"I don't want a new wardrobe," I argue, crossing my arms defensively, clinging to the last shreds of my rebellion. "I want my phone back. I want to speak to my sister."
Cassio pauses, he turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder. The look in his eyes is chillingly calm.
"Lucia is safe in your father’s house," he says flatly. "And as for your phone, you lost those privileges the second you dialed Lombardi’s number. You want to communicate with the outside world? You do it through me."
"You are a tyrant," I whisper, the fight draining out of me, replaced by exhaustion.
"I am your husband," he replies, as if the two words are entirely synonymous. "And I protect what is mine. Shower, Noemi. We have breakfast in thirty minutes."
I look at the unmade bed that he just sat on. I look at the dark stain on the charcoal sheets.
I wanted to believe I could survive this marriage by building a wall of ice. I wanted to believe I could live in his house, ignore his existence, and eventually fade into the background like I did in my father’s home.
But Cassio doesn't allow things to fade. He doesn't ignore his possessions.
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, a violent shiver racking my body. The door to my cage hasn't just been locked, Cassio has completely removed the hinges and bricked over the exit. I am trapped in the epicenter of his world.
And the most terrifying part isn't that he claimed me.
The most terrifying part is the treacherous whisper in the back of my mind, the lingering heat between my thighs, telling me that a sick, twisted part of my soul doesn't want to leave.
11
Cassio
I sit on the edge of the mattress, my elbows resting on my knees, staring at the small, dark crimson stain as if it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. The shower is running in the adjoining bathroom, the hiss of the water is masking the chaotic, violent storm currently tearing through my mind.
Noemi is in there. Washing my sweat off her skin. Washing away the lingering ache of a claiming that neither of us saw coming.
A virgin.I run a hand roughly over my face, the stubble on my jaw scratching against my palm. A harsh, humorless laugh escapes my chest, echoing in the cold, sterile room she’s been trapped in for the last week.
I have been living with a blindfold on, completely duped by a rumor cooked up by a pathetic, weak little boy.
Dario Lombardi.
The pieces fall into place with a sickening, enraging clarity. Lombardi never touched her. He never even got close enough to her lips. But he’s a coward with a fragile ego, the useless son of the weakest family in the syndicate. He couldn’t handle the fact that the Genovese spinster shot him down, so he let the rumors fly. He let men whisper over their cigars that he was the only one brave enough to tame Orlando’s feral daughter. He let the entire city believe she was his dirty little secret.
And her arrogant, archaic piece of shit father let the rumors spread because he didn’t give a fuck about his eldest daughter’s reputation. He only cared about protecting his precious Lucia. He used the whispers to justify tossing Noemi aside like garbage.
A red, blinding haze drops over my vision. My hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles pop.
I treated her like a whore. For a week, I let her rot in this freezing east wing suite, treating her like a disease because I thought she was carrying the stench of another man. I let my men sneer at her. I let the maids serve her cold food. I looked her in the eye at the altar and told her I would never touch her because she was leftover trash.
In a man like me, guilt is a weapon, and right now, it is carving me open from the inside out, fueling a territorial, psychopathic need to protect her that defies all logic.
She took my punishment. She took my harsh words, my cold indifference, and my brutal claiming, and she didn't break. She bled on these sheets for me. She shattered under my hands.
The Volatile Prince finally found his queen, and I’ll be damned if I let another soul in this city disrespect her ever again.
I stand up, grabbing my dark slacks from the floor and pulling them on. I fasten the silver buckle of my belt, the calculating Don slipping back into place, heavily reinforced by a new, lethal obsession. I don't bother with a shirt. I grab my 1911 from the nightstand, checking the chamber out of habit, and tuck it into the small of my back.
I walk out of the guest suite and step into the east wing corridor.
The two guards stationed outside the door snap to attention immediately. They try to keep their faces neutral, but I see the slight widening of their eyes at the sight of me emerging from the unwanted bride’s room, half-naked and looking like I want to murder someone.
"Get Matteo on the radio," I bark at Gianni, my voice a deadly, quiet rasp that makes the younger man flinch. "Tell him I want him on the second floor in two minutes. And tell him to bring Carla."
"Yes, Boss," Gianni stammers, immediately fumbling for the radio clipped to his tactical vest.