"Enough," I say.
Five heavily armed, terrifying mobsters snap their heads toward me. Cassio slowly turns his head, his chest heaving, his black eyes glassy with pain and the lingering edges of his fever.
I walk into the room, my spine straight, completely ignoring the fact that I look like I just crawled out of a horror movie. I walk directly to the head of the table, stopping inches from Cassio.
"Matteo," I say, my dark eyes locked on my husband’s pale, sweat-slicked face. "Clear the room."
Matteo shifts uneasily, glancing between Cassio and me. "Signora, we are in the middle of a critical—"
"I said, clear the fucking room, Matteo!" I snap, whipping my head toward the underboss. "Your Don is bleeding through his sutures because none of you have the balls to tell him to sit down. You want to find the rat? Fine. Lock down the perimeter, confiscate all comms, and interrogate the gate guards. But do it outside."
The Capos exchange stunned looks. A woman does not speak to made men this way. A woman certainly doesn't interrupt a war council.
I look back at Cassio. The murderous rage that was radiating off him just seconds ago has completely stalled. He is staring at me, his chest rising and falling in shallow, painful gasps. A dark, breathless chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat, ending in a wince.
"You heard my wife," Cassio rasps, his voice is weak but laced with pride. "Get the fuck out."
The men don't hesitate. They file out of the library, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them, leaving us entirely alone.
The moment the latch catches, Cassio sways. His grip on the table slips.
I lunge forward, catching his waist with both arms, bracing my shoulder against his uninjured side to keep him from hitting the floor. He is so heavy, a towering mountain of dead weight, but the adrenaline surging through me keeps my knees locked.
"You stupid, arrogant, reckless bastard," I hiss, tears of frustration stinging my eyes as I wrap my arm around his back. "You’re trying to kill yourself."
"I have to find the leak, Noemi," he breathes, leaning heavily against me. His skin is freezing cold. "If I look weak... if they think the Don is down..."
"The Don is down," I tell him fiercely, adjusting my grip and forcing him to take a step toward the leather sofa in the center of the room. "The Don took a bullet through the chest. And if you don't get your ass back in bed right now, so help me God, Cassio, I will shoot you in your good shoulder myself."
Cassio lets out another pained, raspy laugh. "I believe you,moglie."
I guide him to the sofa, easing him down until he is sitting heavily on the dark leather. He leans his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes, his breathing sounds wet and ragged.
I kneel on the floor between his parted knees. I reach up, my trembling fingers gently pulling the edges of his unbuttoned shirt aside. The bandage is completely ruined.
"You tore the stitches," I whisper, my voice cracking.
"Santoro can fix it," he murmurs blindly, his left hand coming down to rest on the crown of my head, his fingers tangling in my messy hair.
"Santoro is operating on three of your men in the basement," I remind him, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "You’re stuck with me."
I push myself off the floor. "Don't move. Don't even breathe too deeply. I’m getting the kit."
I run to the master bedroom and grab the green metal trauma kit from the floor, snatching a fresh basin of hot water and clean towels from the adjoining bathroom. When I rush back into the library, Cassio hasn't moved an inch.
I kneel back down in front of him. I pop the latches on the kit and grab the heavy surgical shears.
"This is going to hurt," I warn him, my hands shaking as I cut the ruined tape and peel the blood-soaked bandages away from his chest.
Cassio’s jaw clenches tightly, a muscle feathering rapidly in his cheek, but he doesn't make a sound. He opens his eyes, watching me work.
I clean the fresh blood away with a hot, damp towel. The skin around the wound is angry and bruised, a horrific canvas of purple and black. Two of the black sutures Santoro meticulously tied have snapped, allowing the blood to seep through the torn muscle.
I bite my lower lip, fighting the nausea. I grab the sterile steri-strips and the surgical glue from the kit. I can't stitch him, but I can pull the edges of the wound together and seal it tight enough to hold until the surgeon is free.
"Hold your breath," I order softly.
I press the edges of the torn flesh together. Cassio’s entire body goes rigid, a sharp hiss escapes his teeth, his hand grips the armrest of the sofa so hard the leather groans. I work as fast as I can, applying the glue and taping the strips down with ruthless efficiency. I pack a fresh square of combat gauze over the top and wrap his chest tightly with a new roll of thick white bandages.