"You have five days," my father states, turning his back on me to pour himself another drink, completely dismissing my existence now that he has won. "Your mother has already contacted the dressmaker. Do not speak to the guards. Do not attempt to leave the grounds. If I catch you trying to run, Noemi, I promise you, Cassio will be the least of your worries."
I stand there for a long moment, the silence of the room ringing in my ears. The fight drains out of me, leaving behind a hollow, agonizing void. There is no escape. There is no white knight coming to save me. Dario Lombardi isn't going to burst through the doors to rescue the unwanted daughter. Dario only looks at Lucia now anyway.
I am completely, entirely alone.
"Fine," I whisper, my voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger.Dead. Resigned. "I’ll marry him."
My father doesn't even turn around. He just takes a sip of his scotch. "Get out of my sight."
I open the heavy door and step back out into the vaulted hallway. I walk toward the grand staircase, my legs are moving mechanically, my mind is completely blank with shock.
I am going to marry Cassio Vellutini.
I am going to be chained to a man who looked at me like I was dirt beneath his shoes. A man who requested my beautiful, perfect sister, only to be handed the bitter, sharp-tongued spinster as a booby prize. He is going to be furious. He is going to be insulted.
And when the doors of his penthouse close, and my father is no longer around to pretend to care, Cassio is going to take all of his rage, all of his violence, and all of his hatred, and he is going to take it out on me.
I reach my bedroom and close the door, sliding the heavy deadbolt into place. But it doesn't matter anymore. The lock is useless. The monster is already waiting for me on the other side of the altar.
I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, and for the first time in years, I don't try to stop the tears. I let them fall, mourning the death of a life I never really got to live.
5
Cassio
The Cathedral of San Lorenzo smells like burning myrrh and melting beeswax.
I stand in the quiet, shadowed alcove of the sacristy, gazing at my reflection in an ornate gold mirror. The custom black tuxedo fits my shoulders perfectly, and the white shirt beneath is spotless and smooth. I lift my hand and carefully adjust my platinum cufflinks. I look like a man stepping into a boardroom to seal a multi-million dollar deal.
I certainly don’t look like a man being forced to the altar with a gun to his back.
"Perimeter is locked down, Boss," Matteo’s voice pulls my attention away from the glass. My underboss is leaning against the heavy oak door, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his formalwear. "We have snipers on the adjacent rooftops. The Russians haven't twitched. Not a single Bratva rat within a five-mile radius."
"Good," I flatly reply. I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the slight tension coiling in my muscles. "And Orlando's men?"
"Seated on the right side of the nave. Our boys are on the left. The Rossi men are stationed in the aisles to keep everyone from reaching for their holsters." Matteo chuckles, though there is no humor in the sound. "It feels less like a wedding and more like a fucking hostage exchange."
"That’s exactly what it is, Matteo."
I turn away from the mirror. I pat the reassuring weight of the customized 1911 holstered at my ribs. I’m not supposed to wear it out there, it's a blatant violation of the Capo dei Capi's peace terms, but I'll be damned if I stand at an altar completely unarmed with Orlando Genovese twenty feet away.
Despite the bitter taste of being manipulated into this union by Don Salvatore, a sense of satisfaction tingles my skin. I outmaneuvered Orlando. He thought he could stall, dictate terms, and use this mandate to humiliate me. Instead, I demanded his prize.
Lucia Genovese.
I’ve seen her at a few of the syndicate galas. She’s a pretty, fragile little bird who keeps her eyes glued to the floorboards and only speaks when spoken to. She is exactly what I need: a beautiful, silent ghost. She will look perfect standing next to me in photographs, she will warm my bed when I require it, and she will stay out of my fucking way while I run the Vellutini empire and prepare for the war against the Russians.
I will lock Orlando's golden child in my penthouse, and every time the old man breathes, he will have to remember that I own the best part of him.
The resonant hum of the cathedral’s pipe organ begins to vibrate through the stone floor beneath my leather shoes. It’s time.
I roll my shoulders, letting the icy, impenetrable mask of the Don slip perfectly into place, and push open the door.
Stepping out into the main sanctuary is like stepping into a heavily armed powder keg. The cathedral is massive, a towering monument of stained glass and vaulted ceilings. As I walk toward the altar, the silence from the pews is deafening. Hundreds of men, dressed to the nines, staring at each other across the center aisle with barely concealed murderous intent.
Don Salvatore is seated in the very front row on the left, acting as the ultimate, terrifying chaperone. He meets my eyes and gives a single, solemn nod.
I take my place at the altar, folding my hands casually in front of me, exuding absolute control. I let my gaze sweep over theGenovese side of the church. My eyes scan the front rows, bypassing the old Capos and the bitter widows, until they lock onto a face in the third row.