A dark, possessive pride swells in my chest, entirely eclipsing the jealousy that had been eating me alive for days. I wanted to protect her from this life. I wanted to keep her clean. But she doesn't want to be clean. She wants to be in the mud with me.
"I told you to stay out of it," I remind her, though there is no bite in my words.
"And I told you that we are a team," she counters, stepping back into my space. She uncrosses her arms and rests her hands gently on my shoulders, mindful of the thick bandages hidden beneath my shirt. "You don't get to push me away just because you're scared, Cassio. You don't get to ice me out and play the martyr. If the Bratva come for us, we face them together. If Dario is a snake, we crush him together."
I stare at her. The unapologetic fire in her soul is intoxicating.
"Help me up," I murmur.
She grabs my good arm, bracing her weight as I push myself out of the leather chair. A sharp hiss escapes my teeth as the torn muscle in my back protests, but I get my feet under me.
"Where are we going?" she asks, slipping her arm around my waist to steady me.
"To the study. You want to be my partner, Noemi? You want to be in the war?" I look down at her, a grim, serious edge settling over my features. "Then it's time you see exactly what we are fighting for."
We walk slowly down the west wing corridor. The estate is quiet, the guards outside my study snap to attention as we approach. Matteo is already inside, leaning over the massive mahogany desk, reviewing the security logs.
He looks up as we walk in, his eyes darting to Noemi. He doesn't question her presence. Not after what she did in the foyer during the ambush, and certainly not after the display in the lounge today. He just steps back, giving us the floor.
"Matteo, bring up the port schematics," I order, leaning my hip against the edge of the desk to take the weight off my legs.
Matteo taps a few keys on the laptop. A massive, high-resolution map of the San Marco Port projects onto the flat screen mounted on the wall. It’s a sprawling grid of shipping lanes, cargo bays, storage facilities, and deep-water docks.
Noemi stands beside me, her eyes tracking the complex web of red and blue lines dividing the territory.
"This isn't just a stretch of water," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly pitch. I point to the massive cargo terminals on the eastern edge. "The Italian syndicate controls sixty percent of the imports coming into this city. Weapons, narcotics, luxury goods, cash. But the port is expanding. The city is dredging the channels to allow super-freighters in. The volume of trade is about to triple."
Noemi frowns, studying the map. "And the Bratva want a piece of it."
"They don't want a piece," I correct, turning my head to look at her. "They want the whole fucking pie. Volkov is greedy. He knows that whoever controls the deep-water channels controls the eastern seaboard for the next fifty years. It's billions of dollars, Noemi. It’s untouchable wealth."
"So Dario sold you out to get a cut," she says, disgust lacing her tone. "He fed them the convoy route to eliminate you, thinking the Bratva would reward the Lombardi family with a prime spot on the docks."
"Dario is a short-sighted idiot," Matteo chimes in from the corner. "The Russians would have used him to break the Vellutini, and then they would have slaughtered the Lombardis a month later. There is no honor among thieves, and there is certainly no honor in the Bratva."
I wave Matteo off, signaling him to leave us. He nods, slipping out of the study and closing the heavy doors behind him.
I reach out, taking Noemi's hand, pulling her to stand in front of me between my parted knees.
"When my father ran this family, he settled for scraps," I tell her, my gaze dropping to our joined hands. "He wanted peace. He compromised with the Irish, he let the Russians operate in the slums, and he let Orlando dictate the borders. He was a diplomat."
I look up, meeting her dark eyes. "I am not a diplomat. I saw what peace got him. It got him a bullet in the back in a restaurant parking lot when I was nineteen."
Noemi’s breath hitches. She steps closer, her free hand coming up to rest on my chest, right over my furiously beating heart.
"I took over the Vellutini family, and I swore I would never be weak," I confess, laying the ugliest, darkest parts of my ambition bare before her. "I burned the compromises to the ground. I took back the territory. I became the monster they all whisper about because fear is the only currency that matters in this life."
"You aren't a monster," she whispers fiercely.
"I am," I insist, a harsh, humorless smile touching my lips. "But I'm your monster. And I need you to understand why I fight so hard. Why I wouldn't just give up the docks to buy peace with Volkov."
I let go of her hand and reach up to cup her face, my thumb stroking the soft curve of her cheek.
"This war isn't just about pride, Noemi. It isn't just about showing up Orlando or putting Dario in his place. It’s about securing a future that no one can ever touch."
She searches my eyes, her own shining with unshed tears. "A future for the syndicate?"
"A future for us," I vow, the words ring heavy and true. "I am building an empire that is bulletproof. I want a legacy for the Vellutini name. I want to look at you, ten years from now, and know that not a single man in this world has the power to threaten you. I want to build a fortress so high that the Bratva, the Irish, and the rest of the Italian Commission have to bow their heads just to look at our gates."