I walk straight out of the east wing and cross the invisible border into the west. Cassio’s territory. Somehow, even the air feels different over here. It smells like expensive cigars, leather, and gunpowder.
I find him in the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen. He is leaning against the black marble island, a glass of bourbon in one hand, a file folder in the other. He is wearing a dark, unbuttoned dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink swirling up his forearms.
He doesn't look up as I enter, though I know he hears my bare feet slapping against the tile.
I walk directly to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, open it, and grab a green apple. I bite into it loudly.
Cassio slowly closes the file. He turns his head, his pitch-black eyes dragging over my messy hair, the faded tank top, and the baggy sweatpants. A muscle feathers in his jaw, his lip curls into a sneer of absolute revulsion.
"You look like a fucking vagrant," he says softly. His voice sends a treacherous shiver down my spine.
"And you look like a mobster cliché," I fire back around a mouthful of apple, leaning against the counter opposite him, crossing my arms defensively. "Are we just stating the obvious today, or do you have a point?"
His eyes narrow into lethal slits. He sets his glass down with a sharpclack. "You were given a wardrobe, Noemi. I expect the woman carrying my name to look like she belongs in civilized society, not begging for change on a street corner."
"I’m not carrying your name. I am a Genovese," I spit, the venom rising instantly. "And since you treat me like a prisoner, I decided to dress like one. If you want a pretty little doll to parade around, you should have negotiated better with my father. You got the spinster, remember? Leftover goods."
I throw his own insult back at him, wanting it to sting. It does. I see the flash of pure, murderous irritation cross his features.
Cassio pushes off the island, closing the distance between us in three long, predatory strides. He doesn't touch me, but he crowds my space, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. The scent of bergamot, whiskey, and danger is overwhelming.
"Do not test my patience, Noemi," he whispers, leaning down until his mouth is inches from my ear. "I can make your life in this house infinitely worse than it already is. Go upstairs. Put some fucking clothes on."
"Make me," I challenge, my heart is beating violently against my ribs, driven entirely by adrenaline and spite.
For a second, I see the violence simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at my mouth, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second, before snapping back up to my eyes.
"I don't play games with brats," he sneers, stepping back, completely dismissing me. He turns his back to me, picking up his file. "Get out of my kitchen."
I stand there, my chest is heaving, vibrating with a desperate need to scream. He didn't hit me. He didn't yell. He just treated me like I was nothing. And somehow, that hurts infinitely worse.
I throw the half-eaten apple into the sink and storm out, my bare feet hitting the floor hard.
I need a lifeline. I need someone on the outside. I need someone to remind me that I am a human being, not just a pawn in this sadistic game of chess.
As I storm down the west wing corridor, I pass an open door. An office. Sitting on the pristine mahogany desk, forgotten, is a sleek black burner phone. One of Matteo’s men must have left it behind.
I freeze. I look over my shoulder. The hallway is empty.
I slip into the office, my heart in my throat, and snatch the phone off the desk. I duck behind the heavy leather door, my fingers trembling violently as I wake the screen. No passcode. Thank God for arrogant, lazy mobsters.
My mind races. I can't call my mother; she wouldn't listen to me, afraid of my father. I can't call my father; he'll dismiss me as the nuisance he thinks I am. Lucia is out of the question.
There is only one other number I know by heart. The only person who looked at me at the wedding with something resembling regret.
Dario.
I punch in the digits, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop the device. I press the phone to my ear, holding my breath.
Ring. Ring. Ring."Yeah?"
The sound of Dario’s smooth, familiar, and normal voice hits me like a physical blow. The crushing weight of my isolation suddenly caves in on my chest. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
"Dario," I whisper frantically, terrified of being overheard. "Dario, it’s me. It’s Noemi."
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Noemi? Jesus Christ, are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I’m—I’m a prisoner," I choke out, the tears finally spilling over. "They keep me locked in. He won't let me speak to anyone. Dario, you have to help me, I can't stay here, I can't—"