Chapter 22 Cassio
Cassio
I am sitting in the heavy leather chair behind my study desk on the second floor, staring at the bank of security monitors.
My right arm is in a sling, strapped tightly to my chest to keep me from tearing Dr. Santoro’s meticulous internal sutures for a third time.
My torso is a mass of grinding, white-hot agony that the heavy dose of Vicodin barely touches.
But I am awake. And I am hunting.
On the screen, Matteo is pacing back and forth in a soundproofed concrete cell deep beneath the estate. Bound to a metal chair is one of our own perimeter guards. His face is a bruised, bloody mess. Matteo doesn't use finesse when we have a rat in the house. He uses a hammer.
But the guard isn't breaking. He isn't giving us a name because he doesn't fucking have one.
I reach out with my left hand, hitting the comms button on the desk console. "Enough, Matteo. It’s not him. Put a bullet in his leg for falling asleep on the east wall and lock him up. Bring in the next one."
"Boss, I can break him—"
"I said enough," I snap. "The leak didn't come from the ground floor."
I cut the feed, leaning my head back against the leather chair and closing my eyes.
Dario Lombardi is a weak, pathetic coward.
He doesn't have the tactical intelligence or the sheer fucking balls to orchestrate a synchronized hit with the Bratva and the Irish Mob.
If Lombardi reached out to the Russians, he did it because he had a guarantee.
He had to know that the Vellutini family would be completely blindsided, and that the Genovese family wouldn't retaliate.
How do you guarantee the Genovese family won't retaliate when their eldest daughter is in the crossfire?
You make a deal with the devil. Or, in this case, Don Orlando Genovese.
The realization makes my blood run freezing cold.
Orlando hates my guts. He was humiliated at the peace summit.
He was humiliated at the wedding. He despises my modern methods and resents my power.
If Lombardi promised Orlando that Noemi would be safely pulled from the wreckage, then Orlando might have turned a blind eye.
He might have even fed them my convoy route to get rid of me once and for all.
"You're supposed to be in bed."
The soft voice pulls me out of the dark labyrinth of my own paranoia.
I open my eyes. Noemi is standing in the doorway of the study. She is wearing a pair of my gray sweatpants and a black tank top, her dark hair pulled up into a messy knot. She looks exhausted. But she also looks incredibly beautiful.
Just looking at her makes the phantom pain in my chest flare, not from the bullet, but from the terrifying memory of almost losing her.
"I can't sleep," I tell her, my voice softening instinctively. I hate that I soften for her. It’s a weakness. And right now, weakness is what gets people killed.
She walks into the room, bypassing the chairs to come stand right beside me.
She rests her hand gently on my uninjured left shoulder, her fingers brushing the bare skin of my neck.
The physical contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, warring with the heavy, toxic suspicion currently rotting in my brain.
"Matteo is handling the interrogations," Noemi says softly, her eyes flicking to the blank security monitors. "You need to heal, Cassio. The truce, remember? We fight together. You don't have to carry this alone."
The truce. But a truce requires absolute trust, and right now, I don't trust a single goddamn thing except the gun in my desk drawer.
"Matteo is wasting his time," I say, my tone flattening.
I stare straight ahead, refusing to look up at her.
"The mole isn't a low-level guard. The perimeter breach was an inside job, yes, but the convoy ambush?
That required high-level clearance. Someone who knew exactly when we were leaving the Lombardi estate and exactly what route we were taking. "
"Okay," Noemi says slowly, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere. She drops her hand from my shoulder. "So we look at the Capos. We look at Dante, or—"
"Dante drove the car into the ambush," I interrupt coldly. "If he was the rat, he would have called in sick. It wasn't my men, Noemi."
I can practically hear the gears turning in her brilliant, sharp mind. She takes a step back, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.
"What are you saying, Cassio?" she asks, her voice dropping to a guarded whisper.
I finally turn my head to look at her. "I'm saying Dario Lombardi didn't act alone. He doesn't have the spine to invite the Russians into our city without backing. And he certainly wouldn't risk catching you in the crossfire unless he had a guarantee from someone that you would be protected."
Noemi’s face pales. "No."
"Orlando hated the alliance from the start," I press on, my words methodical and ruthless.
"He despises me. If Lombardi came to him and said, 'We take out Cassio, we break the Vellutini empire, and Dario marries Noemi to secure the peace'…
your father would have handed them my itinerary on a silver fucking platter. "
"Are you out of your mind?!" Noemi explodes, the fragile intimacy between us shattering instantly.
"My father is an arrogant, traditional asshole, but he would never sanction a hit on a car I was sitting in!
The sniper round came through my window, Cassio!
If you hadn't thrown yourself over me, my head would have been blown off! My father wouldn't risk that!"
"He wouldn't have had to risk it if Dario had succeeded in pulling you off that terrace!
" I roar back, ignoring the blinding spike of pain in my chest as I sit up straighter.
"Dario was trying to get you away from me!
He was trying to get you to leave before the bombs went off! It was a coordinated setup!"
"You're paranoid!" she screams, her hands balling into fists.
"You are looking for a scapegoat because you can't handle the fact that your own impenetrable security failed!
You think my family has all the dirty secrets?
What about yours? Your men were the ones guarding the gates!
Your men were the ones who cleared the route! "
"My men bleed for me!" I snarl, my upper lip curling. "Your family threw you away! They handed you to a man they thought was a monster just to save their own skins. Do not stand in my study and defend Orlando Genovese's honor when you know exactly what he is capable of!"
"I am not defending his honor!" Noemi fires back, tears of frustration shining in her dark eyes.
"I am defending reality! You promised me a truce, Cassio!
You told me we were partners. And the second things get hard, the second you feel a loss of control, you immediately turn around and point the gun at my bloodline! "
"Because your bloodline is the fucking problem!" I yell, the words ripping out of my throat before I can stop them.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Noemi physically recoils, as if I just struck her across the face. The fire in her eyes extinguishes, replaced by a devastating realization. She looks at me, really looks at me, and sees the Volatile Prince sitting behind the desk.
"I see," she whispers, her voice shaking. She takes another step back toward the door. "I am just a Genovese. That's what this is. I patched your chest, I stayed by your bed... but at the end of the day, I’m still the enemy."
The absolute heartbreak on her face makes me want to vomit.
Every instinct I possess, the newfound, desperate obsession that centers my entire universe around her, is screaming at me to stand up.
To pull her into my arms. To tell her I didn't mean it, to kiss the tears away and beg for her forgiveness.
But then I remember the flash of the sniper's rifle.
I remember the horrific, sickening sound of the ballistic glass shattering inches from her face. I remember the absolute terror that gripped my soul when I thought I was going to watch her die in that car.
If she is my partner, she is a target. If she plays detective or tries to intervene with her father or Dario, she steps directly into the line of fire. The only way to keep her safe from the Bratva, the Irish, and the treacherous snakes in our own syndicate is to put her back in the golden cage.
I have to be the monster she thinks I am, because the monster is the only thing that can protect her.
I force the mask back into place. I lock the terrified, devoted husband in a dark box and summon the cold, calculating Don.
I lean back in my chair, my face a mask of indifference. I look at her, making sure my eyes are dead and completely devoid of warmth.
"We aren't partners, Noemi," I cruelly say. "You are my wife. You are the Lady of this house, but you do not run my syndicate, and you do not dictate my investigations. If I suspect Orlando, I will interrogate Orlando."
She stares at me, a single tear spilling over her dark lashes and tracking down her pale cheek. "Cassio, don't do this. Don't shut me out. We promised."
"Promises are a luxury for peacetime," I quote her own words back to her, twisting the knife. "We are at war. And in war, I don't trust anyone. Especially not a Genovese."
Her breath hitches, a soft, broken sound that absolutely shreds my soul.
"Get out of my study," I order her, turning my attention back to the blank security monitors. "Go back to the penthouse. Do not leave the west wing. Matteo will post a guard at the door."
"You're locking me up again," she whispers, her voice hollowed out.
"I am securing my assets," I correct coldly. "Act like a mafia wife and stay out of my fucking way."
She doesn't argue anymore. She doesn't scream or throw things. The fight has been completely drained out of her, replaced by resignation. She turns on her heel and walks out of the study, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind her.
The moment she is gone, the moment I am completely alone, the mask crumbles.
I bow my head, squeezing my eyes shut as a violent shudder wracks my frame. The pain in my chest is excruciating, but it is absolutely nothing compared to the agony of watching her walk away from me.
I just broke the only beautiful thing I have ever had in my miserable, violent life.
I hate you, she had told me a week ago. I know she is going to hate me again. But I accept the cost.
She can hate me. She can despise the very air I breathe. She can look at me like a monster for the rest of our lives.
As long as she is alive to do it.
I will burn this city to the ground. I will gut Dario Lombardi, I will execute the Bratva Pakhan, and if Orlando Genovese had a hand in that ambush, I will personally put a bullet between his eyes. I will slaughter every single threat to her existence until there is no one left to hurt her.
And then, when she is safe, I will live with the consequences of breaking my wife’s heart.