Chapter 9 Cassian
CASSIAN
The man across from me is still talking when I put the gun on the table.
“Mr. Rourke, if you would just listen to reason—”
“I’m done listening.”
Marco Santini stops mid-sentence, his eyes dropping to the weapon. He’s been in this business long enough to know what it means when someone like me loses patience.
“This is unnecessary,” he says carefully. “We can work out a deal. My family has always respected your territory—”
“Your family has been moving product through my docks for three months without paying tribute. That’s not respect.”
“It was a misunderstanding—”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Marco’s hands flatten against the table, palms down. Sweat beads on his upper lip despite the cold air-conditioning. “Cassian, we can fix this—”
I pick up the gun and stand. Declan moves from his position by the door, blocking the exit.
“You’re right,” I say. “We can fix this.”
I shoot him in the knee.
The gunshot cracks through the room, and Marco goes down screaming. His chair tips backward, and he hits the floor hard, both hands clutching his leg while blood spreads across the carpet.
“That’s for the first month,” I say over the noise. “You have two more months to pay for.”
I shoot his other knee.
The second scream is worse than the first. Marco writhes on the floor, and his face has gone white except for two bright red spots high on his cheeks.
I stand over him and wait for the screaming to turn into sobbing.
“Get him out of here,” I tell Declan. “Make sure his family gets the message. Tribute is due by Friday, or I’ll finish the job.”
Declan nods and gestures to the two men outside. They drag Marco out, leaving a blood trail across the carpet.
When the door closes, Declan turns to look at me. “That was extreme,” he says.
“It was necessary.”
“You could have made the same point without putting two bullets in him.”
“Could I?”
We stare at each other. Declan has been my right-hand man for fifteen years. He’s seen me do worse. But there’s something in his face now that I haven’t seen before.
“Say what you want to say,” I tell him.
“You’ve been different these last four months. Extremely violent. Making decisions that surprise people.”
“Good. People should be surprised.”
“It’s making them nervous, Cass. Our own people are starting to wonder if you’re losing control.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what do you call shooting a man twice when a warning would have sufficed?” Declan’s voice stays level. “You’re burning bridges we spent years building.”
“For respect.”
“Respect built on fear doesn’t last.”
Declan pulls out his phone and swipes across the screen before looking up. “Our sources confirm she’s not in the country,” he says, shifting into something more professional. “We’ve checked every Vance property in the States. Nothing. No paper trail, no sightings.”
“Then she’s somewhere else.”
“Obviously. But we don’t know where. The Vances are careful, and we can’t push without starting a war.”
“So we keep watching.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Declan exhales slowly. “Cassian—”
“I’m not letting this go. She was taken off the street during the chaos I created. The Vances grabbed her without knowing who she was with, and now they’re hiding her somewhere. That’s not acceptable.”
“Why do you care so much? You spent one night with her.”
The question sits between us.
I can’t stop seeing her face in that security footage. The terror when those men grabbed her. The way she fought, even though she had no chance of winning.
“Just keep watching,” I say. “She’ll surface eventually.”
Declan looks like he wants to argue, then just nods and leaves. The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with Marco’s blood drying on the carpet.
I need to get out of New York.
The thought hits me suddenly. I need space. Distance. Somewhere I can breathe.
I grab my phone and check my calendar. The last time I visited my mother was six months ago, which means I’m overdue. I usually go every four months.
I text Declan: Taking a few days. Going to Ireland. Handle things while I’m gone.
His response comes seconds later: About time. You need it.
The flight to Shannon Airport takes seven hours.
I spend most of it reviewing business reports and financials.
Territory agreements. Shipment schedules.
A proposal about expanding into weapons trafficking.
I approve some. Reject others. Make notes.
By the time the plane lands, I’ve cleared my inbox and made a dozen decisions that will keep operations running smoothly.
I rent a car and drive south along the coast. The roads are narrow and winding, bordered by stone walls and fields so green they look unreal. The ocean stretches westward, gray and churning.
Nobody knows I come here.
Not the Italians. Not the Russians. Not even most of my own people. Declan knows because he grew up in Ballycotton too, but he would never tell anyone. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Cassian Rourke appeared in New York twenty years ago with enough money to build an empire.
They don’t know about the small fishing village on the southern coast of Ireland where I was born.
They don’t know about my mother, who still lives in the cottage my father bought before I was born.
I keep it that way, because the moment people know you have something you care about, they use it against you.
Ballycotton greets me the way it always has, with low houses pressed close together, their slate roofs darkened by damp, their whitewashed walls dulled by years of salt and rain.
Fishing boats rise and fall in the harbor, their ropes creaking softly against the pier, and the narrow cobblestone streets shine under a thin, persistent drizzle that never quite turns into rain.
The quiet settles early here, not because there’s nothing happening, but because nothing ever needs to hurry.
I dress down when I visit. Jeans and a plain long-sleeve jacket covering my tattoos.
My mother’s cottage sits on a small rise overlooking the cliffs. The garden is ridiculous. Wildflowers in every color. Roses climbing a wooden trellis. Herbs growing in neat rows. She tends it obsessively.
She’s waiting on the porch when I arrive.
Siobhan Rourke is seventy-three, barely five feet tall, with white hair in a braid and hands gnarled from decades of work. She wears a cardigan despite the mild weather.
She looks me over once and says I look worse than the last time she saw me, which is saying something.
“Hello to you too, Ma.”
She studies my face for a second longer than necessary, then draws me into a hug that smells of lavender soap and rosemary. “Inside,” she says, already turning us toward the house. “I’ve made stew.”
The cottage smells like peat smoke, cooking food, and the ocean. We eat at the small kitchen table my father built, the same one where I carved my initials when I was eight.
“How is business?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“It’s the usual, Ma. Busy. Chaotic.”
She makes a sound and sets a bowl in front of me. The stew is thick with lamb, potatoes, and carrots.
“You are different,” she says halfway through the meal.
“Declan said the same thing.”
“Then maybe you should listen.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.” She looks at me with maternal X-ray vision. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Cassian Michael Rourke.”
I sigh. “It’s nothing, Ma. Just work stress.”
“You have never let work stress affect you like this.”
She’s right.
“Something didn’t go the way I planned. That’s all.”
“And you cannot let it go.”
“No.”
She reaches across and pats my hand. “You are stubborn. Even as a baby, once you decided you wanted something, there was no changing your mind.”
“I don’t remember being a baby.”
“Of course you don’t. But I do.” She squeezes my hand. “You need to settle down. Find a good woman. Give me grandchildren before I die.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m seventy-three, Cassian. I will not be here forever.”
“You’re not dying anytime soon, Ma.”
“But I would like to see you happy before I go. With a family. Children running around.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You said that last time.” She gives me a look but lets it drop. We finish eating, and she starts clearing the dishes.
“How many?” I ask.
She pauses. “How many what?”
“Grandchildren. How many do you want?”
Surprise crosses her face. “Two would be nice. Twins, maybe. Like you and your brother.”
The room goes quiet.
My mother never talks about my twin. Not since I was a teenager and told her to stop bringing up someone I never knew. But now she’s looking at me with something sad and hopeful.
“Ma—”
“I know you do not like talking about him. But sometimes I think about what it would have been like if he had lived. If you had grown up together.”
“I had you. And Da, before he died.”
“That is not the same. A twin is different.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Do you ever think about him?” she asks.
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“How can I miss someone I never met?”
“I do not know. But I do. Every day.” The pain in her voice is raw.
“It would be nice if he were alive,” I say, because she’s waiting. “I think about that sometimes.”
It makes her smile. “You would have liked him. He looked just like you.”
“How do you know? He was two days old.”
“A mother knows.”
I stay for three more days. We fall into our usual rhythm. Breakfast together, she tends the garden while I fix things around the cottage, dinners where she asks neutral questions and I give neutral answers.
It’s peaceful here. So far removed from my real life that it feels like another world.
But eventually, I have to go back.
On my last morning, my mother walks me to the car and hugs me tightly. “Be careful,” she says.
“I’m always careful.”
“No. You are always reckless. There is a difference.”
She’s right about that too.
I drive back to Shannon with the windows down, letting the cold Irish air clear my head.
The search for Aurelia will continue. I will find her eventually.
But for now, I have to be patient.
Even if patience is killing me.