12
Noemi
The west wing made me feel like I was a blood diamond locked in a vault.
I stand in the center of the massive walk-in closet, staring blankly at the staggering display of wealth that has materialized out of thin air over the past twenty-four hours. My modest, conservative dresses are gone. In their place hangs a fortune in silk, cashmere, and imported Italian leather.
Everything is tailored, sleek, and devastatingly expensive. Deep emerald greens, rich burgundies, stark blacks, and pristine whites. There isn’t a single faded gray sweat pant in sight.
Cassio didn’t just move my belongings, he eradicated the woman I used to be and replaced her wardrobe with clothes fit for a mafia queen. It’s an aggressive, territorial marking. He wants me wrapped in fabrics his money bought. He wants every inch of me screaming his name.
I reach out and grab a simple, heavy black silk blouse and a pair of tailored dark trousers, dressing with jerky, agitated movements. Every shift of fabric against my skin sends a dull ache through my thighs and core, a reminder of exactly how I earned this 'upgrade'.
You begged me for it.His words from yesterday morning rang in my skull, making a hot flush of humiliation and rage creep up my neck. I hate that he was right. I hate that beneath the anger and the betrayal, my traitorous body still feels the phantom weight of his hands.
But a gilded cage is still a cage.
I walk out of the bedroom and into the sprawling, sunlit dining area of the penthouse. The moment my foot crosses the threshold, Carla, the head housekeeper, practically materializes from the shadows.
She doesn’t glare at me. She doesn’t mutter under her breath in rapid Sicilian. Instead, her posture is rigid with sheer terror. She holds a silver tray with trembling hands, her eyes fixed firmly on the polished floorboards near my feet.
"Good morning,SignoraVellutini," she says, her voice is a reedy, nervous pitch. "I have prepared espresso, fresh fruit, and a frittata. If it is not to your liking, I will have the chef make something else immediately."
I stare at the steam rising from the delicate porcelain cup. A few days ago, this woman handed me a plate of cold, stale toast and looked at me like I was a cockroach that had scuttled in from the rain.
Cassio must have put the fear of God into the entire staff.
"This is fine, Carla. Thank you," I say quietly.
She scurries away the second I sit down, leaving me in the silence of the penthouse.
I pick up the espresso, the bitter bite of the coffee burns my tongue, but it does nothing to clear the restless anxiety clawing at my chest. I cannot stay in this glass box. The walls are closing in. Everywhere I look, I see Cassio’s control. I smell his bergamot and whiskey cologne lingering on the leather furniture. I see his guards standing at attention outside the floor-to-ceiling windows on the terrace.
I need a tether to reality. I need to know the world outside this fortress still exists.
I stand up, leaving the food untouched. I grab my new, ridiculously expensive leather purse from the entryway console and head for the penthouse doors.
The two guards stationed in the corridor snap to attention as I approach. They don't look at my legs. They don't look at my face. They stare straight ahead at the opposite wall, as if looking directly at me will cause them to burst into flames.
I walk past them, my heart beating a rapid rhythm, and head down the floating glass staircase to the main foyer.
"Ma'am."
Matteo is standing at the bottom of the stairs. The underboss looks exhausted, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers despite the pristine environment. He steps directly into my path, blocking the massive front doors of the estate.
"Move, Matteo," I say, channeling every ounce of Genovese arrogance I possess.
"I can't do that, Noemi," he replies, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He doesn't call meSignora, but there is a new, grudging respect in his tone that wasn't there yesterday. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I am going to visit my sister," I state, lifting my chin. "I haven't spoken to Lucia since the wedding. The only phone I could get a hold of was smashed into a dozen pieces, in case you forgot. So I am going to the Genovese estate to see her."
"No, you aren't."
The voice doesn't belong to Matteo.
I whip my head around. Cassio is striding down the hallway that leads to his downstairs armory. He is dressed in a dark, three-piece suit, the jacket unbuttoned, looking every inch the ruthless, calculating Don he was born to be.
Matteo smartly steps aside, effectively passing the grenade to his boss.