Chapter 25 Noemi
Noemi
The heavy manila folder hits the mahogany desk with a sickening slap.
"The offshore accounts were buried deep," Matteo grimly announces upon his return to the study.
He taps a thick finger against the glossy bank statements spilling out of the file.
"But they weren't buried deep enough. The Russian money was routed through three different shell companies in Cyprus before it landed here. In an account controlled by Bastiano."
Bastiano. My father’s right-hand Capo. The man who has eaten at our dinner table for the last fifteen years, the man who bounced Lucia on his knee when she was a toddler. He is one of Orlando Genovese’s most trusted earners. And he is the rat who fed Cassio’s convoy route to the Bratva.
Cassio is standing on the other side of the desk. He is still pale from the blood loss, his right arm bound tightly to his chest beneath a loose black dress shirt, but the violent storm brewing in his eyes eclipses any physical weakness. He stares at the bank statements.
"Bastiano," Cassio whispers, the word dripping with unadulterated venom.
He turns away from the desk. He walks straight to the locked safe in the corner of the study, punching in the code with quick, jerky movements of his left hand. The heavy steel door swings open. He reaches inside and pulls out a spare 1911, checking the chamber with a sharp, mechanical click.
"Assemble the men," Cassio orders Matteo, not even looking back. "We are going to the Genovese estate. I am going to drag Bastiano out of Orlando’s house by his fucking hair, and then I am going to burn the entire compound to the ground."
"Cassio, wait."
I step away from the bookshelves, crossing the room until I am standing directly between him and the study doors.
He stops. His jaw is clenched so tight the bone looks like it might snap. The beast inside him is pacing against the bars, demanding blood for the bullet that tore through his shoulder, demanding retribution for the ambush that nearly took my life.
"Move, Noemi," he warns.
"No." I step closer. I don't shrink away from the danger radiating off his frame.
I reach out and place my hand directly over the cold steel of the gun in his grip.
"You are still bleeding through your sutures.
If you walk into my father's house with an armed hit squad, Orlando will see it as an act of war.
The treaty will shatter, and the Bratva will get exactly what they wanted. "
"They tried to kill you," Cassio snarls, his black eyes blazing as he looks down at me. "I don't give a fuck about the treaty anymore. Bastiano breathes Genovese air. He dies today."
"He will," I agree. I slide my fingers over his, gently but firmly prying the heavy weapon from his grasp. He resists for a fraction of a second, but then his grip loosens, surrendering the gun to me. "But you are not going."
I step back, placing the gun onto the desk. I look up at my husband, squaring my shoulders.
"This is my family’s mess," I tell him. "Orlando allowed a traitor to thrive under his own roof because he was too busy plotting against you. It is my bloodline. Let me handle it."
Cassio frowns, a deep crease forming between his dark brows. "I am not sending you into that house alone. Orlando is a volatile prick. If he thinks you are threatening his Capo—"
"I won't be alone. Dante will come with me," I interrupt smoothly.
I reach up, resting my hand on his uninjured chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart.
"It is time I faced him, Cassio. For twenty-four years, I sat in that house and let him make me feel like I was nothing but a burden.
Let me go back there as your wife. Let me show him exactly what he threw away. "
Cassio stares into my eyes, searching for any trace of hesitation. He finds none.
Slowly, the violent tension in his shoulders unwinds. He lifts his left hand, his knuckles brushing against my cheek.
"You bring me his head," Cassio murmurs, a dark and proud smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Or I will come and collect it myself."
"You have my word," I promise.
I do not travel home that day, rather I wait another 2 days despite my husband’s protest. I want my father to continue to hide under his facade of calm for a bit longer, so that when I storm in, they will fucking feel it.
The drive to the Genovese estate takes less than thirty minutes, but the distance between the woman who left this house and the woman returning feels like a thousand lifetimes.
The black Maybach pulls up to the towering wrought-iron gates. The Genovese guards recognize me, their eyes widening in shock before they scramble to open the heavy doors. Dante parks the car directly in front of the sweeping marble steps of the main entrance.
I step out into the crisp afternoon air. I am wearing a tailored, deep burgundy pantsuit that fits me like a second skin, paired with sharp black stilettos. My hair is sleek, my dark eyes lined fiercely. I don't look like a daughter coming home to visit.
Dante falls into step right behind my right shoulder, his suit jacket unbuttoned to allow easy access to his weapon.
I walk through the heavy front doors. The familiar scent of lemon polish and stale cigars hits me, but the house no longer feels grand. It feels stagnant. It feels like a museum dedicated to a dying era.
"Noemi?"
I pause in the center of the foyer.
My mother, Serafina, is standing at the top of the grand staircase, her hand clutching the banister. Lucia is hovering nervously behind her. Enzo steps out of the hallway, his brow furrowed in confusion.
They all stare at me. They are looking for the bitter, slumped posture of the girl they shipped off to the beast. Instead, they see a woman dripping in Vellutini confidence, flanked by one of the deadliest men in the city.
"What are you doing here?" my mother asks, her voice breathless, her eyes darting to Dante. "Where is your husband?"
"My husband is running his empire," I reply, my tone crisp and indifferent. I don't offer a warm smile. I don't run up the stairs to hug my sister. I look at Enzo. "Where is Orlando?"
Enzo bristles at the disrespect. "Don Orlando is in his study. But he is not expecting visitors, Noemi. You cannot just—"
"Move aside, Enzo," I say, stepping toward him without breaking my stride. "Before I have Dante break both of your kneecaps."
Enzo pales, his mouth snapping shut. He looks at Dante’s cold, dead eyes and smartly steps back against the wall, clearing the path.
I hear my mother gasp, a sharp sound of scandalized horror, but I ignore her completely.
I walk straight down the east corridor and push the heavy oak doors of my father's study wide open.
Orlando is seated behind his massive mahogany desk, a ledger open in front of him. He looks up, his face instantly twisting into a scowl.
"What is the meaning of this?" he barks, slamming his pen down. "You barge into my house without an invitation? Have you completely forgotten how to behave, girl?"
I don't answer right away. I walk over to the antique crystal bar cart nestled in the corner of the room. I pick up his most expensive bottle of scotch and pour two glasses, the amber liquid splashing heavily against the crystal.
I walk back to the desk, setting one glass down in front of him. I keep the other in my hand.
I don't sit in the chairs designated for guests. I stand, forcing him to look up at me.
"I have not forgotten anything, Papa," I say smoothly, taking a slow sip of the scotch. It burns, but I don't flinch. "In fact, my memory is crystal clear. I remember you telling me that I was a liability. I remember you telling me that I would die a maiden in this house, a burden on your ledger."
Orlando sneers, leaning back in his leather chair. "And I see Cassio hasn't taught you how to keep your mouth shut. If he sent you here to complain—"
I reach into my designer bag and pull out the thick manila folder Matteo gave me. I toss it onto his desk. It lands directly on top of his open ledger.
"Cassio didn't send me to complain," I correct him, my voice dropping the polite facade entirely. "He sent me to give you a choice. Read it."
Orlando glances at the folder, suspicion narrowing his dark eyes.
He flips it open, his gaze scanning the highlighted bank statements and the offshore routing numbers.
I watch the exact moment the realization hits him.
The color drains from his flushed, arrogant face, leaving behind a sickly, grayish pallor.
"Bastiano," Orlando breathes, looking up at me in shock.
"Your Capo," I confirm, setting my glass down on the edge of the desk.
"He took Russian money. He sold the Vellutini convoy route to Volkov.
He is the reason my husband is currently sitting in his study with a hole in his chest, and he is the reason I almost died in a hail of automatic gunfire three nights ago. "
"This is forged," Orlando stammers, standing up rapidly, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor. "Bastiano is loyal! He has bled for this family for decades! Cassio fabricated this to start a war!"
"Cassio doesn't need to fabricate evidence to start a war with you," I shoot back, my voice turning to ice. "If he wanted you dead, Orlando Genovese, you would already be in the ground. I am standing here because I convinced him to give you the opportunity to clean up your own house."
"You dare speak to me this way?" Orlando roars, his pride finally overriding his shock. He steps around the desk, raising a meaty hand as if to strike me across the face, just like he used to when I argued back.
Dante steps forward instantly, his hand dropping to his weapon.
I don't flinch. I hold up a single finger, stopping Dante in his tracks, keeping my dark eyes locked entirely on my father.
"Do it," I challenge softly, tilting my chin up. "Touch me. Lay one finger on my face, and I promise you, Cassio will level this estate before the sun sets. He will slaughter every man in this compound, and he will make you watch."
Orlando’s raised hand trembles. He looks at my face. He sees the icy conviction in my eyes. He isn't looking at the unwanted spinster anymore. He is looking at the Queen of the Vellutini syndicate.
Slowly, and heavily, his hand drops to his side. He looks suddenly exhausted, an old dinosaur realizing the meteor has finally hit.
"You let a rat thrive in your inner circle because you were too busy hating my husband," I tell him. "You were so obsessed with proving Cassio was a reckless boy that you didn't even notice the Bratva buying your own men. You are weak, Papa. Your pride made you blind."
"He is my best earner," Orlando whispers, staring at the folder on the desk.
"He is a dead man," I correct him firmly. "The only question is who pulls the trigger."
I step back, picking up my purse. I adjust the lapels of my burgundy jacket, looking around the stuffy, cigar-choked study one last time. It holds no power over me anymore. The ghosts of my past are completely banished.
"You have until midnight," I state, delivering the final verdict.
"Deliver Bastiano’s head to the Vellutini gates.
Show the Commission that the Genovese family does not harbor traitors.
If you fail to do this by the time the clock strikes twelve, Cassio will handle the execution himself.
And you know that if he comes to do it, he won't stop at Bastiano. "
Orlando doesn't argue. He doesn't yell. He simply stares at the bank statements, the reality of his own catastrophic failure crushing him into silence.
I turn my back on him and walk out of the study.
Dante follows me down the corridor. When I reach the foyer, my mother is still standing at the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands nervously.
"Noemi," Serafina calls out. "Are you... are you staying for dinner?"
I look at the woman who was willing to let me die just to protect her precious younger daughter. I feel no anger toward her anymore. Just a profound, hollow pity.
"No, Mother," I say, walking toward the heavy front doors. "I am going home to my husband."
I step out into the sunlight, the cold air filling my lungs. The heavy gates of the Genovese estate close behind the Maybach as Dante drives us away, severing the final, lingering thread of my past. I am completely, irreversibly untethered from the people who threw me away.
I lean my head back against the leather seat, a small, genuine smile curving my lips.