Chapter 17 Noemi
Noemi
The heavy iron gates of the Vellutini estate scream open, and Dante doesn’t even slow down.
The ruined, bullet-riddled Maybach tears up the winding driveway, the shredded tires grinding agonizingly against the asphalt.
Sparks fly in the rearview mirror, but all I can see, all I can feel, is the heavy, lifeless weight of the man crushing me into the backseat.
Cassio is entirely motionless.
The heat radiating from his massive body is completely swallowed by the slick, terrifying warmth of the blood pouring from his chest. It soaks through his pristine white shirt, soaking into the emerald silk of my dress, coating my bare arms, my hands, my trembling thighs.
The metallic, sickly-sweet stench of copper fills the cramped, airless cabin, choking the oxygen out of my lungs.
The car violently jerks to a halt in front of the grand steps of the main entrance.
Before the engine even cuts off, the doors are ripped open. A dozen armed guards swarm the vehicle, their tactical flashlights slicing through the blinding rain. The shouting is deafening, a chaotic, panicked roar of Sicilian curses and frantic orders.
"Get him out! Get him the fuck out of the car!" Matteo roars, his voice cracking with a terror I have never heard from the stoic underboss.
Strong hands reach into the darkness. They grab Cassio’s broad shoulders, his belt, his arms, violently hauling his massive frame off me. The sudden absence of his weight leaves me gasping for air, but the cold wind whipping into the cabin feels like ice against my blood-soaked skin.
I scramble out after them, my high heels catching on the shattered ballistic glass covering the floorboards. A guard grabs my arm to steady me, but I violently yank myself free, stumbling blindly up the marble steps into the blazing light of the grand foyer.
It’s an absolute madhouse.
They lay Cassio down flat on the center of the imported Persian rug.
The pristine woven threads instantly turn black as his blood pools beneath him.
He looks like a fallen god. His head lolls to the side, his lips are parted, and his skin is an awful, translucent shade of ashen gray.
His chest barely rises, the jagged, gaping hole just beneath his collarbone is bubbling with dark crimson every time he takes a shallow, agonizing breath.
I stand ten feet away, completely paralyzed.
My teeth are chattering so violently that my jaw aches. I wrap my arms around my chest, hugging myself. The adrenaline that kept me fighting in the car has completely evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow shell of shock.
He jumped over me. He shielded me. The sniper round was meant for my head.
The Bratva wanted to blow my brains out across the leather seats to break the alliance.
Cassio knew it. He knew it the second the flash erupted from the ridge, and he didn't even hesitate.
The monster, the volatile, psychopathic bastard who told me I was nothing but a pawn, threw his life away to save mine.
"Where the fuck is the doctor?!" Matteo is screaming, pacing like a caged animal near the front doors, his cell phone pressed to his ear. "I don't care about the barricades! Send an escort! Break the fucking barricades down!"
Half a dozen soldiers are hovering over Cassio, completely useless.
They are killers, not medics. They know how to put bullets into bodies, not how to stop them from leaking out.
One of them is pressing a bundled-up suit jacket against Cassio’s chest, but the fabric is already saturated, and the blood is seeping through the man's fingers.
"He’s dying," I whisper.
My voice is so thin, so fragile, it doesn't even reach my own ears over the roaring chaos of the foyer. Tears spill down my cheeks, mixing with the glass dust and rain on my face, stinging my skin.
"Come on, pick up, pick up!" Matteo snarls, slamming his fist against the marble pillar. He pulls the phone away, staring at the screen with panicked eyes. "The lines are jammed. The cell towers near the clinic are compromised. The Bratva must have cut the signal repeaters!"
"What do we do, Boss?!" Dante shouts, his hands covered in Cassio’s blood. "We can't move him to the hospital, the Irish have the main roads blocked!"
"Keep trying the radio!" Matteo barks, running his hands frantically over his wet hair. "Keep trying!"
They are panicking. The Vellutini syndicate is a well-oiled machine of violence, but cut the head off the snake, and the body just thrashes blindly. They are standing around, waiting for a miracle, waiting for a doctor who isn't coming, watching their Don bleed to death on the floor.
I look at Cassio’s face. The harsh, ruthless lines of his jaw are slack. The man who kissed me with such consuming possession only an hour ago is slipping away into the dark.
Something inside my chest snaps.
The terrified, isolated spinster dies right there on the marble floor. The Genovese iron that my father tried to beat out of me, the fierce, unyielding survival instinct that Cassio worshipped in my bed, flares to life like a goddamn supernova.
I don't even realize I’m moving until I shove a fully grown, heavily armed mobster out of my way.
I break through the circle of panicking men, dropping to my knees right beside Cassio’s head. The velvet of the rug is soaked, soaking instantly through the thin silk of my dress, but I don't care.
"Move him," I say, looking up at Matteo.
Matteo blinks at me, completely thrown off balance by the sight of my blood-streaked face and the sudden clarity in my dark eyes. "Noemi, get back. We need to wait for—"
"I said, move him!" I raise my voice, channeling every ounce of authority I possess. It isn't a plea. It’s an order from a Don’s daughter, from a Don’s wife. "He is bleeding out on a rug! You are letting him die! Pick him up and carry him to his bedroom right fucking now!"
The guards hesitate, exchanging nervous glances. They are trained to take orders from Matteo, from Cassio. Not from the enemy bride.
I stand up, my bloodied hands curling into fists at my sides. I look at the man holding the ruined jacket to Cassio's chest, my eyes burning with fury.
"If he dies because you stood here waiting for a phone to ring, I will personally put a bullet in every single one of your heads," I hiss, my voice drop to a lethal octave that sounds terrifyingly like my husband. "Pick. Him. Up."
The threat breaks the paralysis.
"Do it!" Matteo barks, snapping out of his shock. "Dante, Gianni, grab his legs! Support his neck!"
Four massive men bend down and hoist Cassio’s slack body off the floor. I don't wait for them. I turn and sprint up the floating glass staircase, my heels abandoned somewhere in the foyer. I leave bloody footprints on the pristine glass, ignoring the sharp sting of the cuts on my feet.
"Carla!" I scream as I hit the second-floor landing.
The head housekeeper is standing near the hallway, trembling violently, surrounded by a few terrified maids.
"Carla, listen to me," I order, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her once to snap her focus to my face.
"I need boiling water. I need the cleanest towels you have, a dozen of them.
I need a bottle of high-proof vodka or rubbing alcohol, and I need the trauma kit from the downstairs armory.
Bring it all to the master suite in two minutes, or I will burn this house down with you in it. Go!"
Carla gasps, but she nods frantically, turning and shouting rapid Sicilian at the maids, scattering them like frightened birds.
I run into the penthouse suite and throw open the double doors to the master bedroom. I tear the pristine, dark charcoal sheets off the massive bed, tossing them to the floor so the mattress is bare.
The guards carry Cassio in a second later. They lay him flat on the mattress, panting from the exertion of carrying two hundred pounds of dead weight up the stairs.
"Get out," I order the guards, pointing to the door. "Matteo, you stay."
The soldiers don't argue this time. They file out, leaving Matteo and me standing over Cassio.
I climb onto the bed, straddling Cassio’s hips so I can reach his chest without slipping on the blood. My hands are shaking again, but I force myself to focus. I grab the lapels of his ruined tuxedo jacket and pull them off his shoulders, tossing the heavy garment aside.
"Give me your knife," I demand, holding my hand out to Matteo.
Matteo doesn't hesitate. He pulls a sleek, black tactical blade from his belt and hands it to me.
I slide the sharp edge under the collar of Cassio’s soaked white dress shirt and slice downward, ripping the expensive fabric open, exposing the brutal, heavily tattooed expanse of his chest.
The wound is horrific.
The sniper round entered just below his right collarbone. It’s a jagged, torn hole in his flesh, bubbling with dark blood.
Carla bursts into the room, flanked by a maid carrying a massive silver tray. True to my orders, there is a basin of steaming water, stacks of pristine white towels, two bottles of clear alcohol, and the heavy green metal box of the armory’s trauma kit.
"Put it on the bed. Everyone out," Matteo orders, taking the tray from the maid and setting it on the mattress next to my knees.
I throw the knife aside and grab a towel, plunging it into the hot water. I wring it out and press it firmly against Cassio’s chest, wiping away the thick, coagulating blood so I can actually see the damage.
"It missed the artery," I whisper, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping my lips. "If it had hit the subclavian, he’d be dead already. The bullet... it went clean through."
I lean over him, pressing my hand beneath his right shoulder blade. I feel the slick, hot tear of the exit wound in his back. The sniper round was armor-piercing, it didn't lodge, it tore straight through muscle and tissue and exited the other side.