"She is a Vellutini now, Orlando," I say softly, my eyes lock onto his, letting him see the absolute, psychopathic darkness lurking just beneath the surface. "Her discipline, her safety, and her life are entirely my concern. If you ever speak about her with that tone again, the Bratva will be the least of your fucking problems."
Orlando’s eyes widen slightly, entirely caught off guard by the venomous possessiveness in my threat. He opens his mouth to respond, likely to hurl another insult to protect his fragile pride, but he doesn't get the chance.
I look back down at the map spread across the desk. I look at the red line marking my territory, and the black line marking his. I look at the port, the massive, chaotic bridge connecting the two.
And then, I look at the treaty.
We form a hard line,Orlando had said.Salvatore was right. If we don't hold this port together, we both drown.
A sudden, violent realization washes over me, completely freezing the blood in my veins.
The Russians didn't just hit the warehouse last night to steal guns. They hit it to test our response time. They hit it to see if the Genovese and the Vellutini families were actually working together, or if the marriage was just a fragile, hollow threat.
They know we are united. They know Don Salvatore forced a blood alliance to hold the port.
How do you break an army that has just united?
You break the treaty.
My heart stops dead in my chest.
You destroy the physical embodiment of the alliance. You sever the link between the two families. If the link dies, the paranoia returns. If the link dies, Orlando blames me, I blame Orlando, the warm war reignites, and the Italians tear each other apart while the Russians walk right through the front door.
Noemi.
She is the goddamn target.
14
Noemi
Ever since Cassio returned from his meeting with my father yesterday, a terrifying, suffocating shift has occurred. The perimeter guards have tripled. The windows of the penthouse have been reinforced with heavy, automated steel shutters that close at the push of a button. And Cassio… Cassio has become a shadow I cannot shake. He hasn't left the west wing. He conducts his business from the penthouse study, keeping the door wide open so he can track my every movement with his eyes; they make my skin prickle.
I understand why, even if he hasn't explicitly said the words.
The Russians want to break the alliance. The easiest way to sever the tie between the Vellutini and the Genovese families is to snap the physical link connecting them.
Me.
I stare into the gilded mirror of the master vanity, watching Carla’s trembling fingers fasten the heavy clasp of a diamond necklace around my throat. The stones are icy cold against my collarbone, a staggering fortune glittering under the chandelier’s light.
"Perfect,Signora," Carla murmurs, taking a quick, nervous step back. "You look beautiful."
I look terrifying.
I am wearing a floor-length gown of dark, liquid emerald silk. It’s backless, the fabric clings to the curves of my hips before pooling at my feet, the deep V-neckline is completely unapologetic. My dark hair is swept up into a severe, elegant twist, with a few loose tendrils framing a face that I have painted like a war mask. Sharp contour, blood-red lips, dark eyes.
I look exactly like the wife of the most volatile Don in the city.
"Thank you, Carla. You can go," I say quietly. She practically scurries out of the massive walk-in closet.
I press my hands flat against the cool marble of the vanity, taking a slow, shaky breath. Tonight is the ultimate test. Don Salvatore mandated a dinner. A physical, undeniable display of unity to signal to the Bratva and the Irish that the Italian syndicate is a solid, impenetrable wall. My father is coming. Don Lombardi is coming.
And Dario is coming.
The sound of footsteps echoes against the hardwood floor. I look up into the mirror just as Cassio steps into the closet behind me.
He is wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo that fits his broad, heavily muscled frame with perfection. He stops a foot behind me, his black eyes locking onto my reflection in the glass.