Chapter 6 Cassian
CASSIAN
City sirens are already closing in by the time I holster the gun.
My people move in immediately. Declan appears from somewhere, on his phone, coordinating cleanup. Two more of my men start working the crowd to identify who saw what and who needs to be convinced that their memory is unreliable.
I scan the crowd, looking for Catherine. She was here. I saw her across the street right before Dmitri stepped into my path, standing on the sidewalk maybe fifty feet away.
I check the sidewalk where she was standing. Empty. There’s no sign of her in the dispersing crowd, no dark-haired woman in a mask trying to blend in.
“We need to move,” Declan says, gripping my arm. “Police are two minutes out.”
I let him pull me toward the car idling at the curb. We’re gone before the first patrol car arrives, leaving the scene to officers who will find very cooperative witnesses and absolutely no useful evidence.
By the time we’re back at the hotel, the cleanup is in motion.
The responding officers are the ones we have on payroll, which is great.
The security footage from surrounding buildings is being collected and destroyed.
Dmitri Petrov died in a tragic gang-related incident, and by tomorrow morning, the official story will be that it was Russian infighting over territory.
There’s no mention of me or any witness willing to testify.
I pour myself a drink.
“The footage,” I say to Declan. “I want everything from that street. Every camera, every angle.”
He looks up from his phone. “We’re already pulling it to destroy—”
“I know. But I want copies before it’s gone.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a woman there. Dark hair, mask, mid-twenties. She saw everything.”
Declan’s expression shifts. “You think she’s a problem?”
“She ran, and I want to know where she went.”
He nods and makes the call.
The footage arrives an hour later, copied to a laptop that one of my tech guys brings to the suite. I dismiss him and pull up the files myself, scanning through multiple camera angles until I find her.
There. Catherine, standing on the sidewalk across the street, frozen in place while chaos erupts around her. I can see the moment she registers what happened, the way her body goes rigid, the split second before survival instinct kicks in.
Then she runs.
But she doesn’t get far. I watch as she makes it maybe two blocks before she’s grabbed from behind. She fights. I can see her struggling, trying to break free, but they overpower her quickly and force her into a waiting black SUV. The vehicle pulls away, and she’s gone.
“Declan.”
He appears in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“I need you to trace a vehicle.” I write down the license plate number visible in one of the frames. “Black SUV, grabbed a woman off the street during the Petrov situation. Find out who owns it and where they took her.”
He studies me for a moment, and I can see him putting pieces together. “This woman. She someone to you?”
“Just find the vehicle.”
He takes the paper and leaves, and I’m left staring at the frozen frame on the laptop. Catherine’s face caught in profile as they drag her toward the SUV, her mouth open like she’s screaming.
Someone took her.
And I’m going to find out who.
Declan calls back six hours later.
“The SUV is registered to a shell company,” he says. “Took some digging, but it traces back to Vance security.”
Everything clicks into place so fast it feels like getting punched.
Vance security. The Vance family. They’re old enemies in a cold war that’s been simmering for decades. Both sides respect territorial boundaries through mutual standoff rather than active warfare.
“The Vances have a daughter,” I say slowly. “Aurelia. Early twenties. Ran away from an arranged marriage about two months ago.”
“You think that’s her?”
I think about Catherine. Two months on the run, she’d said. Running from a life she never wanted. What could be the odds?
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s her.”
“So the Vances grabbed their runaway daughter during the Petrov shooting.”
“They didn’t know she was with me. They just saw an opportunity and took it.”
Declan is quiet for a moment. “You want me to reach out? Set up a meeting?”
I should let it go. She lied about who she was, and now her family has her back. Whatever we had was built on false pretenses, and getting involved with the Vances over a woman complicates everything.
But I can’t stop seeing her face in that footage. The way she fought. The terror in her eyes when they forced her into that vehicle.
“Set up a meeting,” I say. “I want to talk to Victor Vance.”
“Cass—”
“Just do it.”
He sighs but doesn’t argue. “It’ll take a few days to arrange. The Vances don’t exactly take my calls.”
“Then find someone who does.”
Business continues while Declan works on getting me a meeting with Victor Vance.
The Petrov situation resolves itself quickly once word spreads that Dmitri is dead. His second-in-command reaches out through intermediaries, offering a truce and a return to previous territorial agreements. Smart. They know pushing further means a war they can’t win.
I accept the truce because I have bigger concerns right now.
Three days after the shooting, Declan finally gets confirmation. “Victor Vance will meet with you,” he says. “Tomorrow night. Private dining room at The Mercer.”
“He’s here in New York?”
“Flew back yesterday. Apparently, he’s been in Barbados handling family business.”
“Tell him I’ll be there.”
I spend the afternoon reviewing everything I know about Victor Vance. He took over the family operation fifteen years ago when his brother died, and runs it with ruthless efficiency that demands respect even from enemies. He’s careful, strategic, and doesn’t make emotional decisions.
The Mercer is exactly what you’d expect for this meeting. Upscale and discreet, where privacy is guaranteed. The private dining room is in the back, away from the main floor, with soundproofing that ensures whatever gets said stays between us.
Victor is already there when I arrive. He’s in his late fifties, gray hair slicked back, wearing a suit like an honest businessman. His expression is cold, assessing, and he doesn’t stand when I enter.
“Cassian Rourke,” he says. “I wondered how long it would take you to reach out.”
I take the seat across from him. “You have something that belongs to me.”
His mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Interesting choice of words. I wasn’t aware I owed you anything.”
“The woman your people took off the street last week. I want her back.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You grabbed your runaway niece during the chaos after the Petrov shooting. She’s been gone two months, and you finally found her.”
Victor’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. “And what makes you think my niece has anything to do with you?”
“Because she was meeting me when your people took her.”
Victor leans back in his chair, studying me with a focus that suggests he’s reassessing everything he thought he knew about this situation. “My niece,” he says slowly, “has been through a difficult time. She’s under family protection now—where she belongs.”
“I want to see her.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Then give me proof she’s safe.”
“I don’t owe you proof of anything.”
I lean forward, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering beneath. “You took her off the street without knowing who she was with, without knowing what agreements she might have made. That’s sloppy, Victor. Not like you.”
His jaw tightens slightly. The first crack in his composure. “My niece,” he says carefully, “doesn’t want contact with anyone from her time on the run. She’s home now. Under family care. That’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t particularly care what you believe.”
We stare at each other across the table, and I realize with sinking certainty that I’m not getting anywhere. He’s not going to confirm where she is or let me speak with her, and pushing harder right now just backs him into a corner.
“I want proof,” I say again. “Proof that she’s alive and unharmed. Then I’ll consider backing off.”
Victor pulls out his phone, scrolls through something, then turns the screen toward me.
It’s a photo of Aurelia, standing on a balcony with views of the ocean behind her. She’s wearing casual clothes, and isn’t looking at the camera, but it’s definitely her.
“Satisfied?” Victor asks.
I memorize every detail of the photo before he pulls the phone back. “Where is she?”
“Somewhere safe. That’s all you need to know.”
“I want to speak with her.”
“No.”
“Victor—”
“This conversation is over, Rourke.” He stands, buttoning his jacket with precise movements. “My niece is under family protection. She doesn’t want contact with you. If you push this further, it becomes a problem neither of us wants.”
His threat is clear. Push harder, and it’s war.
I have resources. I have people. I could probably find where he’s keeping her if I threw enough weight behind it. But starting a war with the Vances over a woman I barely know is bad business, and Victor knows it.
He’s counting on it.
“She’s not your prisoner,” I say quietly.
“She’s my family. And family takes care of their own.”
He leaves without another word, and I’m left sitting in the private dining room with the taste of failure in my mouth.
I call Declan as I’m leaving the restaurant.
“How did it go?” he asks.
“He’s not budging. She’s somewhere tropical based on the background in the photo he showed me, but he won’t say where.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Keep eyes on Vance operations,” I say. “They won’t keep her hidden forever.”
“You sure about this? The Vances aren’t going to appreciate surveillance.”
“I don’t care what they appreciate. Find her.”