Page 86 of Deadly Alliance
My knees buckle. I catch myself on the edge of the desk, a jagged, breathless sob tearing its way up my throat. I set the gun down next to the keyboard, my hands finally beginning to shake.
We won.
I don't wait in the study. I leave Luca to deal with the cleanup and walk down the shattered remnants of the grand staircase. The foyer is a ruined shell of its former glory. Plaster dust coats the marble like snow, and the biting morning wind howls through the space where the front doors used to stand. The sky is turning a bruised purple, the first hints of dawn bleeding over the horizon.
Headlights cut through the mist. The armored Maybach pulls up to the stone steps, its grill dented, the paint scratched and scorched by gunfire.
Cassio steps out.
He looks like a man who just crawled out of a nightmare. His black clothes are saturated with seawater, grime, and blood. His face is a canvas of purple bruises and soot, a smear of crimson tracking along his sharp jawline. He holds an M4 in his left hand, his right arm bound tightly against his chest in a makeshift sling.
His obsidian eyes scan the wreckage of the entrance, burning with a frantic, desperate energy. The moment his gaze locks onto me standing in the center of the foyer, the weapon slips from his fingers, clattering onto the pavement.
I run.
I don't care about the broken glass crunching beneath my boots. I crash into his uninjured side, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face against his throat. He lets out a harsh, broken groan, his good arm wrapping around my waist like a steel band, lifting me entirely off the ground.
He kisses me. It is a messy, starving collision of teeth and lips, tasting of salt, cordite, and copper. He devours my mouth, kissing me like a man who thought he was never going to breathe again, pouring every ounce of his survival into the claim.
When I finally pull back, my hands rest gently against his ruined shirt. Fresh, warm blood seeps through the fabric, staining my palms.
"You tore the sutures, again," I scold, my voice thick with unshed tears. "This is a shitty habit you arrogant, reckless bastard."
"The port is ours," he rasps, his chest heaving against mine. "I put Volkov in the dirt."
"I know," I whisper, brushing a damp strand of ink-black hair from his forehead. "And I took care of Dario."
Cassio freezes. His body goes completely rigid, his eyes sharpening into dangerous, obsidian blades. "He came here?"
"He slipped past the perimeter during the diversion," I explain, keeping my voice perfectly steady. "He walked into your study with a silver pistol. He wanted to use me as a hostage to bargain with you for his own miserable life."
A murderous, possessive rage contorts Cassio’s features. "Where is he?"
"Dead," I state flatly, looking directly into his eyes. "I put two hollow-point rounds in his chest. His body ruined the hardwood floor by your desk."
Cassio stares at me. The murderous rage instantly melts, replaced by a wicked, overwhelmingly proud smile that transforms his battered face. He leans down, kissing me hard, a branding stamp of ownership.
I press my palm gently near the torn stitches on his collarbone, forcing him to look at me. "Listen to me, Cassio Vellutini. You are not leaving our bed. You are not feeling the sunlight on your skin until I see this wound completely closed. I am not patching you up a sixth time."
He chuckles, a ragged, exhausted sound that ends in a grimace of pain. "Yes,moglie."
It takes a week for the dust to truly settle. The bodies are buried, the port is locked down under heavy Vellutini guard, and the estate is swarming with contractors repairing the masonry.
But the real shift happens on a Friday night, inside the opulent, vaulted ballroom of the Grand Hotel.
Don Salvatore summons the heads of the Italian syndicate for a mandatory assembly. The atmosphere in the room is completely unrecognizable from the peace summit a month ago.
When Cassio and I walk through the gilded double doors, the conversation dies.
Cassio is not the young, volatile upstart anymore. He walks with the undeniable gravity of a king who just conquered an empire. He is a War Don. The men in the room stand up from their leather chairs the moment he enters. There is respect in the air. It is profound reverence.
I walk directly beside him. Wearing a flowing, tailored emerald gown, the Vellutini diamonds resting against my collarbone.
Don Salvatore raises his glass of scotch from the head of the table. "To Cassio Vellutini," the ancient boss rumbles. "You broke the Bratva. You secured the eastern seaboard for the Commission. You proved that the Italian blood still runs hot."
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
Cassio doesn't smile. He stands at the edge of the table, his right arm still resting in a sleek black sling beneath his tailored charcoal suit jacket. He reaches out with his left hand, wrapping his fingers securely around my waist, pulling me flush against his side in front of the entire syndicate.
