Chapter 27 Noemi
Noemi
The heavy oak doors click shut, sealing the study and severing the last tie I have to my husband.
If I don't come back, burn it all down.
His parting command loops in my head, a suffocating mantra that makes my throat ache.
I lower my gaze to the weapon in my hand.
It has only been ten days. Ten short, agonizing days since I knelt on the bedroom floor, my hands stained crimson to the elbows, packing combat gauze into a gaping hole in his chest. Ten days of watching him fight through the fever, ten days of stolen touches.
We barely had time to understand the truce we forged before Volkov decided to tear our world apart again.
I walk over to the massive desk and sink into his leather chair. The scent of him clings to the upholstery. I pull my knees up, wrapping my free arm around my legs, trying to hold myself together.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eleven-thirty.
Cassio is nearing the port by now. He is stepping out of the armored Maybach, walking into the freezing rain, surrounded by his men. He is walking into a trap because his pride and his unyielding need to protect our future demand it.
I hate this life. I hate the constant, looming shadow of violence that dictates every breath we take. But as I sit in his chair, holding his gun, I realize that I would gladly endure a hundred lifetimes of this anxiety if it meant he would walk back through those doors.
The minutes drag by, thick and sluggish. The storm outside intensifies, the rain lashing aggressively against the reinforced steel shutters covering the windows.
At exactly midnight, a sharp knock pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
Dante steps into the study. The guard looks tense, his assault rifle slung across his chest, his suit jacket damp from his recent perimeter check. He sees me sitting in the Don’s chair, holding the Glock, and a flicker of deep respect softens the hard lines of his face.
"Signora," Dante reports. "The perimeter is secure. The storm is wreaking havoc on the external cameras, but the men are holding their positions."
"Have you heard anything from Matteo?" I ask, standing up. My legs feel like lead, but I force my spine straight. "Did they reach Pier Seven?"
"Radio silence," Dante confirms, shaking his head. "They went dark ten minutes ago to avoid frequency interception. We just have to wait."
Wait. The word feels like a curse.
I nod, walking around the desk. "Make sure Carla and the staff are kept away from the ground floor windows. If anything happens, I want them—"
A deafening, earth-shattering explosion obliterates the rest of my sentence.
The entire estate shudders violently. The concussive blast hits the study so hard that a dozen heavy books tumble from the mahogany shelves, crashing onto the hardwood floor.
The overhead lights flicker and instantly die, plunging the room into shadows before the emergency backup generators kick in, bathing us in a sickly, pulsing red glow.
Then, the klaxons start screaming.
It is the same bone-rattling siren from Seven days ago, but this time, Cassio isn't here to bark orders.
"They breached the east wall!" Dante shouts, pressing his earpiece deep into his ear, his face paling in the crimson light. "Multiple vehicles! It’s a full-scale assault!"
My stomach drops into an endless void. The air leaves my lungs in a harsh, jagged rush.
"A diversion," I whisper, the horrific realization sliding into place.
Volkov didn't just want to trap Cassio at the port.
The Bratva Pakhan is a strategist. He called the peace summit to draw the Vellutini Don away from his fortress, pulling the best shooters and the underboss out of the equation.
He left the estate vulnerable, and now he is sending a hit squad to wipe out everything Cassio loves.
Volkov wants to ensure that even if my husband somehow survives the docks, he will come home to a graveyard.
I look at the Glock in my hand.
I rack the slide of the pistol. The metallic clack cuts through the wailing alarms, centering my focus.
"Dante," I say, my voice ringing with a chilling authority. "How many men breached the wall?"
He yells my question into his earpiece, then he answers. "At least thirty, Signora. They used a heavy transport truck to smash the masonry. They are swarming the gardens, pushing toward the kitchen entrances."
"We hold the chokepoints," I order, striding past him into the corridor. "Get Carla, the maids, and the kitchen crew into the subterranean vault immediately. Nobody stays above ground except the shooters."
"Signora, you need to be in that vault," Dante argues, matching my frantic pace as we rush toward the sweeping glass staircase. Gunfire is already echoing from the east wing, a rapid, terrifying staccato of automatic weapons. "My orders from the Don were to keep you breathing."
"And my orders were to burn it all down if they try to take this house," I snap back, shooting him a glare that leaves no room for debate. "I am the Lady of the Vellutini family. I do not hide in a basement while my husband's men bleed on my floors. Move!"
Dante doesn't argue again. We hit the second-floor landing just as Carla comes sprinting out of the servant's corridor, sobbing hysterically, followed by three terrified maids.
"Signora!" Carla cries, her face streaked with tears. "They are shooting through the kitchen windows!"
"Carla, look at me," I command, grabbing the older woman by her shoulders.
I give her a firm shake, forcing her panic-stricken eyes to meet mine.
"You take the girls down the service stairs to the vault.
You lock the heavy door, and you do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice or Dante's voice. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes, God preserve us," she weeps, nodding frantically.
"Go!" I push her toward the access door.
Once the staff is out of sight, Dante and I take cover behind the thick marble balustrade overlooking the grand foyer. The temporary wooden barricades that were erected after the last attack are already splintering under a relentless hail of bullets.
The front doors groan and finally give way, blown off their hinges by a secondary charge.
A dozen masked men flood into the foyer. They wear dark tactical gear, their boots crunching over the debris. They aren't Italians. The guttural shouts echoing in the cavernous space belong to the Bratva mercenaries.
"Light them up!" Dante roars into his radio.
The ten guards we have stationed on the ground floor open fire from behind overturned tables and reinforced pillars. The noise is instantly deafening, a chaotic, suffocating symphony of destruction. Plaster dust fills the air, choking my lungs and stinging my eyes.
I crouch behind the marble railing, my heart hammering a frantic, bruising rhythm against my ribs. My hands are shaking. The sheer, overwhelming violence of the moment threatens to paralyze me.
But then I think of Cassio.
I think of the agonizing pain in his eyes when he told me he hated the idea of anyone else having me. I think of the blood soaking his white shirt, the sacrifice he made without a single second of hesitation. He gave me a home. He gave me an empire. He gave me a purpose.
I grip the Glock with both hands, my knuckles turning white. I squeeze my eyes shut for one brief second, inhaling the scent of sulfur and dust, and then I push myself up.
I rest my arms over the marble railing, aiming down into the chaotic mass of mercenaries flooding the foyer.
I don't look at their faces. I don't think about the morality of pulling a trigger. I align the sights on the chest of a massive Russian raising an assault rifle toward Dante’s position, and I squeeze.
The recoil snaps my wrists back, the loud crack of the handgun vibrating up my arms.
The man jolts backward, dropping his rifle as he crumples to the marble floor.
I swallow a scream, my stomach heaving with a sudden, violent surge of nausea. I just took a life. The reality of it hits me like a freight train, cold and heavy. But before the shock can fully set in, another mercenary spots the muzzle flash from the balcony.
"Upstairs!" the Russian shouts, leveling his weapon.
Bullets chip away at the marble balustrade inches from my face. I duck down hard, covering my head as stone fragments rain over my burgundy suit.
"Signora, keep your head down!" Dante yells, firing a continuous burst from his M4 to suppress the men advancing on the staircase.
"They are trying to flank the stairs!" I shout back, my voice hoarse.
I push myself up again, ignoring the trembling in my legs. I fire twice more, my shots less precise but enough to force two mercenaries to dive behind a shattered pillar. I am not a trained killer, but I have the high ground, and I have a desperate need to protect this house.
The firefight rages on, minute after agonizing minute.
The air grows thick with smoke, the emergency lights cast grotesque, dancing shadows across the blood-stained walls.
Our guards are holding the line, fighting with the ferocious, stubborn pride of men defending their territory, but we are outnumbered.
A heavy, suffocating dread begins to curl in my gut.
I eject the spent magazine from my Glock, my hands fumbling slightly as I slam a fresh one into the grip. I rack the slide, my chest heaving.
Why am I doing this?
The question flashes through my mind, bright and startling amidst the chaos.
A month ago, I would have prayed for these walls to crumble.
I could have hidden in the vault. I could have thrown my hands up, surrendered to the Russians, and told them I was just a captive bride.
They might have used me as a hostage, but they wouldn't have killed me.
But I didn't run. I didn't surrender. I am kneeling on a floor covered in shattered stone, firing a weapon until my ears ring and my hands blister, bleeding for men who aren't even my blood.
Because they are his men.
Because this is his home.
The realization washes over me, profound and undeniable.
I am fighting because I love Cassio Vellutini with a devastating, completely consuming devotion.
I am fighting because I refuse to let him return to a broken house.
I am laying down my life to protect his legacy, because his legacy is now my own.
"They are bringing up heavy explosives!" a guard shouts from below, his voice cracking with panic.
I peek over the railing. Three mercenaries are hauling a heavy canvas bag toward the base of the glass staircase, providing cover for each other. If they blow the stairs, they will collapse the entire second-floor landing and bury Dante and me in the rubble.
"Dante, the stairs!" I scream, pointing down.
Dante shifts his aim, but his rifle clicks empty. He curses, dropping behind the marble to reload.
The mercenary at the front unzips the canvas bag, pulling out a cylindrical charge.
I don't hesitate. I stand up entirely, exposing myself to the foyer. I brace my arms, sighting down the barrel of the Glock, and fire three rapid shots.
The first bullet shatters the glass step next to the man. The second catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The third strikes the heavy canvas bag just as he drops it.
I don't know what was inside, but the resulting explosion is catastrophic.
A blinding wall of fire erupts at the base of the staircase. The shockwave knocks me completely off my feet, throwing me backward onto the hardwood floor of the corridor. The blast deafens me, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears as smoke violently billows up to the second floor.
I lie on my back, gasping for breath, the ceiling is spinning above me. My vision blurs.
"Signora!" Dante’s muffled voice cuts through the ringing. Hands grab my shoulders, pulling me into a sitting position.
I blink away the dust. Dante is covered in soot, a cut bleeding freely down the side of his face, but he is grinning. It is a feral, bloodthirsty smile.
"You blew their charge," Dante pants, hauling me up to my feet. "The stairs are gone, but the blast took out half their assault team. They are retreating!"
I lean heavily against the wall, coughing up plaster dust, my hands still gripping the gun with a white-knuckled intensity.
I look over the edge of the ruined balcony.
The surviving Russians are scrambling backward, dragging their wounded out through the shattered front doors, fleeing into the storm.
We held the line.
I slide slowly down the wall until I am sitting on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The adrenaline crash is sudden and brutal, leaving me shaking uncontrollably. I drop the gun beside me, pressing my dirty, trembling hands over my face.
We survived the diversion. The estate is secure.
But as the sirens begin to wail in the distance, a new, agonizing terror grips my heart, squeezing until I can barely draw a breath.
If Volkov sent thirty men here just to keep us busy... what kind of hell is waiting for Cassio at Pier Seven?
I stare into the smoke-filled corridor, the tears finally falling, praying to a God I am recently familiar with. Bring him back to me. Please, just bring my monster home.