Chapter 23 Noemi
Noemi
The dress I chose is black.
It feels entirely fitting. It is mourning attire for the fragile, beautiful truce my husband murdered in his study forty-eight hours ago.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master closet, staring at my reflection.
The heavy silk grips my curves like a second skin, the neckline plunges low enough to be a distraction, and the hem brushes the tops of my black stiletto heels.
I apply my lipstick, blood-red. The color of the Vellutini estate over the last week.
Cassio kept his promise. He put me back in the golden cage.
For two days, he has been a ghost. He sleeps in the guest room of the penthouse, citing his injuries, but I know the truth.
He is icing me out. The walls he tore down have been rebuilt with reinforced steel.
He looks at me with those dead, pitch-black eyes, treating me with the indifference of a Don managing a risky asset.
He threw my bloodline in my face. He looked at me, after I plunged my hands into his torn flesh to save his miserable life, and told me I was the enemy.
I am so fucking angry I can barely breathe.
I want to scream at him. I want to throw every crystal decanter in this penthouse at his head. But beneath the violent rage is a bruised, bleeding ache that I refuse to let him see. Because the most pathetic, twisted part of this entire nightmare is that I still love him.
I love the arrogant, paranoid bastard who took a sniper round to the chest so I could live. I keep that love locked in a vault deep inside my chest now. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't want it. But it is there, an undeniable reality that dictates every beat of my heart.
A sharp knock on the bedroom door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Signora." It’s Matteo. His voice is muffled through the heavy oak. "The Commission is here. The Don is requesting your presence in the formal lounge."
"I’m coming," I reply, my voice is perfectly smooth, perfectly hollow.
I step out of the bedroom and walk down the hallway. The formal lounge is on the main floor of the west wing, a massive, intimidating room filled with dark leather, imported mahogany, and the aggressive scent of Cuban cigars.
Today is a commemorative visit. A diplomatic farce.
Don Salvatore has mandated that the heads of the families pay their respects to the recovering Don Vellutini after the Bratva attack.
It is a show of unity, a chance for the old men to sniff around the edges of Cassio’s territory and see just how weak the wolf really is.
I push the double doors open.
The heavy, testosterone-choked atmosphere of the room hits me instantly.
Armed guards line the walls. Don Salvatore sits in a high-backed armchair, his face carved from granite.
My father is standing near the fireplace, swirling a glass of scotch.
Don Lombardi is pacing near the windows, looking perpetually nervous.
And standing behind his father is Dario.
My eyes sweep past them all, landing instantly on the man seated at the head of the room.
Cassio is wearing a tailored black suit.
He isn't wearing a tie, and the top three buttons of his shirt are undone to accommodate the thick bandages wrapping his right shoulder.
He looks pale, the exhaustion is etched deeply into the harsh lines of his face, but he exudes a terrifying authority.
He is a wounded king, daring the jackals to step out of line.
Cassio’s black eyes flick to me as I enter. For a fraction of a second, I see the mask slip. I see the dark, obsessive hunger flare in his gaze as he takes in the black silk clinging to my body. But it is gone in a flash, replaced by that freezing, impenetrable indifference.
Play the part, his eyes warn me. Stay out of the crossfire.
I ignore the silent command. I don't walk to the corner. I don't sit on the peripheral sofas reserved for the wives.
I walk directly across the Persian rug, the sharp click-clack of my stilettos demanding the attention of every man in the room. I stop right beside Cassio’s chair. I don't ask for permission, I simply take my place at his left shoulder, resting one hand lightly on the back of his leather seat.
My father’s jaw tightens. Salvatore watches me with unreadable, old eyes.
"Gentlemen," I coolly and evenly say. "Thank you for coming to check on my husband."
"Noemi," my father greets stiffly. He looks at Cassio. "You look like hell, Vellutini. Santoro said the bullet went straight through."
"Santoro talks too much," Cassio rasps. He reaches for his glass of water with his left hand, his right arm resting perfectly still in his lap. "I am fine, Orlando. The Bratva will have to try harder than a single sniper if they want to put me in the ground."
"The attack on your compound was an insult to the entire Commission," Don Salvatore rumbles, leaning forward. "Volkov is making a mockery of our borders. Have you found the leak, Cassio? How did they know your convoy route?"
I feel the muscle in Cassio’s shoulder tense beneath the leather of his chair. He doesn't look at Orlando. He doesn't look at Lombardi. He just stares at the Capo dei Capi with dead, calculating eyes.
"I am handling my internal affairs, Don Salvatore," Cassio states smoothly. "When I find the rat, I will string his intestines from the San Marco bridge. Until then, my estate is locked down."
The men fall into a tense discussion about port security and retaliation strikes. I stand perfectly still, playing the silent sentinel. But I can feel eyes burning a hole into the side of my face.
Dario.
He is staring at me with a sickening mixture of pity and desperate longing. He keeps shifting his weight, trying to catch my eye. I ignore him completely, focusing on the rhythmic, steady breathing of the man seated beside me.
After twenty minutes, Salvatore calls for a brief recess to review a set of shipping manifests Matteo brings into the room. Cassio turns his head to speak quietly with his underboss. My father and Salvatore step out onto the terrace to smoke.
I step away from Cassio’s chair, walking over to the heavy crystal decanters on the side table to pour myself a glass of sparkling water. My throat is dry from the tension.
Before I can even pick up the glass, a shadow falls over me.
"Noemi."
The hushed, frantic whisper makes my skin crawl. I turn around slowly. Dario is standing inches away from me, his sandy blonde hair is perfectly styled, the cut on his forehead from the glass table is barely visible under a neat bandage.
"Get away from me, Dario," I hiss.
"Please, just listen to me," he begs, glancing nervously over his shoulder at Cassio, who is currently engrossed in the manifests with Matteo across the massive room. "You look exhausted. I know what he's doing to you. He’s got the whole estate on lockdown. He’s keeping you a prisoner."
"I am not a prisoner," I snap, my fingers tightening around the crystal glass. "I am his wife."
"He forced you into this!" Dario insists, stepping closer, his cologne is making my stomach turn.
"He is a feral, violent monster, Noemi! I saw what he did on the terrace.
I saw the way he treats you. You don't have to live like this.
My father... my father has a plan. We can get you out.
We can dissolve the treaty, and you can come with me. I can protect you."
A dark, bitter laugh rips its way up my throat.
I look at him. I really look at the boy I spent two years harboring a pathetic, secret crush on. I see his weak chin. I see the cowardice dancing in his eyes. And then, the puzzle pieces Cassio laid out in the study violently snap together in my mind.
He knew. "Protect me?" I repeat, my voice dropping to a dead calm. I step into his space, completely ignoring his attempt to intimidate me. "Like you protected me when you fed Cassio's convoy route to the Russians?"
Dario’s face instantly drains of all color. He physically recoils, his eyes widening in absolute, undeniable panic. "I—what? Noemi, no, I didn't—"
"You set the ambush," I whisper. "You tried to pull me off the terrace because you knew the bullets were coming. You coward. You pathetic, spineless piece of shit. You teamed up with the Bratva to kill my husband, and you thought you could just sweep me up from the wreckage and play the hero?"
"He’s going to get you killed!" Dario hisses defensively, his facade cracking completely. "He doesn't care about you! He uses you as a shield!"
"He took a bullet to the chest for me!" I snarl, the fury finally unleashing itself.
I don't care who hears. I don't care about the optics.
"He threw his body over mine while you were hiding behind your father's money!
Cassio Vellutini has more honor in his bleeding shoulder than your entire goddamn bloodline has in its history! "
Dario stumbles back, his face is a mask of humiliated terror.
I turn around.
Every man in the room is staring at us. My father is standing in the terrace doorway, his jaw slack. Don Salvatore’s black eyes are narrowed into dangerous slits.
But I am only looking at one person.
Cassio is staring at me. The manifests have fallen from his hand. The cold, indifferent mask he has worn for two days is completely shattered. He is looking at me with an expression of such profound, devastating awe that it actually steals the breath from my lungs.
He thought I was the enemy. He thought I was waiting for a chance to run back to my family, to run to Dario.
I am going to show him exactly who I am.
I don't look back at Dario. I leave the boy trembling by the decanters and walk across the Persian rug.
I walk straight to Cassio.
I don't stand behind his chair this time. I step directly in front of him, sliding between his parted knees. I reach out, resting my hands gently on his chest, right over the thick white bandages hidden beneath his shirt. I feel the heavy, erratic thud of his heart against my palms.
I turn my head, looking over my shoulder at Dario Lombardi, my father, and the Capo dei Capi.
"I am exactly where I belong," I state. "I am a Vellutini. And if anyone in this room thinks they can break this alliance, or put a hand on my husband, they will have to go through me first."
My father looks like he might have a stroke. Dario looks like he is going to be sick.
I turn my attention back to Cassio.
His chest is heaving. His black eyes are burning with a sudden, possessive inferno that completely incinerates the coldness between us.
He lifts his uninjured left arm and wraps it heavily around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He buries his face in my stomach, a low, shuddering breath escaping his lips, holding onto me like a man who has just been pulled from the bottom of the ocean.
I weave my fingers into his dark hair, holding him right back.
He tried to push me away, he tried to be the monster so I wouldn't be collateral damage. But he doesn’t know one crucial detail.
I love the monster. And I am never letting him go.