Chapter 30 Cassio
Cassio
The doors of Don Salvatore’s war room shut behind us, sealing the newly minted alliance. Orlando gave his nod. Lombardi was neutered. And it was all because of the woman walking beside me.
I guide Noemi into the back of the armored SUV. Dante shuts the door, encasing us in the quiet interior. I lean my head back against the leather, exhaling a long, ragged breath. The pain in my chest is a constant, grinding ache, but the adrenaline singing in my veins easily drowns it out.
"You humiliated them," I murmur, turning my head to look at her. "You sat at the Capo dei Capi's table and outmaneuvered men who have been fighting this war since before you were born."
Noemi kicks off her black stilettos, curling her legs up onto the seat.
She doesn't preen. She just meets my gaze with a calculating look.
"They were looking at the map the wrong way.
They were looking at the streets, Cassio.
Volkov expects us to hit the front door because Italians always hit the front door.
He wants a shootout in the alleys of Pier Seven. "
"So we give him one," I say, the pieces of the trap clicking into place in my head. "We give him the street fight he wants. We send a loud, heavily armed decoy force straight down the main avenue. We let him think we fell for the bottleneck."
"A bait," Noemi finishes, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her lips. "He commits his main force to the barricades to crush your decoy."
"While Orlando's boats and my elite shooters slip into Holding Bay Four right behind them," I confirm. I reach across the console with my good left hand, tangling my fingers with hers. "We trap them between our guns and the water. We slaughter them all."
When we return, the estate is buzzing with a frantic energy. Matteo is already coordinating with Ginio and Orlando's Capos. The strike is set for 3:00 AM tomorrow. We have less than twenty-four hours to prepare the kill box.
I spend the evening at the dining table, maps spread across the mahogany surface.
Noemi stays right beside me, completely immersed in the logistics.
She points out the commercial freighter schedules she memorized from the ledgers, highlighting the exact fifteen-minute window the bay doors will be open.
"If the boats arrive at 2:45, they'll hit the automated security grid," she explains, tapping a fingernail against a blue line on the schematic.
"You have to hold in the inlet until exactly 2:58.
That's when the harbor master changes the shift and the cameras pan east. It leaves a blind spot large enough to slip three boats through undetected. "
I stare at her, a consuming pride expanding in my chest. She isn't just a pretty distraction; she is a strategist. She is my equal. For years, I surrounded myself with soldiers and yes-men, people who followed my orders without question. Now, I have a partner who sees the angles I miss.
"We need a heavy distraction at the main gates of the Pier," I point out, tracing a route with my pen.
"If we want Volkov to pull his guards away from the water, the decoy has to look like a desperate, all-in assault.
I'll send Dante in the armored trucks. They can lay down enough suppressing fire to make the Bratva think the entire Vellutini army is knocking. "
"And you?" she asks, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. "You'll be on the boats with Orlando's men?"
"I have to be," I tell her, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If the men don't see me bleeding on the front lines with them, the alliance fractures. I lead the breach into Bay Four."
By midnight, the plans are locked in. Matteo takes the final blueprints downstairs to brief the strike teams. The heavy doors click shut, leaving Noemi and me alone in the quiet sanctuary of our bedroom.
The adrenaline begins to crash, leaving the exhausting reality of my injuries in its wake. I stand near the edge of the bed, working the knot of my tie loose with my left hand. My right arm is strapped tightly to my ribs. The stitches pull uncomfortably with every breath.
Noemi steps up in front of me. She bats my hand away, her fingers deftly undoing the silk tie and pulling it from my collar.
"Let me," she whispers, her gaze lifting to mine.
She unbuttons my dress shirt, parting the fabric to reveal the thick white gauze wrapping my chest and shoulder. Her fingertips trace the edge of the bandages, feather-light, before she pushes the shirt off my good shoulder.
Tomorrow night, I am walking into a slaughterhouse. Volkov is a cornered animal, and even with the perfect trap, people are going to die. I might die.
I slide my left hand around the back of her neck, tilting her head up. "Stop worrying," I order softly.
"I'm not," she lies, her voice trembling just a fraction.
"You are." I brush my thumb across her lower lip, feeling it part for me. "I am coming back to you, Noemi. I swear it on my life. I didn't survive a sniper round just to let some Russian bastard put me in the ground tomorrow."
"You better not," she breathes, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders. "Because if you leave me alone with the Commission, I'm going to take over your entire syndicate."
A breathless, grating laugh escapes my throat. "I'd hand you the keys myself, moglie."
I crush my mouth down on hers. The kiss is starving, desperate. There is no gentle buildup. We are two people standing on the edge of a cliff, clinging to each other to keep from falling into the abyss. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting like expensive wine and intoxicating heat.
I grip the zipper at the back of her black dress, pulling it down in one smooth motion. The heavy silk pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of black lace.
I groan. "You are so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you."
I walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress.
She falls back onto the sheets, looking up at me with eyes so heavy with desire they look completely intoxicating.
I strip off the rest of my clothes with my good hand, gritting my teeth as the torn muscle in my back protests.
I follow her down onto the bed, hovering over her, keeping my weight braced on my left forearm so I don't crush my wounded side.
She reaches up, her hands sliding through my hair, pulling my face down to her neck. I press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, my teeth grazing her skin, pulling a sharp, breathy moan from her throat.
"Tell me you belong to me," I demand against her ear. I slide my hand down the smooth curve of her stomach, slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of her lace panties.
"I belong to you," she gasps, arching her hips up into my touch. "Only you, Cassio."
I drag the lace down her legs, tossing it onto the floor. She is completely bare to me, her skin flushed, her chest heaving. I part her thighs, slipping two fingers inside her slick heat. She is already so wet, her body is practically weeping for me.
I stroke her slowly, my thumb circling the swollen bundle of nerves at her center. She writhes beneath me, her nails digging into the muscles of my good arm.
"Cassio, please," she begs, tossing her head side to side on the pillows.
"Please what?" I taunt, quickening the pace of my fingers, watching the pleasure completely unravel her composed facade. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want. Tell me exactly what you need me to do."
"I want you inside me," she whimpers, her internal muscles clamping down tightly around my fingers. "I want my husband."
The possessive thrill that rockets through my veins at those words is intoxicating. I withdraw my fingers, positioning myself between her thighs. I am painfully hard, aching with the need to bury myself inside her and forget the rest of the fucking world.
But I can't put my weight on my right side, and trying to hold myself up for a prolonged time is going to tear my stitches wide open.
"Sit up," I murmur, rolling onto my back against the pillows.
Noemi understands instantly. She scrambles up, throwing a leg over my hips to straddle me. She lines herself up against my thick length, her hands resting flat on my stomach, careful to avoid the bandages wrapping my ribs.
She sinks down slowly, taking every inch of me into her tight, scalding heat.
A guttural groan rips from my chest. My head falls back against the headboard, my eyes sliding shut as the agonizingly good friction overwhelms my senses. "Fuck, Noemi. Shit."
She sets the pace, rising up and sliding back down with a steady, punishing rhythm. I reach up with my left hand, gripping her hip to help guide her motions, my thumb pressing firmly into her skin.
She leans forward, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a heavy curtain. "Look at me," she demands.
I open my eyes. She is looking down at me, her face flushed, her lips parted.
She grinds her hips down hard against mine, eliciting a sharp curse from my lips.
Even when she is the one riding me, dictating the pace, she is entirely submissive to the bond between us, entirely focused on pulling every ounce of pleasure from my body.
"I'm going to be right here waiting for you tomorrow," she tells me, each word punctuated by a deep, seated thrust. "You hear me? You kill whoever you have to kill, and you come back to this bed."
"Yes," I grit out, my control fraying at the edges. The visual of her riding me, demanding my survival, is the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. "I'll bury them all, baby. I promise."
"Good," she moans, picking up the speed.
The slick, wet sound of our bodies slapping together fills the quiet room. Her breasts sway with every movement, the peaks hardened and flushed. I reach up, capturing one in my mouth, laving the sensitive nipple with my tongue before sucking hard.
Noemi cries out, her back arching, her rhythm becoming frantic. Her internal walls spasm around my cock, milking me, driving me straight toward the edge.
"That's it," I praise her, my voice strained and harsh. "Take it all. Come for me, Noemi."
"Cassio," she screams my name, her body going rigid as her climax hits her like a freight train. She squeezes her eyes shut, her fingernails biting into my shoulders.
Her intense, clenching release destroys the last shred of my restraint. I thrust my hips up hard against her, burying myself as deep as physically possible, and let go. The orgasm tears through me, a violent, consuming flood of heat and exhaustion that leaves me completely drained.
She collapses forward onto my uninjured left side, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. I wrap my arm around her back, holding her tightly against me.
We lie there for a long time.
Tomorrow, the streets will run red. Tomorrow, I will walk into a slaughterhouse and face the Bratva Pakhan.
But tonight, holding the woman who gave me a reason to fight, I know exactly what I am fighting for. And Volkov doesn't stand a fucking chance.