Page 40 of Deadly Alliance
She steps a little closer, glancing nervously over her shoulder to ensure her father isn't watching. She looks up at me through her thick lashes, a manufactured, sympathetic pout on her glossy lips.
"I just wanted to see how you were holding up," Lucia murmurs, her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. She reaches out, her manicured fingers lightly grazing the sleeve of my tuxedo. "I know this whole arrangement has been... difficult. My father forced your hand. And Noemi... well, we both know how impossible she can be."
My spine instantly goes rigid.
I stare down at her fingers resting on my arm. She is trying to flirt. She is trying to commiserate with thepoor, trapped Don,who was saddled with the bitter spinster. She expects me to roll my eyes, to agree with her, maybe to suggest that I wish I had gotten the better sister instead.
A cold, vicious disgust coils in my gut.
"Take your hand off me," I say.
The command is so lethal, that Lucia gasps. She snatches her hand back as if my jacket just caught fire, her blue eyes widening in genuine shock.
"I... I only meant—" she stammers, her pale cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed red.
"I know exactly what you meant," I interrupt, leaning down just a fraction, making sure my words slide between her ribs like a blade. "You thought you could bat your eyelashes and undermine my wife. You thought I would prefer a quiet little doll over a woman with a spine."
"Cassio, please, I was just trying to be a friend," she whispers, her eyes darting around the ballroom, terrified of a scene.
"I don't need friends. And I certainly don't need a fragile little girl who isn't fit to hold Noemi's goddamn purse," I sneer, stripping away every ounce of her manufactured innocence. "My wife is the Lady of the Vellutini family. She is exactly what I want. If you ever speak about her with disrespect again, I willforget that you share her blood, and I will ruin you. Now get out of my sight."
Lucia looks like I just slapped her across the face. Tears well up in her eyes, and she turns on her heel, fleeing toward the powder rooms without looking back.
I take a heavy swallow of my scotch, the irritation still crawling under my skin. I turn my gaze back to the center of the room, scanning the crowd for the crimson dress.
She isn't there.
The wives Noemi was speaking to are now chatting with someone else. My eyes sweep the dance floor, the bar, the archways. Nothing.
My pulse spikes. A cold, paranoid adrenaline floods my veins. I drop the crystal tumbler onto a passing waiter’s tray and push my way through the crowd.
"Matteo," I bark into the concealed earpiece I’m wearing. "Where is she?"
"She stepped out toward the east terrace, Boss," Matteo’s voice crackles back instantly. "Needed some air. Gianni is stationed at the terrace doors."
I alter my path, cutting through the throngs of laughing, oblivious mobsters, heading straight for the massive glass doorsthat lead out into the Lombardi gardens. Gianni is standing exactly where he is supposed to be, but as I approach, I see him looking nervously through the glass, his hand resting on his holster.
"Don Cassio," Gianni says, stepping aside quickly. "Lombardi's boy just walked out there. I was about to intervene."
The name is a match struck in a room full of gasoline.
I shove the heavy glass doors open and step out onto the stone terrace. The cool night air hits my face, but it does nothing to extinguish the red, blinding rage that instantly consumes my vision.
Noemi is backed against the stone balustrade, and Dario Lombardi has her cornered.
He is standing far too close to her. One of his hands is resting on the stone railing beside her hip, trapping her. He is leaning in, his face inches from hers, speaking in an urgent, hushed tone.
"You don't have to pretend with me, Noemi," Dario is saying, his voice carrying on the quiet breeze. "I know he hurts you. I see the way he looks at you, like you're just property. I can help you. I can talk to Don Salvatore. We can claim abuse. We can get you out of this."
Noemi’s jaw is clenched, her dark eyes flash with irritation. She presses her hands flat against his chest, trying to push him back."Dario, back the fuck off. I don't need your help, and I certainly don't need you to save me."
"You're just scared of him," Dario insists, reaching up to touch her face, his fingers grazing her cheek. "I should have asked for you sooner. I shouldn't have let him take you—"
The sound of my own roar doesn't even register until I am already moving.
I cross the terrace with the speed of a feral animal. I don't give a fuck about the peace treaty. I don't give a fuck about Don Salvatore or the Bratva or the politics of this godforsaken city. The only thing that exists is the fact that another man’s hand is touching my wife’s skin.
Dario barely has time to turn his head before I hit him.
