Chapter 6
CASSIAN
I am a ghost in my own house.
My boots sink into the plush wool runner, making almost no sound as I pause outside the heavy oak door.
In my left hand, I hold the file folder I took from Elias—the blueprints marked with red Xs. In my right, hanging loose by my thigh, is a tactical knife. I don’t intend to use it to cut skin—it’s leverage. It has to be visible.
I touch the earpiece hidden in my left canal.
“Status?” My voice is barely a vibration, but the bone-conduction mic picks it up.
“Camera shows her in the chair facing the door,” Varro’s voice crackles in my ear. “She hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. Biometrics indicate an elevated heart rate. One-ten.”
“Weapon?”
“She’s holding... something. Looks like a bottle. Maybe the soap from the bathroom.”
I almost smile. Almost.
A plastic bottle.
It’s pathetic, but it’s active. A passive victim would be curled up under the bed. A professional would be dismantling the AC vent. This girl, this “florist”, is sitting in a chair facing the entrance, waiting to take a swing at a Don.
It confirms my suspicion. Civilians hide or scream. They don’t wait.
“Kill the feed,” I command. “From here, I handle it.”
“Copy.”
I take a breath, letting the cold, analytical part of my brain take the wheel.
If she’s with Volkov, she’ll have a way to communicate. A wire taped to her chest. A micro-tracker embedded in her clothes. Or ink. The Syndicate brands their property.
I need to see her skin.
I shove the door open.
It swings inward with a soft, expensive hush.
I step inside.
The lights are bright. And there she is, sitting in the velvet armchair, rigid. She’s still wearing the clothes from the museum—black leggings and a thick charcoal cashmere sweater. Her hair is a mess of damp waves, drying into wild tangles around a face drawn and terrified.
Her blue eyes lock on mine. They’re wide with fear, but sharp with defiance.
The amber bottle of Aesop hand soap rests in her lap.
She tenses as I enter, lifting the bottle like a club.
I close the distance before she can blink.
She flinches, scrambling back into the chair. “Stay back!”
“Put it down.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You... you have to let me go.”
I reach out, my movement a blur, and wrap my hand around the bottle.
She tries to hold on. She actually tries to fight me for it. Her fingers claw at my wrist, her nails scraping against my skin. I rip it from her grip with a sharp jerk and toss it over my shoulder. It hits the carpet with a dull thud and rolls under the bed.
“Your weapon is gone,” I say. “Now sit.”
She slumps back, realizing the physical gap between us is insurmountable. I toss the file folder onto the low coffee table between us.
“Explain.”
She looks from the papers to my face, confused. “What?”
“The timing,” I say, circling the chair. “I executed a target moments before you appeared. You walked right in through the service bay without tripping the alarm.”
I stop behind the chair. I can see the tension in her neck.
“How do you have access?”
She shudders. “I... I told you. I’m a florist. I work for the venue.”
“Florists don’t work this late.”
“I made a mistake!” She spins in the chair to face me. “The lilies! I put lilies in the VIP room, and the Senator is allergic to them. I had to change them before the morning shift. If I didn’t, he would die.”
It’s a good story—detailed and verifiable.
I move around to the front of the chair again. “You walked into a kill box. You saw a body on the floor. You saw a man with a gun. And you didn’t scream.”
“I was in shock.”
“Shock makes people noisy. Training makes them quiet.”
I crouch down, eye-level with her now. “Who is your handler?”
“I don’t have a handler!”
“Are you with Volkov?”
“Who on earth is Volkov?” she screams. “I arrange flowers! I don’t know any Volkovs!”
I study her face, searching for the tell. A twitch of the eyelid. A tightening of the jaw. She seems genuinely confused. Or she’s very, very good.
“Stand,” I command.
She blinks. “What?”
“Stand. Up.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she pushes herself out of the chair. She stands before me, barefoot, hugging her arms around her waist. She barely comes up to my chin.
“Take it off,” I say.
The color drains from her face. “No,” she whispers.
“I need to check for wires,” I say. “I need to check for ink. If you’re with the Syndicate, you’re branded. If you’re a fed, you’re wired.”
“I’m not a spy!” She steps back. “And I’m not taking my clothes off!”
“You can do it,” I say, taking a step toward her. “Or I can do it.”
“Don’t touch me!” She holds her hands up. “Please. I’m telling the truth.”
I reach for her. She tries to slap my hand away, butI catch her wrist easily, pinning her arms to her sides with one hand, locking her against my body. I bring the knife up.
She freezes instantly, staring at the black blade.
“I asked you to take it off,” I whisper.
“Please,” she whimpers. “Don’t.”
I slide the tip of the knife under the collar of her sweater. The cashmere is thick. Expensive. I twist my wrist. The knit splits with a harsh tear. The blade slices through the wool effortlessly as I cut straight down. The tension in the knit releases, and the sweater falls open.
She gasps.
I pull the knife back, flipping it so the flat of the blade rests against her stomach.
Underneath, she isn’t wearing a bra.
Her skin glows and looks creamy in the harsh light. I should be looking for a wire. I should be looking for the tape of a microphone. But for a second—one dangerous, unprofessional second—I’m a man looking at a woman I’ve stripped bare. The heat of her body radiates against me.
I force my eyes up to her face. I’m here to verify, not to look.
She squeezes her eyes shut, turning her head away, a flush creeping up her neck.
“Open your eyes,” I command.
She shakes her head.
“Open them.”
She obeys, cracking them open. They’re wet and furious.
I use the knife to push the ruined sweater off her shoulders.
It drops to the floor. I scan her torso.
No wires. No tape. No tattoos. Just smooth skin.
I look for the signs of the trade. Calluses on the hands from gripping a weapon.
Bruising on the shoulder from a rifle stock.
Gun oil under the fingernails. There’s nothing.
Her hands are soft and manicured, made for arranging petals, not pulling triggers.
The disparity between her fragility and the violence of my world is a physical weight.
Wait.
I lean in closer. There, above the waistband of her leggings, on her left hip. A small, faint scar. Curved. Old.
“What’s this?” I touch the spot with my thumb.
She flinches. “I fell,” she whispers. “When I was seven, I had a bike accident.”
It looks like a bike accident, not a knife wound or a bullet hole.
I straighten up.
“Leggings.”
“No.” She shakes her head again, trying to cover her chest with her arms. “You can see. I’m not hiding anything.”
“The Syndicate brands the thighs,” I say. “Stars for the Captains. Roses for the whores. Which one are you?”
“I told you I’m a florist!” she screams.
“Then show me.”
I step back, giving her space but keeping the knife visible.
Slowly, with shaking hands, she shoves the black leggings down and steps out of them. She’s standing in nothing but white silk panties, shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. Fragile. Breakable.
I walk around her, checking the back of her legs.
Nothing. No ink. No scars. No transmitter. She’s clean.
I stop in front of her again. She refuses to look at me. She’s hugging herself tight, staring at the floor, defeated.
I look at her neck. There’s a bruise forming there. A dark purple thumbprint. My thumbprint.
I don’t usually feel guilt. But seeing that mark on her skin twists my gut.
She really is innocent. She was fixing the flowers. And I cut the clothes off her body at knifepoint.
I holster the knife and unbutton my own shirt, shrugging it off to reveal the white T-shirt beneath. I hold the black button-down out to her.
“Put it on,” I say.
She eyes the shirt, then me, but doesn’t move.
Stepping forward, I drape the shirt over her shoulders. She grabs the fabric, pulling it tight around herself like a shield. It hangs to her mid-thighs, swallowing her small frame.
She looks up at me then. Her eyes are red-rimmed, accusatory. “Are you done?” she whispers.
“For now.”
“I hate you,” she says. “I hope you die.”
“Get in line.”
I bend down and scoop up the pile of ruined clothes. I reach under the bed to retrieve the soap bottle and swipe the file folder off the coffee table. I’m not leaving potential evidence or tools in the cage with her.
“There’s water on the bar,” I say, straightening up with the bundle in my fist. “Drink it.”
I walk out and shut the door. The lock engages with a sharp click.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment. My heart is beating slower now, but heavier. I lift my hand and look at it. It’s steady. But I can still feel the warmth of her skin against my palm.
I need a drink.