"Because your bloodline is the fucking problem!" I yell, the words ripping out of my throat before I can stop them.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Noemi physically recoils, as if I just struck her across the face. The fire in her eyes extinguishes, replaced by a devastating realization. She looks at me, really looks at me, and sees the Volatile Prince sitting behind the desk.
"I see," she whispers, her voice shaking. She takes another step back toward the door. "I am just a Genovese. That's what this is. I patched your chest, I stayed by your bed... but at the end of the day, I’m still the enemy."
The absolute heartbreak on her face makes me want to vomit. Every instinct I possess, the newfound, desperate obsession that centers my entire universe around her, is screaming at me to stand up. To pull her into my arms. To tell her I didn't mean it, to kiss the tears away and beg for her forgiveness.
But then I remember the flash of the sniper's rifle.
I remember the horrific, sickening sound of the ballistic glass shattering inches from her face. I remember the absolute terror that gripped my soul when I thought I was going to watch her die in that car.
If she is my partner, she is a target. If she plays detective or tries to intervene with her father or Dario, she steps directly into the line of fire. The only way to keep her safe from the Bratva, the Irish, and the treacherous snakes in our own syndicate is to put her back in the golden cage.
I have to be the monster she thinks I am, because the monster is the only thing that can protect her.
I force the mask back into place. I lock the terrified, devoted husband in a dark box and summon the cold, calculating Don.
I lean back in my chair, my face a mask of indifference. I look at her, making sure my eyes are dead and completely devoid of warmth.
"We aren't partners, Noemi," I cruelly say. "You are my wife. You are the Lady of this house, but you do not run my syndicate, and you do not dictate my investigations. If I suspect Orlando, I will interrogate Orlando."
She stares at me, a single tear spilling over her dark lashes and tracking down her pale cheek. "Cassio, don't do this. Don't shut me out. We promised."
"Promises are a luxury for peacetime," I quote her own words back to her, twisting the knife. "We are at war. And in war, I don't trust anyone. Especially not a Genovese."
Her breath hitches, a soft, broken sound that absolutely shreds my soul.
"Get out of my study," I order her, turning my attention back to the blank security monitors. "Go back to the penthouse. Do not leave the west wing. Matteo will post a guard at the door."
"You're locking me up again," she whispers, her voice hollowed out.
"I am securing my assets," I correct coldly. "Act like a mafia wife and stay out of my fucking way."
She doesn't argue anymore. She doesn't scream or throw things. The fight has been completely drained out of her, replaced by resignation. She turns on her heel and walks out of the study, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind her.
The moment she is gone, the moment I am completely alone, the mask crumbles.
I bow my head, squeezing my eyes shut as a violent shudder wracks my frame. The pain in my chest is excruciating, but it is absolutely nothing compared to the agony of watching her walk away from me.
I just broke the only beautiful thing I have ever had in my miserable, violent life.
I hate you,she had told me a week ago. I know she is going to hate me again. But I accept the cost.
She can hate me. She can despise the very air I breathe. She can look at me like a monster for the rest of our lives.
As long as she is alive to do it.
I will burn this city to the ground. I will gut Dario Lombardi, I will execute the Bratva Pakhan, and if Orlando Genovese had a hand in that ambush, I will personally put a bullet between his eyes. I will slaughter every single threat to her existence until there is no one left to hurt her.
And then, when she is safe, I will live with the consequences of breaking my wife’s heart.
23
Noemi
The dress I chose is black.