When I finally tie the bandage off and sit back on my heels, my chest is heaving. My hands are coated in a fresh layer of his blood.
I look up at his face.
Cassio is watching me. The pain in his eyes has receded slightly, replaced by a deep devotion. He is looking at me like I am a religion he just discovered.
"You aren't trembling anymore," he observes in a whisper.
I look down at my hands. He’s right. The violent shaking that has plagued me since the ambush in the car has completely vanished. My hands are steady.
"I don't have time to tremble," I tell him, meeting his dark gaze. "You need me."
"I do," he confesses, the absolute surrender in those two words makes my breath catch. He reaches out with his left hand, his thumb wiping a smudge of dirt and blood from my cheek. "You walked into a room full of killers and told them to get the fuck out. And they listened to you."
"They listened because they know I'll put poison in their espresso if they let you bleed to death," I banter back, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment.
Cassio doesn't smile. He leans forward slightly, ignoring the pull on his chest.
"They listened because you are the Queen," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You aren't a prisoner, Noemi. You aren't Orlando’s unwanted daughter. You are the Lady of the Vellutini family. And tonight, you earned the absolute loyalty of every single man in this syndicate."
I look around the library. I look at the blood on my hands, the trauma kit on the floor, the monster bleeding on the sofa in front of me. For twenty-four years, I desperately wanted to escape the mafia. I wanted to be a normal girl, living a normal life, far away from the guns and the violence.
But as I look at Cassio, I realize the truth. I don't want a normal life. I want him. And to have him, I have to embrace the dark, violent world he rules.
"We need to find the mole," I sharply state.
Cassio’s eyes flash with approval. "We will. Matteo is tearing the staff apart right now."
"It isn't the staff," I say, shaking my head. I stand up, walking over to the mahogany table to grab a clean towel to wipe my hands. "A maid or a low-level guard doesn't have access to your private convoy routes or the blind spots on the estate cameras. The Bratva knew exactly where to hit us, Cassio. They knew exactly where the sniper should wait."
Cassio watches me, his brow furrowing. "Only my inner circle knew the route back from the Lombardi estate."
"And the Lombardis," I point out softly, turning to face him.
The air in the library goes completely still.
"Dario," Cassio whispers, the name dripping with absolute venom.
"He cornered me on the terrace," I remind him, my mind connecting the jagged, ugly pieces of the puzzle. "He was trying to get me to leave with him. He said he could save me. What if he knew the ambush was coming? What if he was trying to pull me out of the crossfire before the Bratva struck the convoy?"
Cassio’s jaw clenches so tight I can hear his teeth grind. The murderous rage returns, but this time, it is cold and lethal.
"Lombardi wants to be the Capo dei Capi," Cassio rasps, his hands curling into fists. "He’s weak, so he partnered with the Russians to wipe out the Vellutini and the Genovese. He fed Volkov the route."
"And Dario thought he could play the hero and claim the widow," I finish, a wave of sickening disgust washing over me.
"He’s a dead man," Cassio vows, his black eyes burning with the promise of absolute ruin. "I am going to peel the skin off his fucking bones."
"We will," I correct him, walking back over to the sofa. I place my hands gently on either side of his face. "But right now, you are going to rest. Because if you die, Dario wins. And I am not letting that pathetic little boy win."
22
Cassio
I am sitting in the heavy leather chair behind my study desk on the second floor, staring at the bank of security monitors. My right arm is in a sling, strapped tightly to my chest to keep me from tearing Dr. Santoro’s meticulous internal sutures for a third time. My torso is a mass of grinding, white-hot agony that the heavy dose of Vicodin barely touches.
But I am awake. And I am hunting.
On the screen, Matteo is pacing back and forth in a soundproofed concrete cell deep beneath the estate. Bound to a metal chair is one of our own perimeter guards. His face is a bruised, bloody mess. Matteo doesn't use finesse when we have a rat in the house. He uses a hammer.