Page 71 of Deadly Alliance
Noemi
The heavy oak doors click shut, sealing the study and severing the last tie I have to my husband.
The sound echoes against the mahogany walls. I stand frozen in the center of the room, staring at the empty space where Cassio just stood. The matte black Glock 19 rests heavily in my palm. The steel is freezing against my skin, a contrast to the lingering warmth of his lips on mine.
If I don't come back, burn it all down.
His parting command loops in my head, a suffocating mantra that makes my throat ache. I lower my gaze to the weapon in my hand. It has only been ten days. Ten short, agonizing days sinceI knelt on the bedroom floor, my hands stained crimson to the elbows, packing combat gauze into a gaping hole in his chest. Ten days of watching him fight through the fever, ten days of stolen touches. We barely had time to understand the truce we forged before Volkov decided to tear our world apart again.
I walk over to the massive desk and sink into his leather chair. The scent of him clings to the upholstery. I pull my knees up, wrapping my free arm around my legs, trying to hold myself together.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eleven-thirty.
Cassio is nearing the port by now. He is stepping out of the armored Maybach, walking into the freezing rain, surrounded by his men. He is walking into a trap because his pride and his unyielding need to protect our future demand it.
I hate this life. I hate the constant, looming shadow of violence that dictates every breath we take. But as I sit in his chair, holding his gun, I realize that I would gladly endure a hundred lifetimes of this anxiety if it meant he would walk back through those doors.
The minutes drag by, thick and sluggish. The storm outside intensifies, the rain lashing aggressively against the reinforced steel shutters covering the windows.
At exactly midnight, a sharp knock pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
Dante steps into the study. The guard looks tense, his assault rifle slung across his chest, his suit jacket damp from his recent perimeter check. He sees me sitting in the Don’s chair, holding the Glock, and a flicker of deep respect softens the hard lines of his face.
"Signora," Dante reports. "The perimeter is secure. The storm is wreaking havoc on the external cameras, but the men are holding their positions."
"Have you heard anything from Matteo?" I ask, standing up. My legs feel like lead, but I force my spine straight. "Did they reach Pier Seven?"
"Radio silence," Dante confirms, shaking his head. "They went dark ten minutes ago to avoid frequency interception. We just have to wait."
Wait. The word feels like a curse.
I nod, walking around the desk. "Make sure Carla and the staff are kept away from the ground floor windows. If anything happens, I want them—"
A deafening, earth-shattering explosion obliterates the rest of my sentence.
The entire estate shudders violently. The concussive blast hits the study so hard that a dozen heavy books tumble from the mahogany shelves, crashing onto the hardwood floor. The overhead lights flicker and instantly die, plunging the roominto shadows before the emergency backup generators kick in, bathing us in a sickly, pulsing red glow.
Then, the klaxons start screaming.
It is the same bone-rattling siren from Seven days ago, but this time, Cassio isn't here to bark orders.
"They breached the east wall!" Dante shouts, pressing his earpiece deep into his ear, his face paling in the crimson light. "Multiple vehicles! It’s a full-scale assault!"
My stomach drops into an endless void. The air leaves my lungs in a harsh, jagged rush.
"A diversion," I whisper, the horrific realization sliding into place.
Volkov didn't just want to trap Cassio at the port. The Bratva Pakhan is a strategist. He called the peace summit to draw the Vellutini Don away from his fortress, pulling the best shooters and the underboss out of the equation. He left the estate vulnerable, and now he is sending a hit squad to wipe out everything Cassio loves. Volkov wants to ensure that even if my husband somehow survives the docks, he will come home to a graveyard.
I look at the Glock in my hand.
I rack the slide of the pistol. The metallicclackcuts through the wailing alarms, centering my focus.
"Dante," I say, my voice ringing with a chilling authority. "How many men breached the wall?"
He yells my question into his earpiece, then he answers. "At least thirty, Signora. They used a heavy transport truck to smash the masonry. They are swarming the gardens, pushing toward the kitchen entrances."
"We hold the chokepoints," I order, striding past him into the corridor. "Get Carla, the maids, and the kitchen crew into the subterranean vault immediately. Nobody stays above ground except the shooters."
