Chapter 15 Cassian
CASSIAN
Declan walks into my office without knocking.
That alone tells me something significant has happened. He knows better than to interrupt unless it’s urgent.
“We have movement,” he says, dropping a manila folder on my desk. “Vance family member just landed at JFK two hours ago. Private plane from Shannon Airport.”
Shannon.
Ireland.
My hand stills on the folder. “Who?”
“Aurelia Vance. She’s back.”
Everything stops.
I open the folder and spread the contents across my desk. Surveillance photos taken at the airport. A woman with dark hair walking through a private terminal, head down, moving quickly. The images are grainy, taken from a distance, but clear enough.
It’s her.
Six years older. Natural hair color now, no more black dye. No colored contacts hiding her eyes. Just Aurelia Vance, looking exactly like she did in the file photos I pulled years ago when I first connected Catherine to the Vance family.
The woman from the plane.
The woman who disappeared six years ago.
The woman I’ve been searching for since the moment she vanished.
“You’re sure it’s her,” I say, even though I can see it is.
“Positive. Facial recognition confirmed it. She flew in under her real name, no attempts to hide her identity. Julian Vance had a car waiting for her at the airport. She’s staying at the family estate in Manhattan.”
I pick up one of the photos and study it. She looks thinner than I remember. More guarded. There’s tension in her shoulders, wariness in the way she moves. Like someone who’s been running for a long time and isn’t sure if she’s safe yet.
“Six years,” Declan says. “She’s been gone for six years, and suddenly she comes back. Why now?”
“Victor’s dead. Julian is in charge. He’s the one who brought her home.”
“So she was hidden the whole time. Just like we thought.”
I set the photo down and lean back in my chair. “Get me everything. Where she goes, who she sees, full surveillance on her movements.”
Declan hesitates. “Cass, the Vance estate is locked down tight. Julian has security everywhere since taking over. Getting close enough for detailed surveillance is going to be difficult.”
“Then make it happen anyway.”
“It’ll take time. And resources.”
“I don’t care what it takes. I want to know everything about where she’s been and what she’s doing now.”
Declan nods and turns to leave, but I stop him.
“One more thing. Find out where she’s going to be in the next few weeks. Public appearances, family events, anything where I can get access.”
“You want to approach her.”
“I want to see her. Talk to her. Understand why she lied about who she was and where the hell she’s been for six years.”
“And if she doesn’t want to talk?”
“She doesn’t get a choice.”
Declan leaves, and I’m alone with the surveillance photos spread across my desk.
Aurelia Vance.
Catherine.
The woman I spent one night with six years ago, the woman who’s been in my head ever since, the woman who disappeared without explanation.
She’s back. And she’s going to give me answers whether she wants to or not.
Three days later, Declan returns with information.
“She’s attending a charity gala in two weeks,” he says, handing me a printed invitation. “The Vance family is one of the major sponsors. Julian will be there with his wife, and Aurelia is expected to attend as well. First major public appearance since she returned.”
I study the invitation. Black tie, exclusive venue, five-hundred-dollar-a-plate minimum donation. A gathering for New York’s elite to congratulate themselves on their generosity while drinking champagne.
“How do I get an invitation?”
“That’s the problem. It’s invite-only. The guest list is controlled by the event organizer, a woman named Margaret Kovac. She’s very particular about who gets in.”
“So buy my way in.”
“I tried. She’s not interested in money. Says the event is at capacity and she’s not adding anyone else.”
I set the invitation down. “Then we have to find another way.”
“What do you have in mind?”
I think about Margaret Kovac. The name is familiar, and it takes me a moment to place it. Then I remember. Her husband runs an import business that operates in gray areas. Not quite illegal, but not entirely legitimate either. We’ve crossed paths before.
“Set up a meeting with David Kovac,” I say. “Today, if possible.”
“You think he can get you in?”
“I think his wife will do whatever he asks if the alternative is worse.”
Declan’s expression shifts. “You’re going to threaten him.”
“I’m going to make him an offer. What he does with it is his choice.”
David Kovac agrees to meet me at a restaurant in Chinatown. It’s neutral ground, public enough that violence is unlikely but private enough for honest conversation. I arrive early and take a table in the back corner where I can see the entrance.
Kovac shows up exactly on time. Mid-fifties, well-dressed, moving with the extreme caution of a man who knows he’s walking into a situation he doesn’t fully control.
He sits down across from me without shaking hands. “Mr. Rourke. I was surprised to get your call.”
“I need a favor.”
“I don’t do favors for people in your line of work.”
“You do now.”
Kovac’s jaw tightens. “What do you want?”
I slide the charity gala invitation across the table. “Your wife is organizing this event. I need to be on the guest list.”
He glances at the invitation and shakes his head. “Margaret has already closed the list. She’s not adding anyone.”
“Then convince her to make an exception.”
“And why would I do that?”
I lean forward slightly. “Because your import business operates in territories I control. The docks where your shipments come through, the warehouses where you store goods before distribution, and the contacts who help you move product without attracting too much attention from customs. All of that exists because I allow it to exist.”
Kovac’s face goes pale. “You’re threatening me.”
“I’m explaining reality. You have a business that relies on my goodwill. I’m asking for something small in return. An invitation to a charity event. That’s all.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then your next shipment gets held up at the docks indefinitely. Customs might get an anonymous tip about irregularities in your paperwork. Your warehouses might experience unexpected delays. Small problems at first, but they’ll add up. Eventually, your business stops being profitable.”
Kovac stares at me with undisguised hatred, but I can see him weighing his options and realizing he doesn’t have any good ones.
“One invitation,” he says finally. “That’s all you get.”
“That’s all I need.”
“And after that, we’re done. No more favors, no more meetings. You stay away from my business and my family.”
“Agreed.”
He stands up, and I can see his hands shaking slightly with suppressed anger. “You’re a bastard, Rourke.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
He leaves without another word, and I sit there alone with my coffee and the knowledge that I just burned a business relationship for a chance to see Aurelia.
Worth it.
Two days later, an invitation arrives at my office. Embossed card stock, my name printed in elegant script, confirming my attendance at the charity gala.
I hold it up to the light and smile.
The two weeks pass slowly.
I handle business, manage operations, and deal with the endless logistics of running an organization that spans multiple cities. But underneath all of it is the constant awareness that Aurelia is back, that she’s in the same city I am, that soon I’m going to see her again.
My people report limited information. She’s staying at the Vance estate, where security is tight. Julian has her locked down, whether for protection or control, we can’t tell. She’s been seen a few times in public, always with security. No detailed surveillance or clear patterns. Just glimpses.
It’s frustrating, but it doesn’t matter. Soon, I’ll have all the access I need.