Chapter 21 Noemi
Noemi
I stand at the top of the glass staircase, looking down at the wreckage.
My bare feet are covered in white plaster dust, and the oversized black t-shirt I’m wearing feels stiff with dried blood.
Below me, men are dragging bodies out the service doors.
Others are sweeping up glass in tight-lipped silence.
Every single man in this house is looking at his brother with suspicion.
The Bratva didn't guess how to breach the lower gates, they didn't stumble upon the exact blind spots in the perimeter cameras, or the exact moment the guard shifts were changing. The security protocols of this estate were a fiercely guarded secret, known only to the inner circle.
We have a mole. A rat breathing our air, eating our food, and smiling to our faces.
"I don't give a fuck if he’s been with us for ten years! Strip him of his weapons and throw him in the basement!"
The roar echoes from the makeshift war room Cassio has set up in the west wing library.
My heart drops into my stomach. I pivot away from the staircase and march down the corridor.
When I push the heavy oak doors of the library open, the sight that greets me makes my blood boil with a mixture of terror and fury.
Cassio is standing at the head of a massive mahogany table. He shouldn't be standing. He shouldn't even be conscious. It has been less than two hours since Dr. Santoro re-stitched the high-caliber sniper round exit wound shut in his back.
He is wearing a pair of dark slacks and an unbuttoned black dress shirt. His skin is a horrific, ashen gray with fresh bandages around his chest. And right in the center of those bandages, a fresh, bright red stain is rapidly blooming.
Matteo, Dante, and three other Capos are standing around the table, looking incredibly uncomfortable but too terrified to tell their Don to sit the fuck down.
"Boss, Gianni was on the east wall, he couldn't have—" Matteo tries to argue.
"Gianni had the radio frequencies!" Cassio snarls, slamming his uninjured left hand down on the table.
The violent movement jars his right shoulder.
He violently flinches, a harsh, jagged hiss escaping his gritted teeth.
His knees actually buckle for a fraction of a second, his left hand grips the edge of the mahogany table like a vice just to keep himself upright.
He is bleeding out. Again.
Something feral and uncompromising snaps inside my chest.
"Enough," I say.
Five heavily armed, terrifying mobsters snap their heads toward me. Cassio slowly turns his head, his chest heaving, his black eyes glassy with pain and the lingering edges of his fever.
I walk into the room, my spine straight, completely ignoring the fact that I look like I just crawled out of a horror movie. I walk directly to the head of the table, stopping inches from Cassio.
"Matteo," I say, my dark eyes locked on my husband’s pale, sweat-slicked face. "Clear the room."
Matteo shifts uneasily, glancing between Cassio and me. "Signora, we are in the middle of a critical—"
"I said, clear the fucking room, Matteo!
" I snap, whipping my head toward the underboss.
"Your Don is bleeding through his sutures because none of you have the balls to tell him to sit down.
You want to find the rat? Fine. Lock down the perimeter, confiscate all comms, and interrogate the gate guards. But do it outside."
The Capos exchange stunned looks. A woman does not speak to made men this way. A woman certainly doesn't interrupt a war council.
I look back at Cassio. The murderous rage that was radiating off him just seconds ago has completely stalled. He is staring at me, his chest rising and falling in shallow, painful gasps. A dark, breathless chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat, ending in a wince.
"You heard my wife," Cassio rasps, his voice is weak but laced with pride. "Get the fuck out."
The men don't hesitate. They file out of the library, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them, leaving us entirely alone.
The moment the latch catches, Cassio sways. His grip on the table slips.
I lunge forward, catching his waist with both arms, bracing my shoulder against his uninjured side to keep him from hitting the floor. He is so heavy, a towering mountain of dead weight, but the adrenaline surging through me keeps my knees locked.
"You stupid, arrogant, reckless bastard," I hiss, tears of frustration stinging my eyes as I wrap my arm around his back. "You’re trying to kill yourself."
"I have to find the leak, Noemi," he breathes, leaning heavily against me. His skin is freezing cold. "If I look weak... if they think the Don is down..."
"The Don is down," I tell him fiercely, adjusting my grip and forcing him to take a step toward the leather sofa in the center of the room.
"The Don took a bullet through the chest. And if you don't get your ass back in bed right now, so help me God, Cassio, I will shoot you in your good shoulder myself. "
Cassio lets out another pained, raspy laugh. "I believe you, moglie."
I guide him to the sofa, easing him down until he is sitting heavily on the dark leather. He leans his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes, his breathing sounds wet and ragged.
I kneel on the floor between his parted knees. I reach up, my trembling fingers gently pulling the edges of his unbuttoned shirt aside. The bandage is completely ruined.
"You tore the stitches," I whisper, my voice cracking.
"Santoro can fix it," he murmurs blindly, his left hand coming down to rest on the crown of my head, his fingers tangling in my messy hair.
"Santoro is operating on three of your men in the basement," I remind him, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "You’re stuck with me."
I push myself off the floor. "Don't move. Don't even breathe too deeply. I’m getting the kit."
I run to the master bedroom and grab the green metal trauma kit from the floor, snatching a fresh basin of hot water and clean towels from the adjoining bathroom. When I rush back into the library, Cassio hasn't moved an inch.
I kneel back down in front of him. I pop the latches on the kit and grab the heavy surgical shears.
"This is going to hurt," I warn him, my hands shaking as I cut the ruined tape and peel the blood-soaked bandages away from his chest.
Cassio’s jaw clenches tightly, a muscle feathering rapidly in his cheek, but he doesn't make a sound. He opens his eyes, watching me work.
I clean the fresh blood away with a hot, damp towel. The skin around the wound is angry and bruised, a horrific canvas of purple and black. Two of the black sutures Santoro meticulously tied have snapped, allowing the blood to seep through the torn muscle.
I bite my lower lip, fighting the nausea. I grab the sterile steri-strips and the surgical glue from the kit. I can't stitch him, but I can pull the edges of the wound together and seal it tight enough to hold until the surgeon is free.
"Hold your breath," I order softly.
I press the edges of the torn flesh together.
Cassio’s entire body goes rigid, a sharp hiss escapes his teeth, his hand grips the armrest of the sofa so hard the leather groans.
I work as fast as I can, applying the glue and taping the strips down with ruthless efficiency.
I pack a fresh square of combat gauze over the top and wrap his chest tightly with a new roll of thick white bandages.
When I finally tie the bandage off and sit back on my heels, my chest is heaving. My hands are coated in a fresh layer of his blood.
I look up at his face.
Cassio is watching me. The pain in his eyes has receded slightly, replaced by a deep devotion. He is looking at me like I am a religion he just discovered.
"You aren't trembling anymore," he observes in a whisper.
I look down at my hands. He’s right. The violent shaking that has plagued me since the ambush in the car has completely vanished. My hands are steady.
"I don't have time to tremble," I tell him, meeting his dark gaze. "You need me."
"I do," he confesses, the absolute surrender in those two words makes my breath catch. He reaches out with his left hand, his thumb wiping a smudge of dirt and blood from my cheek. "You walked into a room full of killers and told them to get the fuck out. And they listened to you."
"They listened because they know I'll put poison in their espresso if they let you bleed to death," I banter back, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment.
Cassio doesn't smile. He leans forward slightly, ignoring the pull on his chest.
"They listened because you are the Queen," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You aren't a prisoner, Noemi. You aren't Orlando’s unwanted daughter. You are the Lady of the Vellutini family. And tonight, you earned the absolute loyalty of every single man in this syndicate."
I look around the library. I look at the blood on my hands, the trauma kit on the floor, the monster bleeding on the sofa in front of me. For twenty-four years, I desperately wanted to escape the mafia. I wanted to be a normal girl, living a normal life, far away from the guns and the violence.
But as I look at Cassio, I realize the truth. I don't want a normal life. I want him. And to have him, I have to embrace the dark, violent world he rules.
"We need to find the mole," I sharply state.
Cassio’s eyes flash with approval. "We will. Matteo is tearing the staff apart right now."
"It isn't the staff," I say, shaking my head.
I stand up, walking over to the mahogany table to grab a clean towel to wipe my hands.
"A maid or a low-level guard doesn't have access to your private convoy routes or the blind spots on the estate cameras.
The Bratva knew exactly where to hit us, Cassio.
They knew exactly where the sniper should wait. "
Cassio watches me, his brow furrowing. "Only my inner circle knew the route back from the Lombardi estate."
"And the Lombardis," I point out softly, turning to face him.
The air in the library goes completely still.
"Dario," Cassio whispers, the name dripping with absolute venom.
"He cornered me on the terrace," I remind him, my mind connecting the jagged, ugly pieces of the puzzle.
"He was trying to get me to leave with him.
He said he could save me. What if he knew the ambush was coming?
What if he was trying to pull me out of the crossfire before the Bratva struck the convoy? "
Cassio’s jaw clenches so tight I can hear his teeth grind. The murderous rage returns, but this time, it is cold and lethal.
"Lombardi wants to be the Capo dei Capi," Cassio rasps, his hands curling into fists. "He’s weak, so he partnered with the Russians to wipe out the Vellutini and the Genovese. He fed Volkov the route."
"And Dario thought he could play the hero and claim the widow," I finish, a wave of sickening disgust washing over me.
"He’s a dead man," Cassio vows, his black eyes burning with the promise of absolute ruin. "I am going to peel the skin off his fucking bones."
"We will," I correct him, walking back over to the sofa. I place my hands gently on either side of his face. "But right now, you are going to rest. Because if you die, Dario wins. And I am not letting that pathetic little boy win."