Chapter 46
Cassio
Don Salvatore’s estate is a goddamn fortress.
Nestled deep in the hills overlooking the city, the sprawling stone compound is heavily guarded by men carrying automatic rifles and faces carved from granite.
As my armored Maybach crunches up the long gravel driveway, I stare out the rain-streaked window with locked jaw.
The storm from last night has faded into a dismal, grey morning, casting a sickly light over the manicured grounds.
"They’re heavily staffed today, Boss," Matteo murmurs from the passenger seat, his eyes tracking the guards stationed at fifty-yard intervals along the perimeter.
"Salvatore is paranoid," I reply coldly, straightening my cuffs. "And he should be."
There are four families in the Italian syndicate.
The Rossi family sits at the head, with Don Salvatore acting as the Capo dei Capi, the Boss of Bosses.
Beneath him are the three smaller families: my family, the Vellutini; Don Orlando’s family, the Genovese; and Don Lombardi’s useless fucking faction.
Right now, both the Vellutini and the Genovese hold massive territories, giving us the lion's share of power directly beneath Salvatore.
But that power is bleeding out into the streets.
Our two families are at war, causing a violent internal turmoil that is ripping the Italians apart from the inside out.
And while Orlando and I are busy slicing at each other’s throats, a growing external threat from the Russian Bratva and the Irish Mob is closing in on our borders.
The car glides to a halt before the massive oak double doors of the main house. I step out into the brisk morning air, flanked by Matteo and two of my top soldiers. I pat the reassuring weight of the 1911 holstered at my ribs, though I know I’ll have to surrender it at the door. Damn protocol.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of burning cedar and expensive cigars. I am escorted by Salvatore’s men through the vaulted corridors to the grand dining room, which has been converted into a war room.
When the heavy doors swing open, I see Don Salvatore sitting at the head of the long, polished mahogany table.
He is seventy-two years old, his face is like ancient leather, his eyes as black and unforgiving as obsidian.
To his right sits Don Lombardi, looking nervous and out of his depth, his hands are folded tightly in his lap.
And directly across from Lombardi sits Don Orlando Genovese.
The moment Orlando’s eyes lock onto mine, unadulterated hatred flashes across his wrinkled face.
I am the youngest Don in the room, having taken over the Vellutini family after my father died, while Orlando is older, experienced, and fiercely traditional.
We clash because we are total opposites.
He thinks I’m a reckless kid, and I know he’s a fading dinosaur.
I don't break his gaze as I walk to the empty leather chair on Salvatore’s left. I take my seat slowly, exuding an arrogant, casual grace that I know makes Orlando’s blood boil. I unbutton my suit jacket and lean back, spreading my arms along the armrests.
"Cassio," Salvatore greets in a raspy rumble that commands absolute silence. "You’re late."
"Traffic near the docks, Don Salvatore," I say smoothly, offering a razor-thin smile. "I had to handle a minor infestation. Irish rats."
Orlando’s face purples with rage. He slams a thick, calloused hand against the table. "You arrogant little prick! You hit the south warehouse last night without Commission approval! You're operating in contested territory!"
"Contested?" I raise a dark brow, my voice dropping to a lethal calm. "The Vellutini family has bled for the south docks for decades, Orlando. If you can't hold your own borders, don't cry when I have to clean up the mess."
"Enough."
Salvatore doesn't shout. He doesn't have to. The single word drops like an anvil, instantly crushing the argument. Orlando snaps his mouth shut, his chest heaving. I simply tilt my head, maintaining my relaxed posture, though my muscles are coiled tight as wire.
"I did not call you here to listen to you bicker like street thugs," Salvatore continues, his dark eyes sweeping over the three of us.
"The Italians have become a laughingstock in the underworld.
We are bleeding money. We are bleeding men.
And we are completely distracted from the knife hovering directly over our throats. "
Salvatore reaches into the breast pocket of his tailored suit and pulls out a stack of glossy photographs. He tosses them onto the center of the mahogany table. They slide across the polished wood, stopping between Orlando and me.
I lean forward, my eyes scanning the images. They are aerial shots. Ships, cargo containers, heavy cranes, and fortified perimeters.
"The Port of San Marco," Salvatore announces grimly.
I study the photos, my mind working rapidly. When the old families carved up and shared the city territories sixty years ago, that specific port fell to the Italians, but it was small, weak, and barely functional. It was practically a junkyard. Nobody paid attention to it for decades.
"Look at it now," Salvatore commands, tapping a weathered finger against the wood.
"Over the years, the port has grown. The city expanded the deep-water channels.
It has become a site of major economic importance, a damn goldmine.
It expands our influence, multiplies our income, and solidifies our control over the entire eastern seaboard. "
"So, we lock it down," Orlando says, trying to sound authoritative. "I'll move fifty of my best men to the perimeter by midnight."
"You will do no such thing," Salvatore snaps, shutting him down instantly.
"Because if you move fifty men, Cassio will move sixty to counter you, and a bloodbath will start before the sun even sets.
While you two are playing your pathetic game of tug-of-war, the wolves are already at the gate.
The Irish and the Russians want this port, Orlando. They want that money and that power."
An oppressive silence fills the room. Even Lombardi shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
The Bratva and the Irish Mob forming an alliance to take the port isn't just a threat, it’s an extinction-level event for our syndicate.
If they choke off our primary smuggling and shipping routes, we will wither and die within a year.
"They are waiting for us to weaken ourselves," I say. "They are letting the cold war between my family and the Genovese soften the defenses. Once we’ve thinned our own ranks, they’ll sweep in and take the docks."
"Exactly," Salvatore says, leaning back in his grand chair. "Which is why this childish feud ends today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today."
"I am perfectly willing to end it," Orlando says, jutting his chin out stubbornly. "As soon as the Vellutini boy pays reparations for the casinos he burned and hands over the eastern—"
"There will be no reparations. There will be no negotiations," Salvatore interrupts, his voice drops an octave, echoing with terrifying finality. "The internal war is over. I am mandating a permanent truce, effective immediately."
I narrow my eyes. A mandated truce is just a piece of paper. Orlando will smile to Salvatore's face and try to poison my whiskey the next day. "A verbal truce won't hold the port, Don Salvatore. The Russians won't respect a handshake. They smell blood."
"I know," Salvatore replies, his gaze locking onto mine. "Which is why the head of this Commission is calling for a permanent truce by way of marriage."
The air in the room suddenly vanishes.
I freeze, my fingers tightening imperceptibly on the armrests of my chair. Across the table, Orlando looks as though he’s just been struck by a physical blow. His jaw goes slack, his dark eyes wide with shock.
"A... a marriage?" Orlando stammers, completely losing his composure.
"Yes," Salvatore says coldly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.
He looks between Orlando and me. "I cannot have the next two biggest families in the Italian mafia tearing each other apart when the Russians and Irish are threatening war. It’s a liability I will no longer tolerate.
I need you two families to unite. I need you to marry and forever be bound by blood. "
"You want me to marry into his family?" I scoff. The thought makes my skin crawl. Tying my bloodline, my legacy, to the archaic, sinking ship that is the Genovese family? It’s a fucking insult.
"I will not give any of my daughters to this.
.. this violent animal!" Orlando roars, finally finding his voice.
He stands up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards.
"He is a butcher! He has no respect for the old ways!
I will not allow my flesh and blood to share a bed with the man who killed my Capos! "
"Sit down, Orlando," Salvatore commands, a lethal edge in his rasp.
"Don Salvatore, with all due respect—"
"I said, sit the fuck down!" Salvatore roars, slamming both hands onto the table, half-rising from his seat. The raw, terrifying power of the Capo dei Capi floods the room, pursuing any further rebellion.
Orlando pales, his throat working as he slowly lowers himself back into his chair; he is humiliated.
Salvatore straightens his suit, his breathing heavy, his black eyes blazing with authority. He stares us down, making sure we understand exactly what is happening here. This isn't a negotiation. This is a decree. He is giving us no way out; the marriage must hold.
"The port requires a united front," Salvatore states, his voice returns to that rumble.
"The Bratva will not attack an alliance cemented by a wedding.
It shows strength. It shows stability. The Genovese and the Vellutini will become one impenetrable wall.
If either of you refuses, I will strip you of your titles, seize your territories, and hand them to Lombardi. "
Lombardi’s eyes widen in terror at the sudden mention of his name, clearly wanting no part of this crossfire.
I sit perfectly still, my mind calculating the angles with clinical precision. It is a trap, but it’s a brilliant one. Salvatore is forcing our hands. If I refuse, I lose my empire. If I accept, I have to let an enemy sleep in my bed.
But as I look across the table at Don Orlando, watching the furious, impotent rage burning in his eyes, a different thought takes root in my mind. A dark, viciously satisfying thought.
Orlando Genovese is a man ruled by his pride.
He treats his family like property, bargaining chips to be used for his own elevation.
He has two daughters. Everyone in the syndicate knows about them.
There is the eldest, the spinster with the sharp tongue and a reputation for being an unmanageable shrew.
And then there is the youngest. The prize.
The perfect, obedient mafia princess that Orlando has been hoarding to secure a massive alliance for himself.
If I have to be shackled to this dying family, I am going to make sure the chains choke Orlando to death.
I let out a slow, measured breath and lean forward, resting my forearms on the polished mahogany. I look directly at Don Salvatore, ignoring Orlando entirely.
"You want an alliance, Don Salvatore?" I say smoothly. "Fine. You want to secure the port with a wedding? I will give you your united front. I agree to the marriage."
Orlando’s head snaps toward me, shock registering on his weathered face. He didn't expect me to capitulate so quickly.
Salvatore nods slowly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Good. Then it is settled." He turns his gaze to Orlando. "Orlando. You will provide a daughter."
"Now, wait a goddamn minute," Orlando sneers, his upper lip curling. "I agree to the alliance, but I dictate terms. My eldest, Noemi, is of age. She is—"
"I don't want the eldest," I interrupt smoothly, cutting his legs out from under him.
Orlando stops, his eyes narrowing defensively. "What did you say?"
I turn my head slowly, meeting Orlando’s furious gaze with a cold, mocking smirk. I let the silence linger for a second, savoring the power I hold in this moment. I hold his pride in the palm of my hand, and I am going to crush it.
"I said, I don't want your eldest daughter," I repeat, my tone dripping with aristocratic disdain. "Everyone knows she’s a shrew, Orlando. I’ve heard she’s a headache, past her prime, and already pines for the Lombardi’s boy.
I have an empire to run and a war to prepare for.
I do not have the time or the patience to tame a feral, unwanted woman. "
Orlando’s face flushes a dangerous shade of crimson. "You insolent little—"
"I accept the marriage," I state loudly, speaking over him, directing my demand back to Salvatore. "But I choose the bride. I will take the younger sister. I want the obedient one."
I watch the blood drain completely from Orlando’s face.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
I have just demanded his prized possession.
I’ve demanded the daughter he was saving for a profitable, respectable match.
I’ve demanded his perfect, golden child, and I’ve done it to guarantee myself a quiet life and a docile wife who will sit in the corner and keep her fucking mouth shut while I run the city.
"No," Orlando whispers, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and genuine panic. He looks frantically at Salvatore. "Don Salvatore, please. Lucia is... she is innocent in this. She is young. Give him Noemi. The agreement is for a union of families, it shouldn't matter which—"
"Cassio has agreed to my terms," Salvatore cuts in. He doesn't care about Orlando’s paternal attachments, he only cares about the port. "If he wants the youngest, he gets the youngest. The Vellutini and Genovese families will unite. Cassio will marry Lucia."
Orlando looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. His hands are shaking where they rest on the table. He looks at me, and the hatred in his eyes is murderous.
I smile at him. A slow, dark, terrifying curve of my lips that promises nothing but pain.
"Get your daughter a dress, Orlando," I tell him softly, rising to my feet and buttoning my suit jacket. "We have a wedding to plan."
I turn and walk out of the war room, Matteo falling into step right behind me. The heavy oak doors shut behind us, sealing Orlando inside with his failure.
I won the battle today. I secured the alliance, I pleased the Capo dei Capi, and I gutted my enemy’s pride without firing a single shot. I am getting the quiet, perfect little bride.
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