Noemi steps into my line of sight in the mirror, pressing her front flush against my back. She rests her chin near the scar, her dark eyes meeting my reflection.
"You’re staring at it again," she murmurs, her lips brushing the inked skin of my neck.
"I like looking at it," I tell her, turning around to face her. I wrap my hands around her waist, pulling her flush against my hips. "It reminds me that the bastards missed."
"It reminds me that you have a reckless hero complex," she corrects, though a soft, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
She reaches up, holding a tailored black silk tie. I let my hands wander, tracing the dangerous curve of her spine. She is wearing a deep sapphire gown tonight. The fabric clings to her waist and flares slightly at the floor, but the entire back is completely exposed, dipping so dangerously low I can feel the smooth, warm dip of her lower back beneath my palms.
"If one of Lombardi’s remaining cousins looks at your back for more than two seconds tonight, I am going to gouge his eyes out with a cocktail fork," I warn her, my voice dropping into a possessive, territorial cadence.
Noemi doesn't flinch. She just finishes the knot at my throat, tightening it with an aggressive tug that forces me to step a fraction of an inch closer to her.
"If you stab a guest at the mid-year syndicate gala, Don Salvatore will have an aneurysm," she points out, her hands smoothing the crisp lapels of my dark suit jacket. "Besides, they aren't going to look at my back, Cassio. They are going to be too busy staring at the floor when we walk past them."
A deep, genuine laugh scrapes its way up my throat. I capture her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up. "You’ve gotten incredibly arrogant over the last six months,moglie."
"I learned from the best," she fires back, her eyes dancing with that unapologetic fire I am completely addicted to.
I crush my mouth to hers. My tongue sweeps past her lips, tasting the faint hint of expensive champagne she was sipping while doing her makeup. She hums into the kiss, her fingernails biting lightly into my shoulders, kissing me back with a starving, matching intensity that hasn't faded a single degree since the night we took back the docks.
I break the kiss before I lose my mind and throw her onto the velvet ottoman in the center of the closet. We are already running twenty minutes behind schedule, and as much as I want to ruin that sapphire dress, we have a city to rule.
"Let's go," I say, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth. "The Commission is waiting."
The summer heat has finally burned away the bitter, freezing rain that haunted the spring. The air outside the penthouse is balmy as Dante holds the rear door of the Maybach open for us.
I slide into the leather seat beside Noemi, the heavy doors thudding shut, insulating us from the noise of the estate.
The drive toward the city center is smooth. There are no decoy convoys tonight. There are no frantic, desperate checks of the radio frequencies. The streets belong to us.
The last six months have been a masterclass in domination. After the bloodbath at Pier Seven and the execution of the Bratva Pakhan, the fractured pieces of the Russian syndicate scrambled back to their holes, desperate to avoid the wrath of the newly united Italian families. The Irish packed up their operations and retreated north, paying a heavy, extortionate tax to use our secondary shipping lanes.
And the port? The port is a fucking goldmine.
Matteo dropped the quarterly financials on my desk this morning. With Holding Bay Four fully operational and completely under Vellutini control, the deep-water freighters are funneling billions of dollars in untraceable product through our territory. The money is washing through our offshore accounts faster than we can clean it.
I glance at Noemi. She is staring out the tinted window, the passing streetlights catching the sharp, aristocratic slope of her cheekbones. She orchestrated that victory. She saw thecommercial freighter schedules, she mapped the blind spot, and she handed me the key to the empire.
I reach across the center console, sliding my hand over her thigh. The high slit in the sapphire dress parts, allowing my calloused fingers to stroke the bare, warm skin just above her knee.
She turns her head, a wicked, knowing glint in her eyes. She doesn't push my hand away. Instead, she covers it with her own, lacing our fingers together.
"Matteo said the shipment of luxury vehicles cleared customs at noon," she notes casually, seamlessly shifting into business mode while my thumb strokes the sensitive skin on her inner thigh.
"They cleared," I confirm. "Not a single badge asked a question. The harbor master is firmly in our pocket, and the payment was wired to the Genovese accounts for their share of the transport boats an hour ago."
"My father will be pleased," she says.
Now, Orlando is just another piece on the board. Orlando stays in his lane. He manages naval logistics, takes his cut, and keeps his fucking mouth shut. He learned exactly what happens when you underestimate the Vellutini’s.
The Maybach glides to a seamless stop in front of the sprawling, illuminated façade of the Grand Hotel.
The mid-year gala is a tradition, a massive gathering of every Capo, underboss, and high-ranking soldier in the syndicate. Tonight, it is also a celebration of the peace and unprecedented wealth flowing through our streets.
Dante opens my door. I step out into the warm night air, buttoning my suit jacket. I turn and offer my hand to Noemi. She takes it, stepping out of the car with flawless grace. The flash of her sapphire gown under the valet lights turns the heads of the armed guards stationed by the entrance, but the moment my eyes snap to them, they instantly look down at the pavement.
"Ready?" I ask, pulling her hand and tucking it securely into the crook of my arm.