A note in the margins, timestamped years after their deaths. “Child placed in orphanage per organizational decision. Monthly stipend authorized. Matter closed.”
Elena. Cassandra’s mother. And David. Both of them dead, but not by the Bratva’s hand. Someone else had orchestrated this. Someone with the power to move money through the organization’s accounts, to authorize the placement of a child, to cover up two deaths.
I sat back in my chair and tried to process the scope of what I was looking at.
Cassandra’s entire existence was a construct built on the graves of her parents, but the killer wasn’t who I’d assumed. The Bratva had taken her in, provided for her, hidden her away in an orphanage to protect her or perhaps to protect themselves. And then, three years ago, Rafael had found her again—not to use her, but because he’d finally uncovered the truth about who had really killed her parents.
Cassandra wasn’t investigating her own past out of idle curiosity or betrayal. She was trying to find the truth about her own history. She was trying to understand who had murdered her mother and father and why they’d been silenced. And the person she needed to trust to find those answers was the man who’d been asking the same questions all along.
I needed to talk to her. But not like this—not while she was sleeping, not while I had her phone in my hands and her secrets spread across my computer screen.
I closed the files, purged the access logs to hide the fact that I’d been digging, and shut down the system.
Cassandra was still sleeping when I returned to the bedroom. I watched her for a long moment, trying to reconcile the picture she presented with what I now knew about her past. Trying to understand how someone survived that kind of revelation without completely shattering.
Except she hadn’t survived it well. Last night was proof of that. The whiskey, the breakdown, the way she’d let me hold her like she was something worth saving—that was what happenedwhen you finally understood that the person you’d loved and lost hadn’t just died. Had been executed by the same organization you’d spent years serving.
My phone buzzed. A text from Kirill: “Rafael’s calling a meeting. Says he needs us in his office in an hour.”
I checked the time. It was past noon. We’d lost the entire morning.
I leaned down and brushed a strand of hair away from Cassandra’s face, careful not to wake her. She made a small sound in her sleep, something between a sigh and a whimper, and my chest twisted with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Maybe she could trust me with this. Maybe I could help her find the answers she was looking for without destroying everything we’d built. Maybe there was a way through this that didn’t end in blood.
Probably not. But maybe.
***
Rafael’s office was its usual controlled chaos. Damir was already there, sprawled in a chair with the kind of casual confidence that came from knowing exactly where the exits were and having the capability to reach them in seconds. Kirill sat behind one of the side tables with his laptop, fingers flying across keys with the kind of rhythm that suggested he was actively accessing something sensitive.
“Sit,” Rafael said without preamble. “We have a problem.”
I settled into the remaining chair and waited. Rafael had a way of revealing information in his own time, at his own pace. Rushing him was like trying to rush a glacier—theoretically possible, practically pointless.
“Someone’s been accessing our internal files,” he continued, lighting a fresh cigar. “Attempting to retrievearchived documents that were sealed years ago. Kirill’s been tracking the digital footprint, and it appears to be coming from within our own systems. Which means we have either a leak or a traitor.”
My blood went cold.
“How recent?” I asked carefully.
“Last access was three days ago.” Rafael’s eyes found mine. “After hours. Using credentials that belong to someone in this building.”
“Whose credentials?” Damir leaned forward slightly, and I could practically see him running through possibilities, calculating angles and responses.
“That’s the interesting part,” Kirill said, finally looking up from his laptop. “The access was masked. Routed through multiple proxies. But I’m ninety percent certain the original access point was from a device registered to Cassandra’s apartment.”
The office went very quiet.
“Before you say anything,” Rafael said, and there was something underneath his voice, something that sounded dangerously like disappointment, “I want to hear your thoughts, Drew. You’ve been around her more than anyone in the past few weeks. Have you noticed anything unusual?”
I had three seconds to decide what kind of man I was going to be. Three seconds to choose between loyalty to Rafael and loyalty to Cassandra. Three seconds to figure out if there was a way to protect her without burning everything down.
“No,” I said, and the lie came out smooth as oil. “Nothing unusual.”
Rafael studied me for a moment, and I felt Damir’s eyes shift toward me, analyzing. Measuring. Deciding whether I was telling the truth or whether I was the leak.
“I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on her,” Rafael said finally. “I want to know where she goes, who she talks to, what she accesses. I want to know if she’s compromised before she compromises this entire organization.”
