Her burgundy suit is coated in white plaster ash. Her knees are scraped, her face smudged with soot and sweat. And gripped tightly in her hands is the matte black Glock 19 I gave her.
She looks down at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide. The moment she sees me standing in the wreckage, the gun slips from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
A ragged, broken sound escapes my lips.
I don't look for a clear path. I scramble up the jagged, broken remnants of the staircase, hauling my heavy frame over shattered glass and twisted metal, ignoring the excruciating protest of my torn sutures.
I reach the landing and pull myself over the edge.
Noemi drops to her knees, reaching out for me. I crash into her, wrapping my good arm around her waist, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
"You're alive," I choke out, my voice entirely unrecognizable. I am shaking. The Don of the Vellutini family is trembling like a fucking leaf on the ruined floor of his own home. "You're alive, you're alive."
"I held them," she sobs, her hands tangling desperately in my wet hair, pulling me closer. "I shot the charge, Cassio. I blew the stairs. I held the line."
I pull back just enough to look at her face. I cup her cheeks, my thumbs swiping away the soot and the tears. She is magnificent. She is a warrior covered in the ashes of our enemies, and she belongs entirely to me.
I crash my mouth against hers.
It is a desperate, bruising collision. There is no strategy here, no calculation, just a starving man devouring his salvation. She opens her mouth to me with a hungry, unyielding demand, her tongue sliding against mine, tasting like smoke and tears and overwhelming relief. I kiss her until my lungs burn, until the chaotic noise of the guards securing the house completely fades away.
I drag my lips off her mouth, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses across her jaw, down the column of her throat, desperate to feel the frantic pulse beating beneath her skin.
"I thought I lost you," I whisper harshly against her collarbone, my fingers gripping her hips so tight I am surely leaving bruises. "I smelled the smoke, and my heart just stopped. I couldn't breathe, Noemi."
She pulls my head back up, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "You didn't lose me. I told you, I am not going anywhere."
I stare at her. The walls I have spent a decade building, the impenetrable fortress of apathy and violence I constructed to survive this brutal life, completely crumble into dust.
I don't just want to own her. I don't just want to protect her as a prized possession.
"I love you," the confession rips its way out of my chest, bleeding and unvarnished.
Noemi’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen, searching my face for any hint of a lie.
"I love you," I repeat. I press my forehead against hers, closing my eyes because the vulnerability is almost too much to bear. "It’s not just possessiveness. It’s not just obsession. You are the air in my fucking lungs. You are the only thing in this miserable, violent world that makes me want to be a better man. I love you, Noemi."
A jagged sob breaks from her throat. She slides her hands down my chest, careful of my bandages, and grips the lapels of my ruined shirt.
"I love you too," she weeps, the words washing over me like holy water. "I love you, Cassio. I love my monster."
I let out a shaky, broken laugh, burying my face in her hair. The relief is so profound it actually hurts.
I pull back, shifting my weight to stand up. I offer her my left hand. She takes it, and I haul her up to her feet.
"Come here," I murmur, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her flush against my side.
I look around the destroyed foyer. The crystal chandelier is shattered. The imported rugs are ruined. Half of my guards are bleeding, and the front doors are completely gone. The estate is a disaster zone.
But I have never felt richer in my entire life.
Matteo jogs up the remaining intact service stairs and appears on the landing beside us. He looks at the two of us, taking in the soot, the blood, and the bond radiating between us.
"The perimeter is secure, Boss," Matteo reports. "The surviving Russians fled. We have three prisoners locked in the basement cells."
"Good," I say, my voice turning to stone. "Patch up the wounded. Call Santoro for Dante’s men. And tell the guards to secure the master suite. My wife and I need to clean up."
"And the prisoners?" Matteo asks, a brutal edge creeping into his tone.