For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us speaks.
"You look..." Cassio’s voice drops to a rough, gravelly rasp. He steps closer, his hands coming up to rest heavily on my bare hips, his thumbs brushing the exposed skin of my lower back. "Fucking lethal."
"That’s the point, isn't it?" I murmur, forcing myself not to lean back into the solid, radiating heat of his chest. "We’re going to war."
"Yes," he says softly. He leans down and presses a kiss to the curve of my neck, right below the diamond necklace. A treacherous shiver runs down my spine. "Listen to me, Noemi. The house is secure, but the men sitting at that table tonightare vipers. Orlando is still stinging from the dock shootout. Lombardi is a coward looking for an angle. And Dario..."
His grip on my hips tightens. "If Lombardi’s rat looks at you for more than a second, I am going to gut him over the risotto."
"Cassio, don't," I warn, turning my head slightly to look at him. "You promised a united front. If you kill the son of the fourth family at a peace dinner, Don Salvatore will have your head, and the Russians will walk right through the front door."
"Then do not give him a reason to think he still has a chance with you," Cassio orders, his eyes burning into mine. "Sit next to me. Smile. Eat your food. Play the quiet, obedient wife, and let me handle the politics."
A spark of rebellion flares in my chest.
Play the quiet, obedient wife.That is exactly what my father wanted from Lucia. That is the role I have spent twenty-four years despising.
I don't argue with him. I just offer a thin smile. "Let’s go down. Our guests are waiting."
The grand dining room on the ground floor is a masterpiece of intimidation. The table is forty feet of polished mahogany, set with crystal glasses, sterling silver, and arrangements of white and blood-red roses. Armed guards line the perimeter of the room; their faces are carved from stone.
When Cassio and I descend the floating staircase, the heavy oak doors of the estate have already opened to admit the guests.
My father, Don Orlando, is standing near the fireplace, a glass of scotch in his hand. My mother, Serafina, is beside him, looking pale and tense. And there is Lucia, wearing a soft pink dress, looking exactly like the fragile, innocent doe my parents desperately protected.
And then, I see Dario Lombardi.
He is standing near the arched doorway with his father, holding a glass of champagne. He looks up as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
I expect to feel the familiar, pathetic flutter in my chest. I expect to feel the desperate longing for the man who was supposed to be my escape. But as I look at his sandy blonde hair, his handsome, completely unscarred face, I feel absolutely nothing. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. He looks weak. He looks like a boy playing dress-up in a man's world.
Cassio’s hand wraps around my waist as he guides me into the room.
The silence that falls over the dining area is deafening.
My father’s eyes widen as he takes me in. He expects to see the bitter, miserable spinster he forced into a cage. He expects to see a woman broken by the Volatile Prince. Instead, he sees awoman dripping in Vellutini diamonds, draped in emerald silk, walking with her chin held high and a predator’s hand resting casually on her hip.
"Orlando," Cassio greets smoothly. "Welcome to my home."
"Cassio," my father replies, his voice comes out stiff. He looks at me. "Noemi. You look... well."
"I have never been better, Papa," I reply smoothly, my voice carrying perfectly. I don't look at my mother, who is staring at my diamond necklace with poorly concealed shock.
We take our seats. Cassio sits at the head of the massive table, and I am placed immediately to his right. My father sits to his left, with Don Lombardi and Dario further down the line.
The dinner begins in tense, suffocating silence. Course after course is brought out by the terrified kitchen staff. The clinking of silverware against fine China sounds like gunshots.
The conversation inevitably, dangerously, turns to the port.
"The cleanup at the south warehouse was messy," Don Lombardi says nervously, dabbing his sweating forehead with a linen napkin. "The Feds are asking questions. If the Russians keep pushing, we are going to invite an indictment."
"The Russians are pushing because they smell fear, Lombardi," Cassio says coldly, taking a sip of his red wine. "They hit thewarehouse to test the perimeter. They found it heavily fortified, and they died for their curiosity. The Feds are paid off. It’s a non-issue."
"It is an issue when you handle it like a butcher," my father interjects, unable to stop himself. The petty, arrogant pride that has defined his entire life flares up. He leans forward, sneering at Cassio. "You sent a dozen men in with automatic weapons. It was a bloodbath. When I was running the southern sector, we handled incursions with finesse. We made people disappear. We didn't turn the docks into a warzone."
The table goes dead silent.
I feel the muscle in Cassio’s thigh tense next to me. His hand, resting on the table, curls into a tight fist. He is preparing to verbally eviscerate my father, to escalate the tension exactly the way the Russians are hoping we will.