Chapter 26 Cassio
Cassio
Every time I draw a breath, a jagged, burning sensation tears through my chest. Dr. Santoro’s sutures hold the muscle together, but the pain is a constant pressure against my ribs.
I ignore it. I lean forward, bracing my good arm on the surface of the mahogany desk, staring at the burner phone sitting on the polished wood.
The screen is cracked, but the text message is crystal clear.
Matteo stands on the opposite side of the desk, his jaw locked tight enough to shatter teeth. He looks at the phone, then back at me with grim eyes.
"It’s a snare, Boss," Matteo states. "Volkov and O’Connor calling for a peace summit at Pier Seven at midnight? It’s a fucking kill box. The shipping containers form a natural bottleneck. If they block the exit route, they can pin us against the water and slaughter everyone we bring."
"I know what Pier Seven looks like, Matteo," I reply drily. "I know it’s a snare."
"Then we tell them to go to hell. We tell Salvatore we aren't walking into a firing squad."
I shake my head, pushing myself upright. A fresh wave of agony spikes through my right shoulder, making my vision swim with black spots for a fraction of a second, but I keep my feet planted firmly on the floorboards.
"If I hide behind these reinforced walls while the Bratva Pakhan stands out in the open calling for a truce, the Commission will brand me a coward," I tell him, laying out the brutal, unforgiving politics of our world.
"Don Salvatore will see it as weakness. Lombardi will use it as leverage.
I cannot lead this syndicate from a bunker.
I have to show them that a bullet to the chest doesn't put a Vellutini down. "
"Boss, you can barely lift your right arm," Matteo argues, desperation bleeding into his usually stoic demeanor.
"I have a left arm," I counter smoothly. "And I have you. Prep the men. Hand-pick the shooters. I want snipers on the crane towers before we even pull into the dock. If Volkov wants to snap the trap shut, we are going to make sure the jaws break his fucking neck."
Before Matteo can protest further, the heavy oak doors of the study swing open.
The heavy, oppressive tension of the impending war is suddenly pierced by a completely different kind of gravity.
Noemi steps across the threshold.
My breath catches in my throat. I stare at her, the pain in my chest entirely forgotten. She is wearing a deep burgundy pantsuit that fits her like a second skin, her dark hair sleek and flawless. But it isn't the clothes that make my pulse kick into a frantic rhythm. It is the posture.
She walks like a queen returning from a conquest. Dante trails a few steps behind her, his face a mask of unquestionable respect. He nods to me once, and steps back out into the hallway, pulling the doors shut to leave us alone.
Matteo smartly excuses himself, vanishing through the side door to prep the armory.
I close the distance between us, my boots silent on the hardwood floor.
I stop inches from her, letting my eyes sweep over her face.
Her chin is tilted up, her expression is fierce and unyielding, but I can see the faint tremor in her hands.
Confronting Orlando Genovese took a toll on her, but she didn't break.
"Bastiano is a dead man walking," Noemi says. "I told Orlando he has until midnight to deliver his Capo's head to our gates, or you will burn the Genovese compound to ash."
A vicious, incredibly proud smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I reach out with my left hand, wrapping my fingers around the nape of her neck, pulling her flush against my good side.
"You threatened your own father with my wrath," I murmur, my lips brushing against her forehead. The scent of her fills my lungs, acting like a balm on my frayed nerves. "You are magnificent, moglie."
She leans her weight against me, wrapping her arms around my waist, careful to avoid the thick bandages strapped to my right side. She buries her face in my chest, a long, exhausted sigh escaping her lips.
"He looked so small, Cassio," she whispers, the anger fading into a bleak, hollow realization. "For my entire life, I thought he was this towering, immovable force. But he’s just a vain, petty old man who let a traitor eat at his table because he was too busy polishing his own ego."
"You severed the chain," I tell her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. "You owe that house nothing anymore."
"I know," she says, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes are bright, searching my face with devotion. "I am exactly where I am supposed to be."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The unquestionable love shining in her gaze makes the secret I am keeping burn like battery acid in my throat. I want to pull her into the bedroom, strip that burgundy suit off her body, and spend the rest of the night worshipping her.
But the clock on the wall reads ten-thirty.
I swallow hard, the bitter taste of reality coating my tongue. I step back, creating a sliver of space between us.
"Noemi," I start, my voice dropping to a heavy, serious pitch.
Her brow furrows instantly. She knows my moods too well now. She recognizes the shift in my posture, the sudden coldness creeping back into my features as I prepare for the violence ahead.
"What is it?" she asks, her hands dropping from my waist.
"Volkov sent a message through an intermediary an hour ago," I tell her, keeping my gaze locked on hers. "He and O’Connor are calling for a peace summit. Tonight. At midnight, on Pier Seven."
The color completely drains from her beautiful face. Her lips part, a sharp intake of breath hissing through her teeth. She grew up in this world. She knows exactly what a midnight meeting on a deserted pier means.
"No," she whispers, shaking her head. She takes a step forward, grabbing the lapels of my black shirt. "No, Cassio. It’s an ambush. It’s a setup. They hit the convoy to kill you. Why would they want peace now?"
"They don't want peace," I confirm, covering her trembling hands with my left hand. "They want to finish the job. They want to draw me out of the estate because they know they can't breach these walls again without a small army."
"Then don't go!" she screams, the composure shattering completely.
Panic floods her eyes, bright and frantic.
She twists her fingers into my shirt, trying to physically anchor me to the floor.
"Tell Salvatore to handle it! Tell them you are recovering from a gunshot wound!
You cannot walk into a trap when you are still bleeding, you arrogant bastard! "
"I have to go," I reply, keeping my voice quiet and steady to counter her hysteria.
"If I refuse the summit, the entire syndicate will see me as a wounded animal hiding in a cave.
Volkov will use the refusal to justify a full-scale assault on the docks, and the other Italian families will step aside and let him do it.
I have to show my face. I have to show them that the Vellutini Don doesn't cower. "
"I don't care about the syndicate!" Noemi sobs, hitting my uninjured shoulder with a closed fist. The blow is weak, driven by pure terror rather than anger.
"I don't care about the docks! I just got you back!
I sat on that bed and watched you bleed out over these floorboards, Cassio.
I am not letting you walk out that door to die! "
The desperation in her voice completely guts me.
I wrap my good arm around her, hauling her tight against my body, burying my face in the curve of her neck. She cries against my chest, her tears soaking through my shirt, her hands gripping me as if she can physically rewrite fate.
"I am not going to die," I vow, my mouth pressed against her skin. "Matteo is bringing our best men. We are setting counter-snipers. I know it’s a trap, baby, which means I hold the advantage. They think I’m walking in blind. I am going to rip their fucking throats out."
She shakes her head wildly, refusing to accept the comfort. "They have heavy artillery. They have numbers. Please, Cassio. Please don't do this."
I pull back just enough to look at her tear-streaked face. I reach up, wiping the wetness from her cheeks with my thumb. Every instinct I possess is screaming at me to stay, to lock the doors and pull her into bed and ignore the burning world outside.
But I am a king, and a king has to protect his borders, or the monsters will eventually breach the castle.
"Listen to me," I command gently.
I turn and walk over to the mahogany desk. I open the heavy bottom drawer and reach inside. I pull out a customized, matte black Glock 19. It’s one of my personal weapons, perfectly balanced, the magazine fully loaded with hollow-point rounds.
I walk back to Noemi. I take her right hand, ignoring her confused resistance, and press the cold, heavy steel of the gun firmly into her palm. I wrap her fingers around the grip.
She stares down at the weapon, a fresh wave of horror washing over her features. "Cassio, what are you doing?"
"Dante and twenty of my most trusted guards are staying here," I tell her, my voice turning bleak and serious. "The perimeter is locked down tight. Nobody gets in or out without your explicit permission. You are the highest authority in this compound while I am gone."
I step closer, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"But if this goes sideways," I continue, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "If the sun comes up and I am not walking through those front doors... the port belongs to the Russians. And if Volkov takes the port, he will come for this estate next."
"Stop it," she chokes out, a ragged, broken sound. She tries to drop the gun, but I keep my hand wrapped over hers, forcing her to hold it.
"Listen to me, Noemi," I repeat, my tone leaves no room for argument. "You do not let them take you. You do not let them use you as a trophy. If Dante falls, if the gates break, you take this weapon."
I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. My chest aches with a crushing weight. I close my eyes, memorizing the heat of her skin, the frantic beat of her heart, the scent of the only woman who ever made me feel human.
"If I don't come back," I whisper against her lips, delivering the final command. "Burn it all down."
She lets out a devastating, shattered cry, throwing her free arm around my neck, burying her face against my collarbone. I hold her, gripping her so tightly my muscles shake, praying to a God I stopped believing in decades ago that this isn't the last time I get to hold my wife.
I pull away before I lose the nerve to leave.
I don't look back as I turn and walk out of the study. The heavy oak doors close behind me, severing me from the only piece of heaven I have ever known.
I step into the hallway, my face shifting back into a mask of stone. Matteo is waiting by the stairs, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder, a grim, determined fire in his eyes.
"Let’s go," I bark, the Volatile Prince returning in full force. "It’s time to kill some fucking Russians."