Chapter 34 Cassio
Cassio
Six months later
A jagged, uneven line of raised flesh sits just below my right collarbone, a permanent, ugly reminder of the night the world almost swallowed us whole.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master dressing room, my fingers brushing lightly over the scar.
Six months ago, taking a breath felt like swallowing broken glass.
Now, the muscle is fully healed. The stiffness is entirely gone.
I can draw my weapon in a fraction of a second, and I can lift my wife and pin her against the wall without a single twinge of pain.
A pair of soft hands slide over my bare shoulders from behind.
Noemi steps into my line of sight in the mirror, pressing her front flush against my back. She rests her chin near the scar, her dark eyes meeting my reflection.
"You’re staring at it again," she murmurs, her lips brushing the inked skin of my neck.
"I like looking at it," I tell her, turning around to face her. I wrap my hands around her waist, pulling her flush against my hips. "It reminds me that the bastards missed."
"It reminds me that you have a reckless hero complex," she corrects, though a soft, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
She reaches up, holding a tailored black silk tie.
I let my hands wander, tracing the dangerous curve of her spine.
She is wearing a deep sapphire gown tonight.
The fabric clings to her waist and flares slightly at the floor, but the entire back is completely exposed, dipping so dangerously low I can feel the smooth, warm dip of her lower back beneath my palms.
"If one of Lombardi’s remaining cousins looks at your back for more than two seconds tonight, I am going to gouge his eyes out with a cocktail fork," I warn her, my voice dropping into a possessive, territorial cadence.
Noemi doesn't flinch. She just finishes the knot at my throat, tightening it with an aggressive tug that forces me to step a fraction of an inch closer to her.
"If you stab a guest at the mid-year syndicate gala, Don Salvatore will have an aneurysm," she points out, her hands smoothing the crisp lapels of my dark suit jacket. "Besides, they aren't going to look at my back, Cassio. They are going to be too busy staring at the floor when we walk past them."
A deep, genuine laugh scrapes its way up my throat. I capture her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up. "You’ve gotten incredibly arrogant over the last six months, moglie."
"I learned from the best," she fires back, her eyes dancing with that unapologetic fire I am completely addicted to.
I crush my mouth to hers. My tongue sweeps past her lips, tasting the faint hint of expensive champagne she was sipping while doing her makeup.
She hums into the kiss, her fingernails biting lightly into my shoulders, kissing me back with a starving, matching intensity that hasn't faded a single degree since the night we took back the docks.
I break the kiss before I lose my mind and throw her onto the velvet ottoman in the center of the closet. We are already running twenty minutes behind schedule, and as much as I want to ruin that sapphire dress, we have a city to rule.
"Let's go," I say, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth. "The Commission is waiting."
The summer heat has finally burned away the bitter, freezing rain that haunted the spring. The air outside the penthouse is balmy as Dante holds the rear door of the Maybach open for us.
I slide into the leather seat beside Noemi, the heavy doors thudding shut, insulating us from the noise of the estate.
The drive toward the city center is smooth. There are no decoy convoys tonight. There are no frantic, desperate checks of the radio frequencies. The streets belong to us.
The last six months have been a masterclass in domination.
After the bloodbath at Pier Seven and the execution of the Bratva Pakhan, the fractured pieces of the Russian syndicate scrambled back to their holes, desperate to avoid the wrath of the newly united Italian families.
The Irish packed up their operations and retreated north, paying a heavy, extortionate tax to use our secondary shipping lanes.
And the port? The port is a fucking goldmine.
Matteo dropped the quarterly financials on my desk this morning.
With Holding Bay Four fully operational and completely under Vellutini control, the deep-water freighters are funneling billions of dollars in untraceable product through our territory.
The money is washing through our offshore accounts faster than we can clean it.
I glance at Noemi. She is staring out the tinted window, the passing streetlights catching the sharp, aristocratic slope of her cheekbones. She orchestrated that victory. She saw the commercial freighter schedules, she mapped the blind spot, and she handed me the key to the empire.
I reach across the center console, sliding my hand over her thigh. The high slit in the sapphire dress parts, allowing my calloused fingers to stroke the bare, warm skin just above her knee.
She turns her head, a wicked, knowing glint in her eyes. She doesn't push my hand away. Instead, she covers it with her own, lacing our fingers together.
"Matteo said the shipment of luxury vehicles cleared customs at noon," she notes casually, seamlessly shifting into business mode while my thumb strokes the sensitive skin on her inner thigh.
"They cleared," I confirm. "Not a single badge asked a question. The harbor master is firmly in our pocket, and the payment was wired to the Genovese accounts for their share of the transport boats an hour ago."
"My father will be pleased," she says.
Now, Orlando is just another piece on the board. Orlando stays in his lane. He manages naval logistics, takes his cut, and keeps his fucking mouth shut. He learned exactly what happens when you underestimate the Vellutini’s.
The Maybach glides to a seamless stop in front of the sprawling, illuminated facade of the Grand Hotel.
The mid-year gala is a tradition, a massive gathering of every Capo, underboss, and high-ranking soldier in the syndicate. Tonight, it is also a celebration of the peace and unprecedented wealth flowing through our streets.
Dante opens my door. I step out into the warm night air, buttoning my suit jacket.
I turn and offer my hand to Noemi. She takes it, stepping out of the car with flawless grace.
The flash of her sapphire gown under the valet lights turns the heads of the armed guards stationed by the entrance, but the moment my eyes snap to them, they instantly look down at the pavement.
"Ready?" I ask, pulling her hand and tucking it securely into the crook of my arm.
"Always," she replies, her chin held high.
We walk through the massive glass doors, flanked by Matteo and Dante. The heavy, thumping bass of the music and the loud, boisterous chatter of four hundred mobsters echo through the vaulted ballroom.
The moment we cross the threshold, the change in the atmosphere is unmistakable.
The conversation swirling near the entrance door stalls. The silence ripples outward, a swift, sweeping wave that cuts across the entire ballroom until the music is the only sound left. Men in expensive tuxedos and women in glittering gowns stop what they are doing.
They turn to look at the entrance.
They don't just stare. The crowds physically part, stepping back to create a wide, completely unobstructed path straight down the center of the room toward the VIP tables.
It is the kind of submission my father spent his entire life begging for. It is the respect Lombardi tried to steal.
I don't smile. I keep my expression locked in stone as I guide my wife through the parted sea of mobsters. Capos who have been in this life for thirty years dip their heads in deference as we pass.
"Don Cassio. Signora Vellutini," a gray-haired lieutenant from the southern district murmurs, bowing his head respectfully as we walk by.
I give a sharp, singular nod in acknowledgment.
We reach the elevated section at the back of the ballroom. Don Salvatore is seated at the center table, a glass of expensive bourbon in his hand. My father-in-law, Orlando, is standing near him, speaking with a group of European suppliers.
Orlando stops talking the second he sees us.
The arrogant, traditional Don who used to look at me with undisguised contempt now straightens his posture.
He gives me a tight, respectful nod, but his eyes shift immediately to Noemi.
There is a complicated, heavy resignation in his gaze.
He sees the power she wields, the confidence she wears, and he knows he lost the most valuable asset his family ever produced.
Noemi offers her father a cool, polite smile. Nothing more.
We take our seats at the table next to Salvatore. Before I can even order a drink, a man approaches.
He is unfamiliar. A new player. He wears a flashy white suit, his neck is hung with gold chains, exuding the kind of unearned, desperate arrogance that usually gets people killed in my city. Matteo steps forward to intercept him, but I hold up a hand, signaling my underboss to let him pass.
"Don Vellutini," the man says, his accent heavy, marking him as a weapons trafficker from the Mediterranean coast. He doesn't look at Noemi.
He treats her like she is just a pretty decoration sitting beside me.
"I am Costa. I sent word through your underboss about securing a permanent shipping lane through Bay Four.
I have a fleet ready to move, and I want to bypass the usual federal eyes. "
I lean back in my chair, crossing one ankle over my knee. I look at the man, a slow, dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
"You want a discount on my docks," I state, my voice carrying clearly over the music.
"We can bring massive volume to your city," Costa boasts, puffing his chest out. "Millions a month. But I deal directly with the boss. I want a handshake agreement with you tonight."
I let out a short, harsh laugh. It’s a cruel sound, dripping with condescension. I don't even bother looking at Costa anymore. I turn my head, my eyes locking onto Noemi.
"Did you hear that, baby?" I ask her, my tone shifting into a smooth, teasing drawl. "Costa here wants to bypass the Feds. He wants to negotiate the shipping lanes."
Noemi picks up her crystal glass of sparkling water. She takes a slow, agonizingly elegant sip, completely ignoring the sweating trafficker for a long, deliberate moment.
When she finally sets the glass down, she turns her dark, calculating eyes onto the man. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seems to plummet.
"Bay Four is currently operating at ninety percent capacity," Noemi tells him with mocking sweetness.
"The remaining ten percent is reserved for high-yield, low-risk cargo.
If you want a permanent lane, the tariff is thirty percent of your gross profit, payable in unmarked bills on the first of every month. "
Costa bristles, his face flushing red. He looks at me, completely appalled. "Don Cassio, I did not come here to negotiate with a woman—"
Matteo’s hand drops instantly to the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. Dante takes a step forward. Even Don Salvatore stops drinking his bourbon, his ancient eyes fixing on the foolish trafficker like he is already a corpse.
I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I don't even uncross my legs.
"You are breathing right now because I am in a generous mood," I tell Costa, my voice dropping to a whisper that carries a terrifying, homicidal promise.
"But if you ever disrespect my wife again, I will have Matteo cut your tongue out and mail it back to the Mediterranean.
You want access to my port? You speak to the Lady of the Vellutini family. Her word is the law."
Costa swallows audibly, the color completely draining from his face. He finally realizes the magnitude of his mistake. He looks at the surrounding guards, the shifting posture of the other Dons, and then, slowly, he turns his terrified gaze back to Noemi.
"My... my apologies, Signora Vellutini," he stammers, bowing his head so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. "Thirty percent is... thirty percent is acceptable."
"I thought it might be," Noemi smiles. "Leave your paperwork with Matteo. We will let you know if you are approved."
She dismisses him with a flick of her wrist. Costa scrambles backward, completely humiliated, disappearing into the crowd as fast as his legs can carry him.
I reach out, my hand wrapping securely around the back of Noemi's chair, pulling her closer to me. The heavy, gold-chained trafficker is already forgotten.
"Thirty percent?" I murmur in her ear, my breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of her neck. "You’re bleeding them dry, Noemi."
"They are paying for the privilege of using the safest port on the eastern seaboard," she counters smoothly, turning her head to look at me, her eyes practically shining with power and wicked intelligence. "If they want to play in our sandbox, they pay our prices."
I stare at her, the overwhelming, all-consuming devotion hitting me straight in the chest.
I lean in and press a firm, bruising kiss to her mouth, entirely uncaring of the hundreds of eyes watching us. She kisses me back, her hand coming up to rest on my chest, right over the scar she healed.
When I pull back, I look out over the busy ballroom.
The old men, the soldiers, the vast empire we built from the ashes of a forced marriage.
A sense of satisfaction hits my chest as I realize that the underworld is at our command.
And for the rest of our violent, beautiful lives, they will always be.
The End.
Thank you for reading Deadly Alliance and stepping into Noemi and Cassio’s dark, dangerous world.
If you were drawn to obsession, possessive antiheroes, and the kind of love that leaves scars, turn the page for a sneak peek of Toxic Attraction.
It’s the story of an unwilling spy and the ruthless mafia prince who should have stayed away from her, but the moment he touches her, he decides she is his.
He was never supposed to want her.
Now he refuses to let her go.
Flip to the next page for a sneak peak…