Every time I draw a breath, a jagged, burning sensation tears through my chest. Dr. Santoro’s sutures hold the muscle together, but the pain is a constant pressure against my ribs. I ignore it. I lean forward, bracing my good arm on the surface of the mahogany desk, staring at the burner phone sitting on the polished wood.
The screen is cracked, but the text message is crystal clear.
Matteo stands on the opposite side of the desk, his jaw locked tight enough to shatter teeth. He looks at the phone, then back at me with grim eyes.
"It’s a snare, Boss," Matteo states. "Volkov and O’Connor calling for a peace summit at Pier Seven at midnight? It’s a fucking kill box. The shipping containers form a natural bottleneck. If they block the exit route, they can pin us against the water and slaughter everyone we bring."
"I know what Pier Seven looks like, Matteo," I reply drily. "I know it’s a snare."
"Then we tell them to go to hell. We tell Salvatore we aren't walking into a firing squad."
I shake my head, pushing myself upright. A fresh wave of agony spikes through my right shoulder, making my vision swim with black spots for a fraction of a second, but I keep my feet planted firmly on the floorboards.
"If I hide behind these reinforced walls while the Bratva Pakhan stands out in the open calling for a truce, the Commission will brand me a coward," I tell him, laying out the brutal, unforgiving politics of our world. "Don Salvatore will see it as weakness. Lombardi will use it as leverage. I cannot lead this syndicate from a bunker. I have to show them that a bullet to the chest doesn't put a Vellutini down."
"Boss, you can barely lift your right arm," Matteo argues, desperation bleeding into his usually stoic demeanor.
"I have a left arm," I counter smoothly. "And I have you. Prep the men. Hand-pick the shooters. I want snipers on the crane towers before we even pull into the dock. If Volkov wants to snap thetrap shut, we are going to make sure the jaws break his fucking neck."
Before Matteo can protest further, the heavy oak doors of the study swing open.
The heavy, oppressive tension of the impending war is suddenly pierced by a completely different kind of gravity.
Noemi steps across the threshold.
My breath catches in my throat. I stare at her, the pain in my chest entirely forgotten. She is wearing a deep burgundy pantsuit that fits her like a second skin, her dark hair sleek and flawless. But it isn't the clothes that make my pulse kick into a frantic rhythm. It is the posture.
She walks like a queen returning from a conquest. Dante trails a few steps behind her, his face a mask of unquestionable respect. He nods to me once, and steps back out into the hallway, pulling the doors shut to leave us alone.
Matteo smartly excuses himself, vanishing through the side door to prep the armory.
I close the distance between us, my boots silent on the hardwood floor. I stop inches from her, letting my eyes sweep over her face. Her chin is tilted up, her expression is fierce and unyielding, but I can see the faint tremor in her hands. Confronting Orlando Genovese took a toll on her, but she didn't break.
"Bastiano is a dead man walking," Noemi says. "I told Orlando he has until midnight to deliver his Capo's head to our gates, or you will burn the Genovese compound to ash."
A vicious, incredibly proud smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I reach out with my left hand, wrapping my fingers around the nape of her neck, pulling her flush against my good side.
"You threatened your own father with my wrath," I murmur, my lips brushing against her forehead. The scent of her fills my lungs, acting like a balm on my frayed nerves. "You are magnificent,moglie."
She leans her weight against me, wrapping her arms around my waist, careful to avoid the thick bandages strapped to my right side. She buries her face in my chest, a long, exhausted sigh escaping her lips.
"He looked so small, Cassio," she whispers, the anger fading into a bleak, hollow realization. "For my entire life, I thought he was this towering, immovable force. But he’s just a vain, petty old man who let a traitor eat at his table because he was too busy polishing his own ego."
"You severed the chain," I tell her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. "You owe that house nothing anymore."
"I know," she says, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes are bright, searching my face with devotion. "I am exactly where I am supposed to be."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The unquestionable love shining in her gaze makes the secret I am keeping burn like battery acid in my throat. I want to pull her into the bedroom, strip that burgundy suit off her body, and spend the rest of the night worshipping her.
But the clock on the wall reads ten-thirty.
I swallow hard, the bitter taste of reality coating my tongue. I step back, creating a sliver of space between us.
"Noemi," I start, my voice dropping to a heavy, serious pitch.
Her brow furrows instantly. She knows my moods too well now. She recognizes the shift in my posture, the sudden coldness creeping back into my features as I prepare for the violence ahead.
"What is it?" she asks, her hands dropping from my waist.