Chapter 15 Cassio
Cassio
I fucking hate these galas.
I stand at the edge of the sprawling, gilded ballroom of the Lombardi estate with a crystal tumbler of scotch in my hand. Tonight is Don Lombardi’s sixtieth birthday. In any other circumstance, I would have sent Matteo with an expensive bottle of wine and a hollow excuse.
But we are not in normal circumstances. The Bratva are still circling the port like vultures, waiting for a crack in our armor. Don Salvatore ordered all the Italian families to attend tonight to project an impenetrable, united front.
So here I am, standing in enemy territory, playing nice with men I would rather drown in the San Marco River.
But the politics aren't what have my blood running hot tonight. It’s the woman standing thirty feet away from me.
Noemi.
She is speaking with the wives of two Capos, a flute of champagne held delicately in her hand.
She is wearing a dress that should be illegal.
It’s deep crimson, clinging to every single curve of her body like a second skin, with a slit up the thigh that flashes a tantalizing glimpse of pale leg every time she shifts her weight.
Her dark hair is tumbling down her back in loose, rich waves. She looks like a queen holding court.
Every man in this ballroom has looked at her tonight. And every single time a pair of eyes lingers on her a second too long, my hand instinctively drifts toward the tailored line of my tuxedo jacket, right where my 1911 rests.
My possessiveness over her has mutated from a territorial instinct into a full-blown, psychopathic sickness. I haven't been able to breathe properly unless she is within my line of sight.
"Don Cassio."
A soft, breathy voice pulls my attention away from my wife.
I turn my head slowly. Standing beside me, holding a glass of sparkling water, is Lucia Genovese.
My father-in-law’s precious, perfect golden child. The daughter Orlando originally promised me.
Lucia is wearing a pale blue dress that makes her look like a porcelain doll. Her blonde-highlighted hair is perfectly styled, her makeup is soft and innocent. She is exactly the kind of docile, obedient mafia princess that men in our world kill to possess.
I look at her, and I feel absolutely nothing. No spark. No heat. She is a glass of tepid tap water compared to the burning, intoxicating whiskey of my wife.
"Lucia," I reply, my tone is flat, offering zero encouragement.
She steps a little closer, glancing nervously over her shoulder to ensure her father isn't watching. She looks up at me through her thick lashes, a manufactured, sympathetic pout on her glossy lips.
"I just wanted to see how you were holding up," Lucia murmurs, her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.
She reaches out, her manicured fingers lightly grazing the sleeve of my tuxedo.
"I know this whole arrangement has been.
.. difficult. My father forced your hand.
And Noemi... well, we both know how impossible she can be. "
My spine instantly goes rigid.
I stare down at her fingers resting on my arm. She is trying to flirt. She is trying to commiserate with the poor, trapped Don, who was saddled with the bitter spinster. She expects me to roll my eyes, to agree with her, maybe to suggest that I wish I had gotten the better sister instead.
A cold, vicious disgust coils in my gut.
"Take your hand off me," I say.
The command is so lethal, that Lucia gasps. She snatches her hand back as if my jacket just caught fire, her blue eyes widening in genuine shock.
"I... I only meant—" she stammers, her pale cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed red.
"I know exactly what you meant," I interrupt, leaning down just a fraction, making sure my words slide between her ribs like a blade. "You thought you could bat your eyelashes and undermine my wife. You thought I would prefer a quiet little doll over a woman with a spine."
"Cassio, please, I was just trying to be a friend," she whispers, her eyes darting around the ballroom, terrified of a scene.
"I don't need friends. And I certainly don't need a fragile little girl who isn't fit to hold Noemi's goddamn purse," I sneer, stripping away every ounce of her manufactured innocence.
"My wife is the Lady of the Vellutini family.
She is exactly what I want. If you ever speak about her with disrespect again, I will forget that you share her blood, and I will ruin you. Now get out of my sight."
Lucia looks like I just slapped her across the face. Tears well up in her eyes, and she turns on her heel, fleeing toward the powder rooms without looking back.
I take a heavy swallow of my scotch, the irritation still crawling under my skin. I turn my gaze back to the center of the room, scanning the crowd for the crimson dress.
She isn't there.
The wives Noemi was speaking to are now chatting with someone else. My eyes sweep the dance floor, the bar, the archways. Nothing.
My pulse spikes. A cold, paranoid adrenaline floods my veins. I drop the crystal tumbler onto a passing waiter’s tray and push my way through the crowd.
"Matteo," I bark into the concealed earpiece I’m wearing. "Where is she?"
"She stepped out toward the east terrace, Boss," Matteo’s voice crackles back instantly. "Needed some air. Gianni is stationed at the terrace doors."
I alter my path, cutting through the throngs of laughing, oblivious mobsters, heading straight for the massive glass doors that lead out into the Lombardi gardens.
Gianni is standing exactly where he is supposed to be, but as I approach, I see him looking nervously through the glass, his hand resting on his holster.
"Don Cassio," Gianni says, stepping aside quickly. "Lombardi's boy just walked out there. I was about to intervene."
The name is a match struck in a room full of gasoline.
I shove the heavy glass doors open and step out onto the stone terrace. The cool night air hits my face, but it does nothing to extinguish the red, blinding rage that instantly consumes my vision.
Noemi is backed against the stone balustrade, and Dario Lombardi has her cornered.
He is standing far too close to her. One of his hands is resting on the stone railing beside her hip, trapping her. He is leaning in, his face inches from hers, speaking in an urgent, hushed tone.
"You don't have to pretend with me, Noemi," Dario is saying, his voice carrying on the quiet breeze. "I know he hurts you. I see the way he looks at you, like you're just property. I can help you. I can talk to Don Salvatore. We can claim abuse. We can get you out of this."
Noemi’s jaw is clenched, her dark eyes flash with irritation. She presses her hands flat against his chest, trying to push him back. "Dario, back the fuck off. I don't need your help, and I certainly don't need you to save me."
"You're just scared of him," Dario insists, reaching up to touch her face, his fingers grazing her cheek. "I should have asked for you sooner. I shouldn't have let him take you—"
The sound of my own roar doesn't even register until I am already moving.
I cross the terrace with the speed of a feral animal. I don't give a fuck about the peace treaty. I don't give a fuck about Don Salvatore or the Bratva or the politics of this godforsaken city. The only thing that exists is the fact that another man’s hand is touching my wife’s skin.
Dario barely has time to turn his head before I hit him.
I grab the back of his tailored suit jacket and the collar of his shirt in one massive fist. I rip him away from Noemi with such violent force that his feet leave the stone tiles.
"Cassio!" Noemi gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.
I pivot, utilizing my entire body weight, and hurl Dario across the terrace. He crashes into a wrought-iron patio table. The heavy glass top shatters into a thousand pieces with a deafening, explosive crash. Dario hits the ground hard, groaning as he rolls into the shards of glass.
I don't stop. I stalk toward him, my hands curled into fists, every muscle in my body vibrating with a homicidal urge to beat him until his face is unrecognizable.
"You touch her again," I roar, my voice carrying over the music spilling from the ballroom, "and I will cut your fucking hands off and feed them to you, Lombardi!"
Dario scrambles backward, his face is pale, blood is dripping from a shallow cut on his forehead where the glass caught him. He holds his hands up in terror. "Wait! Cassio, wait, we were just talking!"
"Liar!" I snarl. I reach down, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, and haul him to his feet just so I can slam him violently against the brick wall of the estate. The breath leaves his lungs in a sharp, pained wheeze.
The glass doors of the terrace burst open.
"What the hell is going on out here?!" Don Lombardi shouts, his face is purple with outrage as he sees his son pinned to the wall.
Half a dozen Lombardi soldiers spill out onto the terrace, their weapons drawn. Instantly, Matteo, Gianni, and four of my own men step through the doors, their guns raised and leveled directly at the Lombardi men.
A Mexican standoff on neutral ground. A diplomatic nightmare.
"Stand down!" Don Salvatore’s booming, authoritative voice echoes from the doorway. The Capo dei Capi steps onto the terrace, his black eyes blazing with fury. He looks at the drawn weapons, then at the shattered table, and finally at me. "Cassio. Release the boy. Now."
I don't let go. I lean in closer to Dario, my forearm pressing brutally against his windpipe.
"You are breathing on borrowed time," I whisper, making sure only Dario can hear the absolute certainty of his own death in my voice. "Stay away from my wife."
I shove him away in disgust. Dario collapses, coughing against the brick wall, his father rushing forward to grab him.
I turn around. Don Salvatore is glaring at me, the threat of excommunication heavy in the air. I don't care. I wipe a drop of Dario’s blood from my knuckles with the thumb of my other hand, my chest heaving.
I walk past the drawn guns, past the furious Capos, straight to where Noemi is standing frozen by the balustrade.
I wrap my hand securely around her waist, pulling her flush against my side. I look directly at Don Salvatore.
"My apologies for the disruption, Don Salvatore," I say, my tone is completely unapologetic. "But my wife and I are leaving."
Before the old man can issue a reprimand, I guide Noemi forcefully through the glass doors, through the dead-silent ballroom, and out the front doors of the Lombardi estate.