"They tried to kill you," Cassio snarls, his black eyes blazing as he looks down at me. "I don't give a fuck about the treaty anymore. Bastiano breathes Genovese air. He dies today."
"He will," I agree. I slide my fingers over his, gently but firmly prying the heavy weapon from his grasp. He resists for a fraction of a second, but then his grip loosens, surrendering the gun to me. "But you are not going."
I step back, placing the gun onto the desk. I look up at my husband, squaring my shoulders.
"This is my family’s mess," I tell him. "Orlando allowed a traitor to thrive under his own roof because he was too busy plotting against you. It is my bloodline. Let me handle it."
Cassio frowns, a deep crease forming between his dark brows. "I am not sending you into that house alone. Orlando is a volatile prick. If he thinks you are threatening his Capo—"
"I won't be alone. Dante will come with me," I interrupt smoothly. I reach up, resting my hand on his uninjured chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart. "It is time I faced him, Cassio. For twenty-four years, I sat in that house and let him make me feel like I was nothing but a burden. Let me go back there as your wife. Let me show him exactly what he threw away."
Cassio stares into my eyes, searching for any trace of hesitation. He finds none.
Slowly, the violent tension in his shoulders unwinds. He lifts his left hand, his knuckles brushing against my cheek.
"You bring me his head," Cassio murmurs, a dark and proud smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Or I will come and collect it myself."
"You have my word," I promise.
I do not travel home that day, rather I wait another 2 days despite my husband’s protest. I want my father to continue to hide under his façade of calm for a bit longer, so that when I storm in, they will fucking feel it.
The drive to the Genovese estate takes less than thirty minutes, but the distance between the woman who left this house and the woman returning feels like a thousand lifetimes.
The black Maybach pulls up to the towering wrought-iron gates. The Genovese guards recognize me, their eyes widening in shockbefore they scramble to open the heavy doors. Dante parks the car directly in front of the sweeping marble steps of the main entrance.
I step out into the crisp afternoon air. I am wearing a tailored, deep burgundy pantsuit that fits me like a second skin, paired with sharp black stilettos. My hair is sleek, my dark eyes lined fiercely. I don't look like a daughter coming home to visit.
Dante falls into step right behind my right shoulder, his suit jacket unbuttoned to allow easy access to his weapon.
I walk through the heavy front doors. The familiar scent of lemon polish and stale cigars hits me, but the house no longer feels grand. It feels stagnant. It feels like a museum dedicated to a dying era.
"Noemi?"
I pause in the center of the foyer.
My mother, Serafina, is standing at the top of the grand staircase, her hand clutching the banister. Lucia is hovering nervously behind her. Enzo steps out of the hallway, his brow furrowed in confusion.
They all stare at me. They are looking for the bitter, slumped posture of the girl they shipped off to the beast. Instead, they see a woman dripping in Vellutini confidence, flanked by one of the deadliest men in the city.
"What are you doing here?" my mother asks, her voice breathless, her eyes darting to Dante. "Where is your husband?"
"My husband is running his empire," I reply, my tone crisp and indifferent. I don't offer a warm smile. I don't run up the stairs to hug my sister. I look at Enzo. "Where is Orlando?"
Enzo bristles at the disrespect. "Don Orlando is in his study. But he is not expecting visitors, Noemi. You cannot just—"
"Move aside, Enzo," I say, stepping toward him without breaking my stride. "Before I have Dante break both of your kneecaps."
Enzo pales, his mouth snapping shut. He looks at Dante’s cold, dead eyes and smartly steps back against the wall, clearing the path. I hear my mother gasp, a sharp sound of scandalized horror, but I ignore her completely. I walk straight down the east corridor and push the heavy oak doors of my father's study wide open.
Orlando is seated behind his massive mahogany desk, a ledger open in front of him. He looks up, his face instantly twisting into a scowl.
"What is the meaning of this?" he barks, slamming his pen down. "You barge into my house without an invitation? Have you completely forgotten how to behave, girl?"
I don't answer right away. I walk over to the antique crystal bar cart nestled in the corner of the room. I pick up his mostexpensive bottle of scotch and pour two glasses, the amber liquid splashing heavily against the crystal.
I walk back to the desk, setting one glass down in front of him. I keep the other in my hand.
I don't sit in the chairs designated for guests. I stand, forcing him to look up at me.