It feels entirely fitting. It is mourning attire for the fragile, beautiful truce my husband murdered in his study forty-eight hours ago.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master closet, staring at my reflection. The heavy silk grips my curves like a second skin, the neckline plunges low enough to be a distraction, and the hem brushes the tops of my black stiletto heels. I apply my lipstick, blood-red. The color of the Vellutini estate over the last week.
Cassio kept his promise. He put me back in the golden cage.
For two days, he has been a ghost. He sleeps in the guest room of the penthouse, citing his injuries, but I know the truth. He is icing me out. The walls he tore down have been rebuilt with reinforced steel. He looks at me with those dead, pitch-black eyes, treating me with the indifference of a Don managing a risky asset.
He threw my bloodline in my face. He looked at me, after I plunged my hands into his torn flesh to save his miserable life, and told me I was the enemy.
I am so fucking angry I can barely breathe.
I want to scream at him. I want to throw every crystal decanter in this penthouse at his head. But beneath the violent rage is a bruised, bleeding ache that I refuse to let him see. Because the most pathetic, twisted part of this entire nightmare is that I still love him.
I love the arrogant, paranoid bastard who took a sniper round to the chest so I could live. I keep that love locked in a vault deep inside my chest now. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't want it. But it is there, an undeniable reality that dictates every beat of my heart.
A sharp knock on the bedroom door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Signora." It’s Matteo. His voice is muffled through the heavy oak. "The Commission is here. The Don is requesting your presence in the formal lounge."
"I’m coming," I reply, my voice is perfectly smooth, perfectly hollow.
I step out of the bedroom and walk down the hallway. The formal lounge is on the main floor of the west wing, a massive, intimidating room filled with dark leather, imported mahogany, and the aggressive scent of Cuban cigars.
Today is a commemorative visit. A diplomatic farce. Don Salvatore has mandated that the heads of the families pay their respects to the recovering Don Vellutini after the Bratva attack. It is a show of unity, a chance for the old men to sniff around the edges of Cassio’s territory and see just how weak the wolf really is.
I push the double doors open.
The heavy, testosterone-choked atmosphere of the room hits me instantly. Armed guards line the walls. Don Salvatore sits in a high-backed armchair, his face carved from granite. My father is standing near the fireplace, swirling a glass of scotch. Don Lombardi is pacing near the windows, looking perpetually nervous.
And standing behind his father is Dario.
My eyes sweep past them all, landing instantly on the man seated at the head of the room.
Cassio is wearing a tailored black suit. He isn't wearing a tie, and the top three buttons of his shirt are undone to accommodatethe thick bandages wrapping his right shoulder. He looks pale, the exhaustion is etched deeply into the harsh lines of his face, but he exudes a terrifying authority. He is a wounded king, daring the jackals to step out of line.
Cassio’s black eyes flick to me as I enter. For a fraction of a second, I see the mask slip. I see the dark, obsessive hunger flare in his gaze as he takes in the black silk clinging to my body. But it is gone in a flash, replaced by that freezing, impenetrable indifference.
Play the part,his eyes warn me.Stay out of the crossfire.
I ignore the silent command. I don't walk to the corner. I don't sit on the peripheral sofas reserved for the wives.
I walk directly across the Persian rug, the sharpclick-clackof my stilettos demanding the attention of every man in the room. I stop right beside Cassio’s chair. I don't ask for permission, I simply take my place at his left shoulder, resting one hand lightly on the back of his leather seat.
My father’s jaw tightens. Salvatore watches me with unreadable, old eyes.
"Gentlemen," I coolly and evenly say. "Thank you for coming to check on my husband."
"Noemi," my father greets stiffly. He looks at Cassio. "You look like hell, Vellutini. Santoro said the bullet went straight through."
"Santoro talks too much," Cassio rasps. He reaches for his glass of water with his left hand, his right arm resting perfectly still in his lap. "I am fine, Orlando. The Bratva will have to try harder than a single sniper if they want to put me in the ground."
"The attack on your compound was an insult to the entire Commission," Don Salvatore rumbles, leaning forward. "Volkov is making a mockery of our borders. Have you found the leak, Cassio? How did they know your convoy route?"
I feel the muscle in Cassio’s shoulder tense beneath the leather of his chair. He doesn't look at Orlando. He doesn't look at Lombardi. He just stares at the Capo dei Capi with dead, calculating eyes.
"I am handling my internal affairs, Don Salvatore," Cassio states smoothly. "When I find the rat, I will string his intestines from the San Marco bridge. Until then, my estate is locked down."
The men fall into a tense discussion about port security and retaliation strikes. I stand perfectly still, playing the silent sentinel. But I can feel eyes burning a hole into the side of my face.