CASSANDRA
Late afternoon slides toward evening, Midtown quiets with a winter hush.
I’m back at the office after the hospital. It was so good to see Clara awake—color in her cheeks, the heart monitor steady. Although relieved at that, a new worry tugs.
Somebody shot at us. I could be pregnant. I can’t swallow that down with tea.
The outer offices are quiet. Most of the staff is gone for the holiday. Security chats in low voices while Bennett works the outer desk with her usual calm, eyes glancing up whenever the elevator dings. I’m in my new PA mode, shackled by the hospital visitor band on one wrist, the ribbon on the other.
The doors to Damien’s private office are closed.
I set up at the side console with my laptop. I start by writing down what I know, brainstorming the pieces like evidence.
The shooter took East Road. The SUV was found burned under the BQE. Someone swiped a cloned badge at the service gatebarely two minutes before the hit. A warehouse in Red Hook was marked with an Antonov symbol—a warning, sloppy but pointed.
The old guard clearly hates Damien’s move toward legitimacy; they’re restless, sharpening knives. Ivan and Raquel both hovered too close the night of the party, their gravity messy and suspect.
And then there’s the mirror room. That was the target, which means somebody on the inside handed them the map.
I start searching basic queries like “Antonov crew, Brooklyn docks,” “Koretsky pier incident,” “Red Hook warehouse break-in symbol,” “Bratva legit business rumors NYC,” “Ivan Durov.”
Old articles and rumor blogs pop up, probably spewing half-truths. A few mid-level arrests. But nothing much more to go on.
I flag a mention of an Antonov lieutenant who might be back from abroad, and a Koretsky cousin whose “security consulting” company has a history of sloppy audits. I also mark a badge-printing vendor name that rings a bell from a catering truck at the party.
Could be nothing. Could be a thread.
I map next, tracing East Road to the service gate to the fastest route to the BQE burn site. Whoever drove knew the angles. They were either local or briefed by a local. I write that down.
I add a section and title it FRANKLIN AVE SHADOW. I include what I remember about the sedan that tailed me near my apartment. Color. Trim. Where it idled. How it moved. The intersection where it got lost behind the delivery van.
I search “unmarked sedans Crown Heights Bed-Stuy,” “private security contractors Brooklyn unmarked cars.” A hundred boring answers. My working conclusion is that it could’ve been anyone. Cheap tail or professional hit. I cross Damien off the suspect list. He doesn’t stalk. He orders and arranges.
I make a list of who knew about the mirror room. It’s short. Damien. Alex. Mrs. Koval and Miss Bennettt, most likely. A subset of security. You don’t need target names to aim, you just need the where and when.
A sketchy forum pops up in one search result, talking about a “service gate clone” at another venue last month. There’s a link to a badge printer model and gray-market software. I hover. I do not click. I copy the model number into my notes, not willing to drag garbage into his network.
For three reckless seconds, I draft a text to Damien.
You should look at vendor X; their badge printer model matches forum chatter from last month.
I delete it. I am not going to get any deeper into this than I already am.
I open a fresh sheet and list the vendors from the party—catering, floral, the company names I remember seeing on trucks and crates. I start checking addresses. Two of them share an office park with a print shop that advertises “corporate badges” and “event credentialing.”My heart jumps as I star the tab.
The inner door clicks and I freeze like a teenager with contraband. The handle turns.
Damien steps in, his jacket off, cuffs rolled, attention sharp. The room does that thing where it resizes around him. I close the laptop halfway and try to appear nonchalant, giving him a small smile.
He stops at the edge of the console and looks at the angle of the screen, the little stack of tabs making it obvious what I was searching. One brow lifts.
“It’s being handled,” he says. “You don’t need to get involved.”
“My life was on the line the other night,” I reply, matching his calm. “I’m already involved.”
“You’re under my protection,” he reminds me.
He taps the laptop lightly, implying,And no more of this. He speaks it anyway. “This ends now.”
