I closed my eyes and remembered sitting across from him in that cramped office at the orphanage, surrounded by boxes of donation records and old photographs.
“I need to know,” I’d said. “Everything. How I got here. Who brought me. Why.”
Father Vincent had looked older than I remembered, his face lined with years of carrying other people’s secrets. He’d sighed, pulled out a file, and slid it across the desk.
“A Russian man brought you,” he’d said. “January 1997. You were five years old. He said he’d found you alone on a snowy road, no parents, no explanation. Just you in a red coat, clinging to a stuffed bear.”
I’d stared at the file, hands shaking. “What else?”
“You kept saying you were waiting for your daddy to come back. That his name was David. You couldn’t remember anything else—not your last name, not where you lived, nothing. Just your name and his.”
David. My father. The man I’d spent sixteen years trying to remember, trying to piece together from fragments and dreams and the ghost of a feeling I couldn’t quite name.
“The Bratva,” I’d whispered. “They funded the orphanage.”
Father Vincent had nodded slowly. “Monthly donations. Enough to keep us running, keep the lights on, keep children like you fed and clothed. They never said why. Never asked for anything in return. Just…paid.”
I’d felt something crack inside me then. Because it made sense in the worst possible way. The Bratva had been funding my childhood. Disguising their involvement quietly, strategically, making sure I survived while burying whatever truth had put me on that snowy road in the first place.
They’d killed my father. I was sure of it now. Killed him and left me behind, then paid for my silence without me even knowing I had something to be silent about.
The coffee had gone cold in my hands. I set it down, pressed my palms against my eyes, and tried not to cry.
Then I thought about the other meeting. The one that made my skin crawl even in memory.
Vance.
We’d met at a different club, one far enough from the orphanage that no one would connect the dots. He’d been waiting in a private booth, drink already in hand, that predatory smile on his face that made me want to run.
“Why the fuck is the Bratva still standing?” he’d asked before I’d even sat down.
“I’m doing everything I can,” I’d said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Setting traps, delaying shipments, poking holes in their logistics. It takes time.”
“Time.” He’d laughed, cold and sharp. “I’ve given you two years, Cassandra. Two years of intel, two years of protection, two years of watching you play double agent. And what do I have to show for it?”
“Dead weight,” I’d snapped. “Beaumont’s organization collapsed. Joaquin’s networks are in shambles. The Bratva’s lost millions in deals that mysteriously fell through. What more do you want?”
“I want the Kamarovs.” He’d leaned forward, eyes glinting with something dark and hungry. “I want Rafael brought to his knees. I want their empire burned to the ground.That’swhat I want.”
My hands had clenched under the table. “I’ve already buried myself neck-deep. I’ve risked everything—my life, my sanity. I wake up every morning terrified that Rafael will put a bullet in my head. What more do you expect from me?”
“More.” His voice had dropped to something dangerous. “Always more. Because that’s what you owe, sweetheart. For what they did to your father. For what they took from you.”
I’d wanted to scream at him then. Wanted to tell him that I didn’t even remember my father, that I was avenging a ghost, that every day I spent lying to Rafael felt like carving pieces out of my own soul.
But I’d just nodded. Swallowed the rage and the guilt and the fear. “I’ll get you what you need.”
“Good girl.” He’d finished his drink. “And Cassandra? Don’t forget—you’re only useful to me as long as you’re producing results. The moment you stop….” He’d trailed off, let the threat hang in the air like smoke.
I’d left that meeting feeling dirty. Used. Like I’d sold my soul for a revenge I wasn’t even sure I wanted anymore.
A key turned in the lock, jolting me back to the present.
Drew walked in, carrying bags of what smelled like takeout. When he saw me sitting at the table, something in his expression softened.
“You’re up,” he said.
“Yeah.”
