My father looks like he might have a stroke. Dario looks like he is going to be sick.
I turn my attention back to Cassio.
His chest is heaving. His black eyes are burning with a sudden, possessive inferno that completely incinerates the coldness between us.
He lifts his uninjured left arm and wraps it heavily around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He buries his face in my stomach, a low, shuddering breath escaping his lips, holding onto me like a man who has just been pulled from the bottom of the ocean.
I weave my fingers into his dark hair, holding him right back.
He tried to push me away, he tried to be the monster so I wouldn't be collateral damage. But he doesn’t know one crucial detail.
I love the monster. And I am never letting him go.
24
Cassio
My face is buried in the soft silk of her black dress, right against her stomach. Her fingers are tangled in my hair, gripping me like I'm the only solid thing in a room full of ghosts. I can hear the erratic thump of her heartbeat matching my own.
A minute ago, I was ready to kill Dario Lombardi. I was ready to draw my weapon, damn the consequences, and put a bullet between his eyes for daring to speak to my wife. I spent two days pushing her away, freezing her out, trying to build a wall between us so she wouldn't become collateral damage in a war she didn't ask for.
And she just tore that wall down with her bare hands in front of the entire Commission.
"Get your son out of my house, Lombardi." My voice is muffled against her, but the grating edge of it cuts through the dead silence of the formal lounge. I lift my head, keeping my good arm locked around Noemi's waist. I glare at the sniveling piece of shit cowering near the decanters.
Dario looks like he’s about to vomit. His father, Don Lombardi, grabs him by the arm, his face flushed a deep, embarrassing magenta.
"This is an outrage," Lombardi stammers, looking toward Salvatore. "We came to pay respects, and she insults us—"
"She spoke the truth," Don Salvatore interrupts. The Capo dei Capi doesn't raise his voice, but the weight of his words flattens Lombardi instantly. Salvatore's dark eyes shift to Noemi, resting heavily on her defiant posture. He isn't angry. He looks... impressed. "Your son crossed a line, Lombardi. He propositioned a married woman. A Vellutini. You should be thanking God that Cassio is currently injured, or your boy would be leaving this estate in a body bag."
Dario flinches. Lombardi swallows hard, gripping his son’s elbow. "We are leaving."
They don't wait for an escort. The two of them scurry out of the double doors like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
I look at Orlando. My father-in-law is staring at his eldest daughter as if he’s never seen her before. She is standingbetween my legs, wearing my protection like armor and wielding my name like a weapon.
Orlando sets his scotch glass down on the mantelpiece. The clink of crystal against marble is sharp. "You've made your choice, Noemi," he says, his tone laced with a bitter sting.
"I didn't make a choice, Papa," she answers without missing a beat, her fingers still holding onto me. "I just accepted the reality you handed me. You should try it."
Orlando's jaw tightens. He doesn't look at me. He gives Salvatore a stiff nod and walks out of the lounge, his men falling in line behind him.
Salvatore is the last one left. The old boss stands up slowly, buttoning his suit jacket. He walks over to us, stopping a few feet away. I brace myself, my muscles bunching, prepared for a reprimand about my lack of control over the gathering.
Instead, Salvatore dips his chin in a rare, genuine nod of respect directed entirely at my wife. "You have a spine made of iron, Signora Vellutini. Keep him sharp. He's going to need it."
"I intend to," she replies.
Salvatore leaves. The heavy doors close behind him, and the metallic click of the latch echoes in the massive room. We are finally alone.
I exhale a harsh breath, my head falling back against the leather chair.
Noemi steps back, putting an inch of space between us, but I don't let go of her waist. I look up at her. Her dark eyes are blazing, her chest rising and falling beneath the black silk.
"You realize what you just did," I say roughly. "You painted a target on your own back. You told Dario you knew about the ambush. You humiliated him."
"He deserved worse," she fires back, crossing her arms over her chest. "He set you up. He fed the route to the Russians. He almost got us both killed, Cassio. I wasn't going to stand there and let him act like my fucking savior."