Page 89 of Deadly Alliance
"Always," she replies, her chin held high.
We walk through the massive glass doors, flanked by Matteo and Dante. The heavy, thumping bass of the music and the loud, boisterous chatter of four hundred mobsters echo through the vaulted ballroom.
The moment we cross the threshold, the change in the atmosphere is unmistakable.
The conversation swirling near the entrance door stalls. The silence ripples outward, a swift, sweeping wave that cuts across the entire ballroom until the music is the only sound left. Men in expensive tuxedos and women in glittering gowns stop what they are doing.
They turn to look at the entrance.
They don't just stare. The crowds physically part, stepping back to create a wide, completely unobstructed path straight down the center of the room toward the VIP tables.
It is the kind of submission my father spent his entire life begging for. It is the respect Lombardi tried to steal.
I don't smile. I keep my expression locked in stone as I guide my wife through the parted sea of mobsters. Capos who have been in this life for thirty years dip their heads in deference as we pass.
"Don Cassio. Signora Vellutini," a gray-haired lieutenant from the southern district murmurs, bowing his head respectfully as we walk by.
I give a sharp, singular nod in acknowledgment.
We reach the elevated section at the back of the ballroom. Don Salvatore is seated at the center table, a glass of expensive bourbon in his hand. My father-in-law, Orlando, is standing near him, speaking with a group of European suppliers.
Orlando stops talking the second he sees us. The arrogant, traditional Don who used to look at me with undisguised contempt now straightens his posture. He gives me a tight, respectful nod, but his eyes shift immediately to Noemi. There is a complicated, heavy resignation in his gaze. He sees the power she wields, the confidence she wears, and he knows he lost the most valuable asset his family ever produced.
Noemi offers her father a cool, polite smile. Nothing more.
We take our seats at the table next to Salvatore. Before I can even order a drink, a man approaches.
He is unfamiliar. A new player. He wears a flashy white suit, his neck is hung with gold chains, exuding the kind of unearned, desperate arrogance that usually gets people killed in my city. Matteo steps forward to intercept him, but I hold up a hand, signaling my underboss to let him pass.
"Don Vellutini," the man says, his accent heavy, marking him as a weapons trafficker from the Mediterranean coast. He doesn't look at Noemi. He treats her like she is just a pretty decoration sitting beside me. "I am Costa. I sent word through your underboss about securing a permanent shipping lane through Bay Four. I have a fleet ready to move, and I want to bypass the usual federal eyes."
I lean back in my chair, crossing one ankle over my knee. I look at the man, a slow, dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
"You want a discount on my docks," I state, my voice carrying clearly over the music.
"We can bring massive volume to your city," Costa boasts, puffing his chest out. "Millions a month. But I deal directly with the boss. I want a handshake agreement with you tonight."
I let out a short, harsh laugh. It’s a cruel sound, dripping with condescension. I don't even bother looking at Costa anymore. I turn my head, my eyes locking onto Noemi.
"Did you hear that, baby?" I ask her, my tone shifting into a smooth, teasing drawl. "Costa here wants to bypass the Feds. He wants to negotiate the shipping lanes."
Noemi picks up her crystal glass of sparkling water. She takes a slow, agonizingly elegant sip, completely ignoring the sweating trafficker for a long, deliberate moment.
When she finally sets the glass down, she turns her dark, calculating eyes onto the man. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seems to plummet.
"Bay Four is currently operating at ninety percent capacity," Noemi tells him with mocking sweetness. "The remaining ten percent is reserved for high-yield, low-risk cargo. If you want a permanent lane, the tariff is thirty percent of your gross profit, payable in unmarked bills on the first of every month."
Costa bristles, his face flushing red. He looks at me, completely appalled. "Don Cassio, I did not come here to negotiate with a woman—"
Matteo’s hand drops instantly to the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. Dante takes a step forward. Even Don Salvatore stops drinking his bourbon, his ancient eyes fixing on the foolish trafficker like he is already a corpse.
I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I don't even uncross my legs.
"You are breathing right now because I am in a generous mood," I tell Costa, my voice dropping to a whisper that carries a terrifying, homicidal promise. "But if you ever disrespect my wife again, I will have Matteo cut your tongue out and mail it back to the Mediterranean. You want access to my port? You speak to the Lady of the Vellutini family. Her word is the law."
Costa swallows audibly, the color completely draining from his face. He finally realizes the magnitude of his mistake. He looks at the surrounding guards, the shifting posture of the other Dons, and then, slowly, he turns his terrified gaze back to Noemi.
"My... my apologies, Signora Vellutini," he stammers, bowing his head so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. "Thirty percent is... thirty percent is acceptable."
