But as I turned to leave, Rafael’s voice stopped me at the door.
“Cassandra.”
I looked back.
“Give Father Vincent my regards. Tell him I hope he recovers quickly.”
The words were casual. Polite. But something in his tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Like he knew more than he was saying. Like every word was a test I hadn’t realized I was taking.
“I will,” I said quietly, and walked out before he could see the fear on my face.
***
The pit in my stomach grew with every step I took away from Rafael’s office.
Flying with Drew was one thing. I could handle that. Could maintain the careful distance we’d been navigating since the morning he’d held me while I fell apart in his car. Could pretend the memory of his hands on my skin didn’t make my entire body ache with wanting more.
But he’d insisted on tagging along to see Father Vincent, and I had no intention of letting that happen—not with Vance lurking in the shadows. What if Drew decided his “deals” could wait and he needed to stay close to me for the entire trip?
How the fuck was I supposed to meet Vance with Drew watching my every move?
I’d never dared to meet Vance in Chicago. Too many eyes. Too many ears. Too many ways for someone to see us together and ask questions I couldn’t answer. Seattle was supposed to be safe. Distant enough from Bratva territory that I could move without constant surveillance. Familiar enough that I knew the terrain, knew where to hide if things went wrong.
But now Drew was coming with me, and every carefully laid plan was unraveling faster than I could adapt.
We’d already agreed he’d come to Father Vincent with me—that part was set. But I needed time away from him. Time to slip away without raising suspicion.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Vance:Seattle. Tomorrow night. But I’m not alone. Need time to lose my shadow.
His response came thirty seconds later:Figure it out. I’m not waiting anymore.
Of course, he wasn’t. Vance didn’t wait. Didn’t compromise. Didn’t give a shit about the tightrope I was walking between his demands and Rafael’s suspicions.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and tried to ignore the crushing weight of inevitability pressing down on my chest.
***
That evening, I met Drew at the private airfield just after dusk. The sky still displayed that pale orange and blue hue that appears just before sunset, and the air smelled like jet fuel and cold concrete.
Drew was already there, standing at the tarmac beside a sleek single-engine plane that looked like it belonged in a goddamn movie. He was wearing a black t-shirt and faded jeans, aviators perched on his nose, looking so effortlessly hot that it actually pissed me off.
Nobody should look that good at six in the morning. It was fucking illegal.
“You remember how to fly that thing?” I asked, nodding toward the plane as I approached with my duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses, and I caught the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “You want to walk to Seattle instead?”
“Maverick.” The word came out before I could stop it, teasing and familiar in a way that felt dangerous.
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that I felt a stupid flutter of warmth in my chest.
“Come on,” he said, taking my bag without asking and heading toward the plane. “Pre-flight check’s done. We can be wheels up in ten minutes.”
I followed him, watching the way he moved with casual confidence around the aircraft. Checking instruments. Running his hands along the wing like he was greeting an old friend. There was something about seeing him like this—in his element, doing something that clearly made him happy—that made him seem more real somehow.
Less guarded. Less calculating. Just a man who loved to fly.
We climbed into the cockpit, and I buckled myself into the co-pilot seat while Drew went through his pre-flight routine. Flipping switches. Checking gauges. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, and I found myself watching him instead of the instruments.
