She called him.
Less than a week after taking my name, my wife stole a phone, hid in an office, and called the weakest, most pathetic excuse for a mafia prince in this city. She cried to him. She begged him for help. She acted like I was the villain holding her hostage, while Lombardi was her tragic, shining knight.
A dark, bitter laugh escapes my chest.
This isn't jealousy. That’s what I tell myself as I pour another three fingers of whiskey. Jealousy is a useless, weak emotion reserved for men who don't have total control over their environment. I am Cassio Vellutini. I don't get jealous over a spinster who was shoved onto me to settle a territorial dispute.
No, this is about respect. It’s about honor.
She is a Vellutini now. She wears my ring. When she sneaks around behind my back to contact another man, a man from a rival family, no less, she isn't just insulting me; she is spitting on my name. She is signaling to the entire syndicate that my house is divided, that I cannot even control the woman sleeping under my own roof. If the Capos find out she’s crying to the Lombardi boy, they’ll see it as a weakness. And weakness in my position is a death sentence.
I slam the crystal glass down onto the desk.
I stand up, my chair scraping harshly against the hardwood floor. I’m not wearing a suit anymore, just a pair of dark slacks and a black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. My blood is running too hot for a jacket.
I need to make her understand. I need to carve the reality of her situation so deeply into her stubborn fucking skull that she never forgets it again.
I leave the study and walk out into the corridor of the west wing. The house is dead quiet, the staff is long asleep, only the night shift guards are patrolling the perimeter. I cross the invisible boundary into the east wing.
The two soldiers stationed outside her door straighten immediately when they see me approaching. They avert their eyes, recognizing the murderous, coiled tension radiating off my body.
"Open it," I command.
One of the men fumbles for the heavy iron key, his hands shaking slightly. He unlocks the deadbolt and steps back, putting as much distance between himself and me as the hallway allows.
I push the door open and step inside, shutting it firmly behind me. The lock clicks into place, sealing us in.
The suite is bathed in moonlight filtering through the massive windows. She isn't asleep.
Noemi is sitting on the edge of the charcoal-gray bed, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She’s still wearing the oversized gray sweatpants and the faded black tank top from earlier. Her dark hair is a tangled mess cascading over her pale shoulders. She looks exhausted, and shadows are visible beneath her dark eyes.
But the moment I step into the room, the exhaustion vanishes. Her spine goes rigid. Her chin tilts up, catching the moonlight, instantly assembling that impenetrable, infuriating armor of defiance.
"Have you come to break something else?" she asks, her voice hoarse but dripping with venom. "Because if you're looking for electronics, Matteo’s goons already stripped the room bare. You'll have to settle for throwing a lamp."
I walk slowly toward the center of the room, my hands shoved into my pockets to keep from wrapping them around her throat.Again.
"Do you have any idea what you did today?" I ask, my voice comes out dangerously soft. "Do you comprehend the magnitude of your own stupidity?"
"I made a phone call," she snaps, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and standing up. She refuses to cower, even though I have a hundred pounds and a foot of height on her. "I reached out to a friend because my husband treats me like a prisoner of war!"
"He is not your friend!" I roar, the sudden volume makes her flinch, though she holds her ground. I close the distance between us, stopping just a few feet away. "He is the son of Don Lombardi! He is a rival. And you, you stupid, arrogant little brat, are the wife of the Vellutini Don. If a word of that phone call gets out to the Commission, they will say you are passing information to our enemies. They will call you a rat."
"I was asking him to get me out of here!" she yells back, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "I wasn't talking about your precious territories or your fucking shipping routes! I was telling him that I am suffocating in this house!"
"You don't get to leave!" I step closer. "You were traded for a peace treaty. Your father sold you to me to keep the Russians off his docks. You are mine. You live here. You die here. And Dario Lombardi cannot save you."
"He cares about me!" Noemi screams, her chest heaving, her dark eyes shining with angry, unshed tears. "Which is more than I can say for you or my father! Dario actually looks at me like a human being! He treats me with respect!"
The words hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
He cares about me.A red, blinding haze drops over my vision. The very idea of Dario Lombardi’s hands on her, of him whispering sweet, pathetic promises into her ear, makes the beast inside me tear at its chains. It makes me want to burn the entire Lombardi estate to the ground and mount Dario’s head on a spike in my courtyard.
I close the remaining space between us in a heartbeat. I grab her by the upper arms and shove her backward. She gasps, stumbling as her back hits the cold plaster wall beside the floor-to-ceiling window. I pin her there, pressing my body flush against hers, trapping her completely.
She gasps, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but I am immovable. The heat radiating off her skin seeps through my thin shirt.
"Respect?" I sneer, leaning down so my face is inches from hers. I can smell the citrus of her shampoo and the frantic, intoxicating scent of her fear. "You think he respects you? He’s a fucking coward, Noemi. If he wanted you, if he actually cared about you, he would have asked your father for your hand years ago. But he didn't, did he?"