Chapter Eleven – Cassian
Two days.
It’s been two days since her lips touched mine like they’d always belonged there. Since her breath hitched in my mouth and her tears soaked my skin, I couldn't tell if she was crying for herself or for the woman who used to wear her face in memory.
The car hums around me—the windows are tinted dark enough to swallow the sun. The seats smell like leather and steel polish. My gloves are on. Smooth black leather. My fingers twitch beneath them, restless.
I’m dressed for war.
A tailored black suit. Vest beneath. Matte buttons. Subtle lines. There’s no tie. No flash. Just precision.
Lorenzo sits beside me, dressed to match—clean-shaven, watch gleaming, hair slicked back. He’s flipping through a folded file, thick fingers rifling the pages like he already hates everything written on them.
“The meet’s confirmed for tonight,” he mutters, glancing up. “Old water tunnel under South Wharf. Sealed entrance. One way in. One way out.”
I say nothing.
His voice sharpens. “That means it’s a trap if someone wants it to be.”
I nod once.
“Bulletproof vest rated for rifle fire,” he adds, tapping his own chest. “Yours is newer than mine. I checked it twice.”
I flex my shoulders. The vest presses tight against my ribs.
He looks at me sidelong. “You know you don’t have to go. You could send a proxy. Hell, I could go in your place.”
Lorenzo sighs and tosses the file onto the seat between us.
“They’re gathering to divide Oreste’s share,” he says. “Ports. Customs. Waterway access. Which means every bloodthirsty bastard who ever wanted a piece of Melbourne is crawling out from whatever hole they were born in.”
He shifts, watches me carefully. “Some of them were loyal to Fontanesi. Some hated him. You know what that makes tonight.”
A pause.
“A powder keg.”
My jaw tightens.
The glove on my right hand creaks softly as I flex my fingers.
“I mean it,” he mutters, voice lower. “You don’t have to go. Uncle wouldn’t want you walking into a slaughter.”
My thoughts are far away. On the one who kissed me like she remembered a hundred lifetimes. Like she knew who I was before either of us had the language to say it.
Giovanna used to kiss me like that, too.
For a moment, I can still feel Elaria’s fingers curled at the back of my neck. Her breath, hot against my jaw. Her voice cracked and trembling, saying You made her so happy.
The phantom of her moan echoes behind my eyes.
And for a second—just a second—I hate myself for needing both their ghosts to feel whole.
“Cassian,” Lorenzo’s voice cuts through, firmer.
I turn to him. He goes still.
Something in my eyes makes his breath falter. He nods once.
He understands.
He reaches under his seat, pulls out a sleek black handgun. Holds it out across the space between us.
I take it.
He starts the engine. The car purrs and begins to move.
The approach to the tunnel is lined with checkpoints. Armed men with scanners, dogs, and metal detectors. Retinal scans. Passcodes whispered between men who haven’t trusted their own brothers in years.
Lorenzo drives past the first barricade, window cracked just enough for identification. A young enforcer leans in, studies our faces. He steps back quickly when he sees mine.
The gates open.
Further down, a second checkpoint—two guards in Kevlar, a scanning wand, a mirror beneath the car. Another pause. Another nod. We pass.
The mouth of the tunnel yawns before us, carved deep into the bones of South Wharf, hidden beneath decades of history and rot. It was once a drainage system. Now it’s an empire’s spine.
Lorenzo parks. We exit the car. His hand checks the back of his jacket once, subtly. So does mine.
Light buzzes overhead—dim, flickering fluorescents mounted to old stone. Voices echo down the corridor—some familiar, most not.
I walk forward.
Every step is measured. Intentional.
Then—
A voice stops me cold.
“Well, well. Custode delle Ossa the second.”
I turn.
Fausto Inzerillo.
Hair thinner, white at the temples. His suit is a size too large for his withering frame, but his presence hasn’t dulled. His smile is the same—tight, sharp, like the edge of a poisoned blade.
He steps forward, hands spread as if greeting an old friend.
“My word. You’re a man now,” he says, eyes raking over me as though assessing inventory. “Last time I saw you, you were still hiding behind Dante’s coat tails.”
He chuckles, then pauses—just enough to let the room hold its breath.
“I hear my niece has gone missing.”
He says it casually, like commenting on the weather.
His eyes narrow, mouth twisting slightly. “Now, I know you’re far too smart to play this game this messily, so this is a silly question—but I’ll ask anyway. Is she with you?”
Lorenzo is at my side before I can blink.
“She is not,” he answers.
Fausto’s smile widens, dripping with false warmth.
“Of course. How silly of me to ask,” he says, hands clasping behind his back. “I see you’re still not speaking. The death of my other niece must’ve done a big one on you.”
My jaw flexes. Our eyes lock.
I spent years combing over Giovanna’s death—bloodless paper trails, broken leads, a silent war disguised as coincidence. They said it was a random attack. A mugging. An act of retaliation from some half-forgotten grudge.
But I know better.
I stare through him, every muscle coiled beneath the pain of restraint. And then I walk past him.
But the old man doesn’t stop.
His voice follows. “When we find her, our Elaria” he says, loud enough for those near to hear, “I’ll marry her off to the Valosis.”
I stop, only for a fraction of a second.
“She’s shrouded in her father’s disgrace, true,” he continues. “But she’s still a Fontanesi. And her marriage can yield me honest alliances.”
I move forward.
But inside—everything sharpens.
He thinks she’s currency. Another bond to trade.
My father didn’t partner with Oreste out of sentiment. Or legacy. Or out of some attempt to preserve old bloodlines.
It was a strategy.
The Fontanesi estate wasn’t powerful because of its muscle. It didn’t rule with guns or brute force.
It ruled through connection.
Politicians. Judges. Trade routes buried beneath registered names. The estate stretched like veins beneath the skin of Melbourne—old, quiet, and vital.
And now?
That blood runs through Elaria.
****
The meeting chamber is a long corridor of stone and steel, with folding chairs set in a semi-circle around a raised platform. Concrete walls echo with half-muttered curses and clipped laughter. Everyone is dressed like a wolf in silk.
Old dons with yellowed rings. Young heirs with sharper knives than sense. Men who’ve lost brothers to vendettas they still toast in public.
The meeting opens with a man from the Cirelli family slamming his hand against the steel table.
“Oreste was a fool,” he barks. “A sentimental bastard who let his greed cloud his judgment.”
Another man chimes in—Carlucci, from the west.
“Greed?” he scoffs. “Oreste was clean. Too clean. That was the problem. You can’t run ports like a parish.”
Snarls of agreement.
Others jeer.
Then more voices pile in—some demanding to claim his routes, some proposing joint shares. Accusations fly. Old insults surface. Two men nearly come to blows before others pull them apart.
And then—
“Enough,” a voice booms.
Fausto Inzerillo rises, smooth as smoke.
“The old man is dead. His legacy died with him. The only thing left to discuss is inheritance.”
Someone calls out, “So who inherits?”
Fausto clasps his hands behind his back, face the perfect mask of solemnity.
“The heiress is dead,” he says. “And the other—missing. Likely dead.”
A wave of silence follows.
Then—
Chaos.
Voices erupt. Some shout, others argue over succession rights. A man from the Giuliani family demands a full vote. Another threatens to take the docks by force.
I don’t move.
But my eyes find Fausto’s.
He’s looking directly at me.
And he’s smiling.
The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The kind that lingers too long.
It clicks.
Someone betrayed Oreste.
Someone inside.
Someone who knew when to pull away.
Fausto?
It would make sense at least in theory. He cleaned his hands just in time, and stopped transacting with my family years ago. He cleared his name, left Oreste exposed, and he’s circling what’s left like a vulture picking through a fresh kill.
Lorenzo shifts beside me, sensing it.
A figure slips between the men, silent and sharp.
Allegra.
She comes up beside us, her mouth close to my ear.
“We need to go.”
My eyes narrow.
“This is going sideways. You want to stay alive, we move now.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Then—
Crack.
A gunshot slices the tension.
Screams follow. Chairs fall.
And in an instant—
The wolves turn on each other.
Weapons draw. Men lunge.
I grab Lorenzo by the collar and drag him down behind a column.
Allegra is already moving, pistol in hand, eyes cold.
My fingers close around the grip of my gun.
The meeting’s over.
The second bullet hits the pillar behind us, stone shards spitting into my shoulder like teeth. The chamber is alive with gunfire and shouting, steel chairs crashing, bodies scrambling for cover. Lorenzo’s behind the far column, gun drawn. Allegra’s crouched low, calculating angles, her mouth tight with focus.
Then—
A whisper of movement behind me.
The man slams into me from behind, an arm around my throat, driving me forward. My back crashes into a table. My breath punches out of my lungs.
He’s younger. Strong. Desperate.
A knife flashes in his hand—short, jagged, not clean.
He goes for my ribs.
I twist.
The blade misses my vest by inches and cuts into my side. Pain flares. I don’t flinch.
My elbow drives back into his jaw—once. Bone cracks. He stumbles.
I spin and grab him by the throat, slamming him into the edge of the metal table. His head hits with a sickening clang. He groans—tries to crawl away.
I drag him back. Fist to his face. Again. Again.
Blood splatters.
He reaches for the knife again. My boot crushes his wrist. Bone gives with a wet snap. His eyes are wide—pleading. He tries to speak.
I take the knife from the floor.
And drive it through his collarbone. He screams.
I twist. His blood coats my gloves.
Another one’s already moving.
He charges, wild-eyed, swinging a crowbar. I sidestep—barely a motion—grab his wrist mid-swing and twist. He drops the weapon with a cry, but I don't let go. My fist crashes into his temple. His body folds sideways.
Before he hits the ground, my knee drives into his chest. The sound is soft, sickening—like something collapsing inward. He wheezes, mouth open, eyes wide. I shove him backward, and he hits the ground, unmoving.
Gunfire cracks again.
Lorenzo shoots two to our left. Someone comes to Allegra—he never gets the chance to scream.
Another figure rises from behind a fallen chair, swinging a blade in a backhanded arc toward me.
I catch his arm mid-swing, grip like iron.
My forehead slams into his nose. It caves. Blood bursts.
He stumbles. I ram him into the wall. His blood smears the concrete.
He slumps, legs giving.
A shout behind me.
I pivot. A man with a pistol. Shaky. Hesitating.
His hands tremble. I grab the chair leg off the floor, hurl it into his gut before he fires. He doubles over.
I reach him in three steps.
My elbow crushes his jaw. He spins—my hand grabs the back of his collar and yanks him down onto my knee.
His skull connects. He doesn’t get up.
There’s another scream—closer.
A bigger man this time. He swings with a pipe, fury in his face. I take the hit across my shoulder. Pain flares white. I don’t stop.
I tackle him, drive him to the floor. The pipe clatters.
I mount him, fists raining down. His teeth scatter across the stone. His face becomes pulp.
His fingers twitch. I reach for the pipe.
And end it.
I stand in the center, blood dripping from my gloves, breath steady.
Five bodies surround me.
Behind me, Lorenzo wipes his blade with practiced calm. Allegra holsters her weapon, jaw tight, eyes locked on me.
Around us weapons are lowered and they step back muttering.
Lorenzo scoffs as I turn towards the exit. Allegra follows us.
Our footsteps echo down the tunnel, boots sticking slightly with each step on the blood-slicked floor.
****
The car smells of sweat, gunpowder, and blood.
The leather sticks to my back. Lorenzo’s breathing is shallow beside me, one hand gripping the wheel, knuckles white. Allegra sits behind him, legs crossed, a fresh gash across her shoulder bleeding into her coat.
The engine hums like it’s trying not to remember what just happened.
My right hand lifts and I sign to her.
Who. Reported. Oreste?
Two fingers. Twist. Point to her.
Allegra exhales hard through her nose. “Anonymous drop,” she says, eyes fixed out the window. “Dead drop account. VPN masked. No name. No pattern.”
I lift two fingers, then tap them to my chest, then draw an arc through the air.
Fausto.
She glances at me in the rearview. “You think?”
I nod once.
She tilts her head, not denying it. Then she shrugs. “Could be. But it’s no use stirring the water now.”
I hold her eyes.
She looks away first.
“I’ve got contacts working on new ID papers,” she says after a beat. “Clean background. New location. New name. In a week, she’ll be out of your hair.”
My teeth clench.
She opens the door before I can respond. Blood stains the door handle. She steps out, then bends to look back in.
“It’s for the best,” she mutters. Then she’s gone, heels clicking off into the dark.
Lorenzo doesn’t move.
The car is quiet again.
He pulls out. “You know,” he says, voice low, “she’s right.”
I don’t answer.
“She’ll be safer. Out of this. Away from this.”
I still say nothing.
The tires hum against the road. The city bleeds past in a blur of lights and shadow.
The gates groan open.
The car pulls into the circular drive, engine cutting. The night is still.
She’s waiting in the house.
Elaria stands barefoot on the top step. Hair loose, curled slightly from the sea air. She’s wearing a soft grey sweater that hangs off one shoulder, the sleeves covering her hands. My boots land on the stone with a wet scrape. Blood spatters my cuff. My vest clings to me with sweat.
The porch light halos her from behind. Her arms hang loose, her back straightening as I approach.
Lorenzo climbs out beside me, grimacing. He follows my gaze.
Then he sighs when he sees her.
“Right,” he mutters, already heading toward the house. “I’ll deal with the car tomorrow.”
The door closes behind Lorenzo with a muted thud. Her eyes are on me the whole time.
She walks down the steps, her sweater shifting with each move, bare feet soft against cold stone.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, voice low, thick with something that clings like steam in winter air. “She can’t sleep when you’re not back. I kept having flashes.”
Her hand lifts—gentle fingers brushing the inside of her wrist, like the memory still lingers there. She steps closer. Close enough that I feel her breath.
She smells like skin-warm linen and something sweet—fig and milk and the faint trace of lemon from the soap she favors. I breathe her in, and my shoulders fall, tension draining from me one inch at a time.
My eyes close. When they open again, hers are watching me, soft and unblinking.
Her fingers slide into mine.
And I follow her.
She leads me through the house without a word, steps silent against the marble floors. We move past candlelight and long shadows, through the far corridor of my wing, past doors she was never meant to open.
But she opens mine.
The bathing chamber glows in golden warmth.
Steam curls against stone walls. The scent of eucalyptus drifts in soft waves. A tub, carved deep into dark polished marble, sits waiting. Water still steaming.
Her hands reach for the buttons of my suit. Blood has crusted along the seams. My gloves are stiff. She peels them away, fingers brushing over my knuckles.
She doesn’t look away as she works.
Not when she strips the jacket.
Not when the vest drops with a dull thump.
Not even when the last barrier falls and I’m laid bare before her.
Her eyes travel my body with quiet reverence, pausing on the bruises blooming across my ribs, the faint scar across my hip from a fight she never saw.
She takes my hands again—smaller in mine, cooler. She leads me forward and I step down into the warmth. The water envelopes me, the heat biting into blood-stained skin, peeling away grime and violence.
I sink until my shoulders are submerged, arms resting against the black stone edge. Eyes closed.
She kneels beside the tub as the water stains red around me. A thin pink cloud forms, then fades. Her hand dips into the water, brushes across my chest before she reaches for the drain. The water gurgles as it empties.
She doesn’t leave.
She fills it again.
Warmer this time.
She watches me, head tilted slightly, her eyes not searching—just seeing. A quiet calm surrounds her, but I can feel the pressure behind it. The way her fingers curl slightly, the way her breath shivers through her nose.
Then she stands.
Reaches for something behind her.
Shampoo.
She steps close. I don’t move.
Her hand touches the back of my neck first. She tips my head gently, the way you’d guide a sleeping child.
Warmth runs over my scalp, followed by her fingers.
They move with practiced grace, massaging circles. I forget how to breathe.
Her body leans in, pressing lightly to my back, her breath brushing my temple.
Then—softly, a whisper into my ear:
“Do you like it?”
Her voice is Elaria’s.
But the cadence—the echo—it’s hers.
Giovanna.
My chest tightens. My stomach knots.
Then her teeth graze the shell of my ear—just a bite, light but electric.
Water ripples around me.
I clench the edge of the tub, knuckles pale.
This is wrong. This is right.
I see Elaria when I open my eyes, but beneath my skin—my body remembers her. The way she used to hum under her breath when she washed my hair. The way she kissed the back of my neck after every war I returned from.
I grip the marble harder. But her hands are already slipping down, soap lather trailing.
I should stop her.
Her lips hover, warm against my skin, breath ghosting the side of my neck.
“Do you want me?” she whispers.
My grip on the tub slips for a fraction of a second.
There’s no room for lies. Not with her hand drifting down the side of my throat. Not with my body already answering, stiff and swollen beneath the water, the ache pressing hard against the inside of my thigh.
I nod.
Her fingers curl under my chin, guiding my face to hers.
My gaze follows her as she steps in front of me.
Her fingers slip beneath the hem of her sweater. She pulls it up, the fabric peeling away from her skin, revealing inches at a time—the soft slope of her waist, the curve of her ribs, the line of her navel.
The sweater falls behind her in a whisper.
She stands in nothing.
Her birthmark—faint, crescent-shaped—rests at the base of her neck. My eyes linger there.
Then lower.
Her breasts rise with each breath, soft and flushed. My gaze travels down—hips gentle and curved, thighs tense, a shadow between them that pulls at something primal in my gut.
She steps forward each movement unhurried, unafraid.
I drink in every inch.
The scar on her wrist.
The soft indentation at her waist.
The perfect swell of her ass as she turns, just enough to watch my reaction. Her foot slides into the water. Then the other. She descends into the bath with grace, the water rising around her, cupping her like a second skin.
Her thigh brushes mine under the water. I feel her watching me.
Her gaze drags over the lines of my chest, down the curve of my collarbone, the scab healing near my rib. Her hand lifts—hesitates—then trails through the water, settling just above my knee.
My cock stirs beneath the surface.
She sees it.
My hands remain at the tub’s edge, digging into my palms. I don’t reach for her. But I burn. She’s so close.
So quiet.
The steam blurs the walls around us.
And still, I wait.