits to his left, with Don Lombardi and Dario further down the line.
The dinner begins in tense, suffocating silence. Course after course is brought out by the terrified kitchen staff. The clinking of silverware against fine China sounds like gunshots.
The conversation inevitably, dangerously, turns to the port.
"The cleanup at the south warehouse was messy," Don Lombardi says nervously, dabbing his sweating forehead with a linen napkin. "The Feds are asking questions. If the Russians keep pushing, we are going to invite an indictment."
"The Russians are pushing because they smell fear, Lombardi," Cassio says coldly, taking a sip of his red wine. "They hit the warehouse to test the perimeter. They found it heavily fortified, and they died for their curiosity. The Feds are paid off. It’s a non-issue."
"It is an issue when you handle it like a butcher," my father interjects, unable to stop himself.
The petty, arrogant pride that has defined his entire life flares up.
He leans forward, sneering at Cassio. "You sent a dozen men in with automatic weapons.
It was a bloodbath. When I was running the southern sector, we handled incursions with finesse.
We made people disappear. We didn't turn the docks into a warzone. "
The table goes dead silent.
I feel the muscle in Cassio’s thigh tense next to me. His hand, resting on the table, curls into a tight fist. He is preparing to verbally eviscerate my father, to escalate the tension exactly the way the Russians are hoping we will.
Play the quiet, obedient wife, Cassio had told me.
Fuck that.
Before Cassio can open his mouth, I reach out. I slide my hand across the white linen tablecloth and place it firmly, over Cassio’s clenched fist.
Cassio freezes. His head snaps toward me, shock registering in his pitch-black eyes.
I don't look at him. I look directly across the table at Don Orlando Genovese.
"With all due respect, Papa," I say clearly and calmly. "Finesse is a luxury for peacetime. We are not at peace."
My father’s jaw drops. His fork clatters against his plate. He stares at me as if I have suddenly sprouted a second head. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I continue, projecting a confidence that sends a wild, adrenaline-fueled thrill rushing through my veins.
"The Bratva don't respect disappearances. They respect strength. Cassio’s response at the warehouse sent a message that Volkov cannot ignore.
He showed them that the Vellutini territory, and by extension, the Genovese alliance, is a fortress, not a revolving door. "
"Noemi," my mother gasps from down the table, scandalized by my blatant defiance of my father in front of the other Capos. "It is not your place to speak on syndicate business."
"I am the Don’s wife," I reply smoothly, turning my dark, unyielding gaze to my mother. "It is entirely my place to defend my husband’s methods when they are what keep us all alive."
The silence that follows is so profound you could hear a pin drop.
Slowly, Cassio turns his hand over beneath mine. He links his long fingers through mine, his grip is tight, warm, and electrifying.
"My wife is correct," Cassio murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating purr that sends a shiver straight down to my toes.
He is looking at me, not my father. The shock in his eyes has been replaced by awe-struck pride.
"The era of quiet politics is over, Orlando.
We hold the line with fire, or we don't hold it at all. "
My father’s face is a mottled, furious red, but he cannot argue. Not without openly fracturing the peace dinner. He picks up his scotch and takes a heavy, defeated swallow.
I feel a gaze burning a hole into the side of my head. I turn my eyes down the table.
Dario is staring at me. His face is pale, his expression a twisted mask of jealousy and utter confusion. He expected to see a victim tonight. He expected me to be miserable, begging him for a way out with my eyes.
Instead, he sees me holding the hand of the monster, completely in my element.
Dario raises his glass of champagne, offering me a tight, desperate little smile, clearly hoping to share a secret moment of solidarity.
I don't smile back. I look at him with freezing indifference. I let my gaze drop dismissively from his face to my plate, completely cutting him off.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see the corner of Cassio’s mouth curve into a vicious, triumphant smirk.
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of forced politeness. My father is subdued, effectively neutered by my public defection. Don Lombardi is sweating through his suit, clearly realizing that the Vellutini-Genovese alliance is not the fragile, fractured alliance he had hoped it would be.
When the dessert is cleared, and the final glasses of limoncello are drained, the guests finally begin to take their leave.
Cassio and I stand in the grand foyer, playing the perfect hosts as the families file out.
"Goodnight, Noemi," my father says stiffly, not meeting my eyes.
"Goodnight, Papa. Safe travels," I reply, my tone is perfectly polite, perfectly devoid of warmth.
When the heavy oak doors finally shut behind the Lombardi men, the echoing thud signals the end of the performance. The house is locked down instantly. The guards resume their posts.
The adrenaline that has been keeping my spine steel-straight for the last three hours suddenly vanishes, leaving me dizzy and exhausted. I let out a long, shaky breath, reaching up to rub my temples.
"Matteo," Cassio barks, not looking away from me. "Clear the foyer."
"Yes, Boss." Matteo gestures to the remaining guards, and within seconds, the massive entryway is completely empty, leaving just the two of us standing beneath the glittering crystal chandelier.
Cassio turns to me. He takes a step into my personal space. The predatory grace of his movement makes my heart kick into a frantic, erratic rhythm.
"What the fuck was that?" he whispers roughly.
"I was playing the perfect wife," I say defensively, wrapping my arms around my waist. "I thought you'd be pleased."
"Pleased?" Cassio repeats, letting out a dark, breathless laugh. He reaches out, his large hands gripping my waist, pulling me flush against his solid chest. "You publicly humiliated your father. You defended my violence. You looked at Dario Lombardi like he was a cockroach you wanted to step on."
"He insulted you," I point out, tilting my head back to meet his intense, burning gaze. "My father, I mean. He was trying to undermine you in front of Lombardi. If he does that, the Russians win. I just... I leveled the playing field."
"You leveled the entire goddamn room," Cassio corrects, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of my waist where the silk dips low. "I told you to sit there and look pretty. I didn't expect you to pull a knife and gut your own bloodline for me."
"I am a Genovese, Cassio," I remind him, a sharp, genuine smile touching my lips. "We know how to fight. We just usually do it with words instead of guns."
Cassio stares at me. The obsession in his eyes is profound.
"You aren't a Genovese anymore, Noemi," he vows, his voice drops to a harsh, beautiful rasp. “You are a Vellutini."
"Are we going to argue about my last name, or are you going to pour me a drink?" I banter back a challenge.
Cassio’s eyes flash with dark amusement. The man who terrifies an entire city, actually smiles. A real, genuine, breathtaking smile that completely transforms his ruthless face.
"I am going to pour you a drink," he murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against mine. "And then I am going to take you upstairs, strip this ridiculous, distracting dress off your body, and show you exactly how grateful I am for your loyalty."
He kisses me. It is a deep, intoxicating, collaborative kiss. I open my mouth to him willingly; my hands slide up the lapels of his tuxedo to wrap around the back of his neck.