I lean against the wall opposite Noemi's door, crossing my arms over my bare chest. The adrenaline from the night is still making my muscles twitch with the need for violence. I am mentally redrawing the borders of my entire world. The perimeter needs to be fortified. The security protocols need an immediate, total overhaul.
Within ninety seconds, the heavy doors at the end of the hall swing open. Matteo strides down the corridor, his sharp eyes take in the situation instantly. Trailing nervously behind him is Carla, the head housekeeper of the estate. She is a severe, older Sicilian woman who runs the staff with an iron fist, but right now, she looks like she’s walking to her own execution.
"Boss," Matteo greets, stopping a few feet away. He doesn't ask questions. He waits for orders.
"We are shifting protocols, Matteo. Effective right fucking now," I state. "The east wing is closed. Noemi’s belongings are being moved to my penthouse suite in the west wing. Have two men pack her shit while she’s in the shower. And then, I want the perimeter doubled. Bring in the night shift to overlap the day shift. Nobody, not a single goddamn soul, enters the west wing without my explicit, verbal clearance. Not even the Capos."
Matteo’s eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, that is the only sign of his surprise. Moving the despised Genovese bride intomy personal sanctuary is a massive shift, but he just nods. "Understood. The perimeter will be locked down."
"If a Russian rat so much as sniffs the iron gates of this estate, I want them shot on sight," I continue, my paranoia is spiking. The thought of the Bratva getting anywhere near Noemi makes my blood run cold. "And put a detail on her. Three men. Hand-picked. They do not leave her sight if she sets foot outside the wing. But they keep their distance. If I catch them breathing down her neck, I’ll bury them."
"I'll handle it," Matteo says smoothly.
I turn my gaze to Carla. The older woman swallows hard, her hands wringing her apron.
"Carla," I say softly. The softness is a trap, and she knows it.
"Don Cassio," she murmurs, keeping her eyes respectfully glued to the floorboards.
"My wife has been in this house for a week," I begin, pushing off the wall and taking a slow step toward her. "And in that week, I have noticed some disturbing trends regarding the hospitality of my staff."
Carla pales. "Don Cassio, we only—"
"I didn't tell you to speak," I cut her off. She snaps her mouth shut instantly. "I have heard the maids muttering in Sicilianwhen they clean the corridors. I have seen the trays of cold, inedible food sent up to this room. I have watched the guards look at her like she is an intruder in her own home."
I step fully into her space, towering over the terrified woman.
"I allowed it," I admit, the twisted guilt flaring into raw anger. "Because I was settling a score. But the score is settled. And the rules have changed."
I lean down, forcing Carla to look up at me.
"Noemi is the Lady of the Vellutini family," I hiss, making sure every single syllable brands itself into her brain. "She wears my ring. She sleeps in my bed. She is my wife. If I ever hear a maid utter a single disrespectful syllable about her again, I will cut out her tongue. If a meal is served to her cold, I will break the chef's hands. If she asks for a glass of water, you will treat it like an order from God himself. Do you understand me, Carla?"
"Y-yes, Don Cassio. I swear it. Completely," Carla stammers, trembling violently now.
"Good. Go to the kitchens. Fix her a proper breakfast. Have it waiting in the west wing dining room in twenty minutes."
Carla practically sprints down the hallway to escape my wrath.
I turn back toward the door of the guest suite just as the latch clicks.
The door pulls open. Noemi steps out into the corridor.
The breath stalls in my lungs.
She is wearing my black dress shirt from last night. It swallows her delicate frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, leaving her long, pale legs entirely bare. Her dark hair is wet, combed back from her face, and water droplets cling to the sharp, aristocratic line of her collarbone. Her lips are still swollen from my kisses. Her skin is flushed from the hot water.
She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful. She looks likemine.
She freezes when she sees the audience in the hallway. Her dark eyes dart from me to Matteo, then to the two guards stationed by the door. Instinctively, she reaches up and pulls the collar of my shirt tighter around her neck, her chin tilting up defensively, preparing for a fight.
"Cassio?" she asks, her voice is still slightly raspy.
Before I can answer, my peripheral vision catches movement.
Marco, the younger guard stationed to her right, shifts his weight. He’s twenty-two, a cocky kid from the south side. And for a fraction of a second, his eyes drop.
He looks at her bare legs. He traces the line of her thigh up to the hem of my shirt. And then, the stupid, suicidal fucker smirks.