Chapter 28 Cassio
Cassio
The freezing rain slicing across Pier Seven feels like needles against my face.
The peace summit was a snare, exactly as I predicted. But Volkov severely underestimated the paranoia of a man with something to lose.
When Matteo, Dante’s brother Ginio, and I walked into the clearing between the towering stacks of metal crates, the Bratva didn't even bother with a greeting.
Two heavy transport trucks suddenly lurched from the shadows, blocking the only exit route to the main road.
The doors flew open, and a dozen armed Russians poured out, their assault rifles raised.
They expected us to panic. They expected to pin the Vellutini Don against the churning black water of the bay and execute me.
They didn't look up.
Before the first Russian could even chamber a round, the night sky split open. The four counter-snipers I stationed on the massive loading cranes two hours ago squeezed their triggers in unison.
The heads of the Bratva lieutenants practically evaporated in a mist of crimson and gray.
Chaos erupted. I stepped out from the container, firing methodically with my left hand, putting three hollow-point rounds into the chest of a mercenary charging my position.
Matteo laid down a punishing barrage of suppressing fire with his M4, chewing through the rusted metal doors of the transport trucks.
It was a massacre. Within four minutes, the concrete dock was littered with twelve bleeding corpses.
But as the echoes of the gunfire faded into the storm, a suffocating, icy dread settled heavy in my stomach.
I walk over to the last surviving Russian. He is slumped against the tire of a transport truck, coughing up thick blood, a bullet lodged deep in his gut. I grab him by the collar of his tactical vest, hauling him forward.
"Where is Volkov?" I demand. "Where is the Pakhan?"
The mercenary spits a mouthful of blood onto my boots. He smiles, his teeth stained red. "The Pakhan is not here, Italian. He is collecting your bride."
The words hit me like a wrecking ball to the spine.
"A diversion," Matteo breathes, lowering his rifle, his eyes widening in horror as he looks at me. "Boss, they only sent a skeleton crew. They sent the main force to the estate."
I drop the dying man. I don't bother finishing him off.
I spin around, sprinting toward the armored and brand-new Maybach we parked on the edge of the pier.
Every step sends an agonizing spike of pain through my torn chest, but I don't feel it.
I don't feel anything except a blind, all-consuming panic.
If I don't come back, burn it all down. I left her. I walked out of that study, leaving my wife like a sitting duck in a house about to be besieged by an army.
"Drive!" I scream at Ginio the second I throw myself into the backseat. "Get me home right fucking now!"
The car tears out of the port, the tires hydroplaning over the slick asphalt. We blast through red lights, dodging oncoming traffic with inches to spare. I stare out the windshield, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.
I am a man who calculates every variable. I build empires. I anticipate betrayals. But right now, my brilliant, strategic mind is completely blank, replaced by a singular, frantic chant.
Please. Please. Please.
If she is dead, I will end the world. I will slaughter Volkov, I will gut Dario Lombardi, and then I will put my own gun to my temple because I refuse to exist in a universe where she is gone.
We take the final turn toward the cliffside. Smoke is billowing into the stormy sky, thick and gray, rising from the direction of my compound.
"The gates are blown," Matteo says, his voice sounds hollow.
The massive iron barriers of the Vellutini estate are twisted and blackened, blown off their hinges. Dante’s men are swarming the driveway, their weapons drawn, securing the perimeter. Ginio slams on the brakes, the Maybach skidding to a halt near the marble steps of the main entrance.
I kick my door open before the vehicle even stops moving.
I stumble up the steps, my boots crunching over shattered stone and glass. I walk through the ruined front doors, and the sight of the grand foyer makes my breath stall completely in my lungs.
It is a warzone. The air is choked with plaster dust and the bitter stench of sulfur.
The beautiful glass staircase has been obliterated, a massive crater blown into its base, leaving only jagged, smoking splinters hanging from the second-floor landing.
Bodies in Bratva tactical gear are scattered across the blood-soaked marble.
"Noemi!" I roar, the sound tearing my throat apart. The panic is a living, breathing beast clawing its way out of my chest. "Noemi!"
"Boss!" Dante’s voice calls out from the second floor.
I look up.
Through the haze of smoke and dust, standing at the edge of the ruined balcony, is my wife.
Her burgundy suit is coated in white plaster ash. Her knees are scraped, her face smudged with soot and sweat. And gripped tightly in her hands is the matte black Glock 19 I gave her.
She looks down at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide. The moment she sees me standing in the wreckage, the gun slips from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
A ragged, broken sound escapes my lips.
I don't look for a clear path. I scramble up the jagged, broken remnants of the staircase, hauling my heavy frame over shattered glass and twisted metal, ignoring the excruciating protest of my torn sutures.
I reach the landing and pull myself over the edge.
Noemi drops to her knees, reaching out for me. I crash into her, wrapping my good arm around her waist, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
"You're alive," I choke out, my voice entirely unrecognizable. I am shaking. The Don of the Vellutini family is trembling like a fucking leaf on the ruined floor of his own home. "You're alive, you're alive."
"I held them," she sobs, her hands tangling desperately in my wet hair, pulling me closer. "I shot the charge, Cassio. I blew the stairs. I held the line."
I pull back just enough to look at her face. I cup her cheeks, my thumbs swiping away the soot and the tears. She is magnificent. She is a warrior covered in the ashes of our enemies, and she belongs entirely to me.
I crash my mouth against hers.
It is a desperate, bruising collision. There is no strategy here, no calculation, just a starving man devouring his salvation.
She opens her mouth to me with a hungry, unyielding demand, her tongue sliding against mine, tasting like smoke and tears and overwhelming relief.
I kiss her until my lungs burn, until the chaotic noise of the guards securing the house completely fades away.
I drag my lips off her mouth, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses across her jaw, down the column of her throat, desperate to feel the frantic pulse beating beneath her skin.
"I thought I lost you," I whisper harshly against her collarbone, my fingers gripping her hips so tight I am surely leaving bruises. "I smelled the smoke, and my heart just stopped. I couldn't breathe, Noemi."
She pulls my head back up, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "You didn't lose me. I told you, I am not going anywhere."
I stare at her. The walls I have spent a decade building, the impenetrable fortress of apathy and violence I constructed to survive this brutal life, completely crumble into dust.
I don't just want to own her. I don't just want to protect her as a prized possession.
"I love you," the confession rips its way out of my chest, bleeding and unvarnished.
Noemi’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen, searching my face for any hint of a lie.
"I love you," I repeat. I press my forehead against hers, closing my eyes because the vulnerability is almost too much to bear. "It’s not just possessiveness. It’s not just obsession.
You are the air in my fucking lungs. You are the only thing in this miserable, violent world that makes me want to be a better man. I love you, Noemi."
A jagged sob breaks from her throat. She slides her hands down my chest, careful of my bandages, and grips the lapels of my ruined shirt.
"I love you too," she weeps, the words washing over me like holy water. "I love you, Cassio. I love my monster."
I let out a shaky, broken laugh, burying my face in her hair. The relief is so profound it actually hurts.
I pull back, shifting my weight to stand up. I offer her my left hand. She takes it, and I haul her up to her feet.
"Come here," I murmur, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her flush against my side.
I look around the destroyed foyer. The crystal chandelier is shattered. The imported rugs are ruined. Half of my guards are bleeding, and the front doors are completely gone. The estate is a disaster zone.
But I have never felt richer in my entire life.
Matteo jogs up the remaining intact service stairs and appears on the landing beside us. He looks at the two of us, taking in the soot, the blood, and the bond radiating between us.
"The perimeter is secure, Boss," Matteo reports. "The surviving Russians fled. We have three prisoners locked in the basement cells."
"Good," I say, my voice turning to stone. "Patch up the wounded. Call Santoro for Dante’s men. And tell the guards to secure the master suite. My wife and I need to clean up."
"And the prisoners?" Matteo asks, a brutal edge creeping into his tone.
I look at Noemi. She doesn't flinch. She looks right back at me, her chin tilted up, fully prepared to stand beside me in the blood and the mud.
"Let them sit in the dark and bleed for a few hours," I instruct, my eyes never leaving hers. "When the sun comes up, I am going down there. And I am going to find out exactly where Volkov is hiding."
I guide Noemi down the hallway, leaving the destruction behind us.
When we reach the master suite, the doors are intact. I kick them shut and lock the deadbolt. The room is quiet, insulated from the chaos outside.
I turn to her.
"Take this off," I command softly, tugging at the lapel of her ruined burgundy jacket.
She doesn't argue. She shrugs out of the jacket, letting it drop to the floor. She unbuttons the silk blouse beneath it, her fingers trembling slightly, until it joins the jacket. She stands before me in nothing but her lace bra and trousers, her skin smudged with dust and soot.
I use my good hand to unbuckle my belt, kicking off my shoes. I shrug out of my shirt, gritting my teeth as the fabric pulls against the fresh blood seeping into my bandages.
"You're bleeding again," she whispers, stepping into my space. Her cool fingers gently trace the edge of the thick white gauze wrapped around my ribs.
"It doesn't matter," I tell her, capturing her hand and bringing her palm to my lips. "I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but you."