Chapter 20 Cassio
Cassio
The foundation of the estate shudders violently, the deafening roar of the explosion is followed instantly by the staccato, terrifying rhythm of automatic gunfire echoing from the ground floor.
My body reacts before my brain can even process the pain.
"Cassio, stop!" Noemi shouts, her hands grabbing my uninjured shoulder, trying to force me back down against the pillows. "You’re going to rip the stitches! You’ll bleed out!"
"I am not dying in a fucking bed," I snarl, shoving her hands gently away.
I force myself to stand. The room spins dizzily, gravity pulling at the heavy, thick bandages wrapped tightly around my ribs. A fresh, warm dampness begins to bloom over my right pectoral. I’m already bleeding again. I don't give a shit.
I look at Matteo. The underboss is pressed against the heavy oak door, peering through a crack into the west wing corridor, his assault rifle raised.
"Sitrep," I bark. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and right now, it is the only thing keeping me upright.
"Twenty men, maybe more," Matteo reports. "They blew the lower gates with a truck and hit the front doors with explosives. Dante has a fireteam holding the main staircase, but the Russians are pushing hard. They’ve got heavy artillery, Boss. They came to wipe us out."
"They came for her," I correct grimly, my dark eyes snapping to Noemi.
She is standing by the bed, wearing my oversized t-shirt, her dark hair a wild mess. But she isn't screaming. She isn't cowering in the corner, weeping like a civilian. She grew up in the Genovese household; she knows exactly what the sound of a mafia war tearing through the front door means.
"Matteo, toss me the rifle," I command.
"Boss, your shoulder—"
"Toss the fucking rifle!"
Matteo unslings a compact M4 carbine from his back and tosses it to me.
I catch it with my left hand, the heavy weight of the weapon jarring my torso.
I can't shoulder it properly on my right side, the torn muscle protests with a blinding spike of agony, so I tuck the stock under my left arm, awkwardly bracing it. It’s sloppy, but at close range, it will do the job.
"We don't stay in the bedroom," I state, moving toward the. "It’s a dead end. If they breach the corridor, they’ll trap us like rats. We hold the choke point at the top of the glass staircase. If they want to come up, they have to funnel through the landing."
I turn back to Noemi. I reach out, grabbing her by the back of the neck, and pull her hard against my uninjured side. I press a rough, desperate kiss to the crown of her head.
"You stay behind me," I order her. "You don't step out of my shadow. You don't let go of the back of my shirt. If I fall, you take my sidearm and you shoot anything that doesn't speak Italian. Understand?"
She doesn't hesitate. She reaches out and grips the fabric of my dark slacks at my hip. "I understand."
"Let’s move," I snap at Matteo.
Matteo kicks the heavy oak door wide open. We step out into the sprawling corridor of the west wing.
The air is already acrid with the metallic stench of cordite and pulverized drywall.
The emergency backup lights have kicked on, bathing the hallway in a sickly, pulsing red glow.
The deafening roar of the firefight downstairs sounds like a warzone.
The Bratva are screaming commands in Russian, their heavy boots crunching over the shattered marble of my foyer.
We move fast. Every step I take sends a jarring shockwave of pain through my chest, but I lock it away in a dark box in the back of my mind.
We reach the balcony overlooking the grand foyer.
It’s an absolute slaughterhouse.
The massive crystal chandelier has been shot to pieces, raining glass down on the blood-soaked marble.
Dante and five of my soldiers are barricaded behind overturned mahogany tables and marble pillars, raining suppressing fire down on the breach.
But the Bratva are heavily armed, pushing forward with military precision, laying down a punishing wall of lead that is slowly chewing my men to pieces.
"Balcony!" one of the masked Russians roars, pointing up at us.
"Down!" I bark, shoving Noemi hard to the floor behind the thick marble balustrade just as a hail of bullets tears through the space where we were standing. The plaster wall behind us explodes into a cloud of white dust.
I drop to one knee, ignoring the agonizing, tearing sensation in my chest. I rest the barrel of the M4 over the edge of the marble railing, aiming with my left eye, and squeeze the trigger.
The rifle kicks violently against my side. The recoil is absolute torture, ripping at my fresh sutures, but my aim holds true. Two of the Russians pushing the base of the stairs drop instantly, their chests blown open by my burst.
Matteo opens up beside me, his rifle roaring as he lays down cover fire for Dante’s men below.
"They’re flanking the east wing!" Dante screams over the radio, his voice is barely audible over the gunfire. "They’re trying the service stairs!"
"Hold the main!" I roar back, dropping another Russian who tries to rush the steps.
The pain in my chest is becoming blinding.
A hot, wet slickness is spreading rapidly down my torso, soaking the waistband of my slacks.
My right arm is practically useless, hanging heavily at my side, leaving my left arm to bear the entire weight and recoil of the assault rifle.
My vision swims, the edges turning dark and fuzzy.
Click.
My rifle runs dry. The bolt locks back on an empty magazine.
"Reloading!" I shout, ducking back below the marble balustrade.
My fingers are slick with my own blood and sweat. I fumble for the spare magazine tucked into my waistband, but my right hand refuses to cooperate. The torn muscles spasm, my fingers refusing to close around the heavy metal.
A Russian mercenary, realizing the covering fire from the balcony has stopped, breaks cover. He sprints up the first flight of the glass stairs, his AK-47 raised, his eyes locked entirely on our position.
"Matteo, stairs!" I yell, but Matteo is pinned down, a barrage of bullets chewing apart the pillar he’s hiding behind.
I curse violently, fighting with the magazine, the slick metal slipping from my numb fingers. It clatters onto the hardwood floor, sliding two feet away.
I’m out of time. The Russian hits the middle landing, bringing his weapon to bear. I reach for the 1911 at the small of my back, but I know I’m not going to draw it fast enough.
Suddenly, a small, pale hand shoots out from behind me.
Noemi lunges across the floor. She grabs the dropped magazine; her movements are precise and completely devoid of panic. She slides on her knees right beside me, completely exposing herself to the open air of the balcony.
She grabs the empty magazine jutting from my rifle, hits the release catch like she’s done it a thousand times, and violently rips it out. In the same fluid, seamless motion, she slams the fresh magazine into the magwell, hitting the bolt release with the heel of her hand.
The weapon chambers a round with a loud, metallic clack.
"Three o'clock! Stairs!" Noemi screams, her voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
I don't think. I just react.
I swing the barrel of the M4 over the balustrade, aiming exactly where she pointed, and pull the trigger.
The Russian on the landing takes a three-round burst directly to the face just as his finger tightens on his own trigger. His body jerks violently backward, tumbling down the glass stairs in a bloody, broken heap.
I drop back below the cover of the marble, panting heavily, my chest heaving against the agonizing pain.
I look at the woman kneeling beside me.
Noemi isn't crying. She isn't shaking. She is covered in white plaster dust, the oversized t-shirt hanging off her shoulder, her bare knees scraped and bleeding from sliding on the hardwood.
She is breathing hard, her dark eyes are wide, but they are blazing with an unyielding, ferocious fire.
She didn't freeze. She didn't cower. She stepped into the line of fire and handed me exactly what I needed to survive.
She is a fucking mafia queen.
A dark, terrifying surge of pride washes through the chaotic adrenaline in my blood. She isn't fragile. I don't need to lock her away to protect her, I just need to stand beside her.
"I got you," she breathes, locking eyes with me, her hands gripping my bloody left arm. "Keep fighting, Cassio."
"I'm going to marry you again," I promise her, a bloody, psychotic grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
Before she can respond, the piercing, unmistakable wail of police sirens cuts through the night air. It isn't just one siren, it’s dozens of them, a massive chorus of approaching law enforcement closing in on the estate.
The gunfire downstairs suddenly falters.
"Sirens!" one of the Bratva leaders barks in heavily accented English. "Pull back! Fall back to the trucks!"
The Russians aren't stupid. They know that a prolonged siege with the entire city's police force bearing down on them is a suicide mission.
They lay down one final, punishing barrage of cover fire, blowing out the remaining glass windows in the foyer, and begin a rapid, tactical retreat out the shattered front doors.
"Don't let them breathe!" Matteo roars, stepping out from his cover and firing down into the retreating mass of men.
Dante and the surviving guards push forward, chasing the Bratva out onto the driveway, their weapons flashing in the darkness. The sound of heavy truck engines revving echoes through the storm, followed by the screech of tires as the Russians flee the compound.
Silence descends on the estate.
I slump back against the plaster wall, my rifle slipping from my grasp, clattering uselessly against the floorboards. The adrenaline is finally crashing, leaving nothing behind but blinding agony.
My breathing is ragged, shallow gasps. I look down at my chest. The thick white bandages Noemi and Dr. Santoro applied are completely saturated with wet red. The blood is pooling on the floor beneath me.
"Cassio!" Noemi gasps, dropping to her knees directly in front of me. Her hands hover over my chest, terrified to touch the ruined bandages. "Cassio, look at me."
I lift my head, the movement requiring a monumental effort. My vision is tunneling, the edges blurring into black.
"We held them," I rasp, a wet, rattling sound accompanying the words.
"You tore it wide open," Noemi says, her voice cracking, the fierce warrior from thirty seconds ago vanishing, replaced by a terrified wife. She presses her hands frantically against the edges of the bandages, trying to stem the flow of blood. "Matteo! Get Santoro back up here now!"
Matteo drops his rifle and sprints toward us, dropping to his knees on my other side. He curses violently in Sicilian when he sees the blood. "He’s going into shock. Boss, stay awake. Keep your eyes open."
"I'm fine," I slur, my head lolling slightly to the side until it rests against the cold plaster wall.
"You are not fine!" Noemi snaps, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the white dust on her cheek. She grabs my face in both of her hands, forcing my heavy eyes to focus on hers. "You promised me a truce, you arrogant bastard. You promised me we were a team."
I stare into her dark eyes, and I can see the profound terror in them.
"I'm not dying," I whisper, forcing my left hand up. My blood-stained fingers brush against her cheek, tangling in her messy hair. "I just got you."