Chapter 18
DAMIEN
It’s late morning, the day after the party.
The city is cold and bright. I’m in my office in Midtown, seated at the head of the large granite conference room table. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so the offices are mostly empty.
Rage swirls inside me. The thought of Cassandra being shot, coming so close to… I don’t even want to think about it.
Two armed men are stationed outside the doorway of the office suite, with a handful of others scattered within, Orlov just outside Damien’s office. Bennett sits at her desk, phone in hand.
The elevator chimes. Cassandra comes in carrying two cups of coffee. Her blouse sleeve is rolled to spare the bandage. The wrap is clean and tight. A fresh red ribbon is at her other wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve. Her eyes sweep the room without making a show of it.
The shock from last night does not show in her face.
I told her she will act as my PA—that’s the cover. It’s believable, and my men are aware. It allows her to stay within reach and within my line of sight.
She sets my coffee down. No words, no fuss. Precision.
“You’ll stay with me today,” I tell her. “All day.”
She nods. Obedience with edge. She is not a doe. She is a line of steel that learned to bend.
I want her to see her sister but safety first. We go only when the route is clean and safe.
The door opens and Alex steps in. He reads the space, noting the guards. He spots Cassandra and my posture, which tells him everything he needs to know.
He drops a thin folder and a tablet onto the table.
“We pulled the overnight,” he says. “Here’s where we are.”
He wakes the tablet; a grid of camera pulls appearing on the screen. Perimeter shots. Gate shots. A smear of headlights. He swipes to the stills. The shooter car sits charred and black. The fire stripped it. VIN was shaved. Plates stolen. It’s useless now.
“The casings from East Road were cheap aftermarket barrel. No clean signature.”
Sloppy. But sloppy does not mean weak. Sloppy means fast and cocky.
“Gate logs?” I ask.
“Service gate shows a badge two minutes before the hit. Badge was cloned.”
A print job somewhere. Someone had time with the real thing.
“Traffic cams?”
“Handoff two blocks east,” Alex says. “Driver swap in the dark. They practiced it.”
He scrolls again. I study the light at the corners of the frames. The angles. The lane choices. All clearly planned out ahead of time.
Alex looks up. “They knew which window mattered. Timing was tight.”
“So they had help,” I say.
“Looks that way.”
If it points to Ivan, will Alex handle it? He says he will. But blood is still blood. I watch his face for any hesitation. There’s none.
Cassandra stands at the side console with her notebook open, tracking every sentence. She has not said a word. I notice her fingers trembling when she lifts the glass of water. I hate that tremor. It makes me wish the men who shot at us were here now, so I could strangle them with my bare hands.
“We go three lanes,” I say. “A-team pulls all lobby and service cams within a mile radius. Junk goes to the bin. Faces and plates first. Night vision passes to clean contrast.”
“Already moving,” Alex replies.
“B-team sweeps contractors and temps for seventy-two hours back,” I say. “Every off-the-books hire. Every badge printer log, including the vendors who swear they never print.”
“On it,” he says.
“C-team is legal front,” I continue. “Freeze vendor access. C reissues security protocol across the clean companies. I want it to look like compliance, not panic.”
“Copy.” I know he’s already writing the texts in his head.
His phone buzzes. “One more,” he says after checking it. “Your Red Hook warehouse got tagged at dawn. Not a burn. Bolt cutters, quick smash, a mark on a crate. Symbol we’ve seen before with Antonov fringe.”
“So the old guard gets restless when the money goes clean,” I mutter.
“Looks like a message,” he says. “Might’ve heard about the hit and wants to test the waters.”
“Go,” I tell him. “Not by phone. Walk the floor yourself. Pull the foreman’s phone. Replace the night shift with ours. No noise. Do it personally—do not delegate.”
He nods once, then picks up the tablet and leaves.
Ivan. The name comes to mind instantly the moment Alex steps out the door.
If this touches Ivan, I need Alex clean. I need him to choose me over blood. He says he will. I’ll believe him until I can’t.
I stand and close the distance by two steps. I do not crowd her. I simply want her to know that I am here. I see her stiffen and I take it in, sitting on the edge of the table and letting the silence fill the space.
I pour water into a clean glass and set it in front of her. She takes it without argument. Good. I like obedience that is about trust, not fear.
I think of Clara in the ICU, of the call she took last night alone in her room.
I heard about it later. The surgery was a success, though her heart stumbled.
Clara flatlined and came back. They are keeping her sedated while they look for the reason.
I know Cassandra wants to be there. She should be there.
“You should see your sister.”
Hope hits her face like a light before she looks down, ashamed for showing it. I hate that shame. I accept that I caused it by waiting to tell her.
“We go today. After the routes are clear. Private entrance. Two cars. Guards. Ninety minutes. You don’t move without my say-so.”
She nods too fast. I look at her. “Your safety is nonnegotiable.”
“Understood,” she says.
I hold my hand out. She takes it and stands. I check the wrap to make sure it’s snug.
I signal to Miss Bennett, and she comes in, notepad at the ready. “Can you please order some food for Miss Hewitt?” I ask.
A tray arrives five minutes later. Soup, bread, and a small bowl of berries, along with a pain pill that won’t fog her head. She tries to refuse, but I insist because I want her strong. After she eats, color comes back to her cheeks, and her hands stop shaking.
I give her a thin stack of work comprising hotel group contracts, a shipping lane brief, and a calendar with slots that need closing. “Sit in here. Shadow the calls. Learn the clean front of my business. Soon, all of it will be clean.”
She nods.
Alex texts a couple of photos to the secure display. The torched SUV. The cut gate.
“Miss Bennett,” I call out. She steps in. “I want a list of the people who knew the mirror room schedule. Staff. Security. Vendors. I want phones and movements for each.”
“Yes, sir,” she says and leaves.
Cassandra watches quietly. She takes a breath and sets her shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” I tell her.
“I’m still here,” she says.
“You are.”
I want to kiss her. I want to call her mine. I do neither. I sit back, making a choice I already know is a mistake. I place my hand on her knee, slow, visible, and slide it up the inside of her thigh beneath her skirt, a claim.
She flinches. “Don’t.” The word is quiet but firm. She takes my wrist and moves my hand away.
I lift both hands, palms open. No argument. “Because of last night or because of Raquel?”
“Both.” Her chin tips up in defiance, not obedience. “You scare me. And knowing you used to be with Raquel doesn’t help.”
Bewilderment edges me first, then amusement, because her aim is clean and she doesn’t miss. But in that moment of rejection, I realize that I want more from her than just a month-long arrangement.
“Noted,” I say.
Her shoulders drop a fraction before she says, “It messed with my head, seeing the way she was with you, the way the room watched you. I don’t want to be—”
“A target,” I finish.
“Yes.”
“You won’t be. Not for them.”
“But for you,” she says, revealing a spark of challenge, want, and a thread of fear.
“Yes,” I admit. “For me. When you say I can.”
We let that sit. She presses her fingers to the bandage, wincing, her face pale. I slide the pain pill over to her. “Take it. You need your head clear for the hospital.” She gives me a look, then swallows it with water, her mild reluctance surprisingly making my cock twitch.
I cup her face, my thumbs brushing her jaw, steadying her trembling breaths. Her eyes, wide and trusting, meet mine, and something cracks inside me, something unfamiliar and dangerous. I push it down.
“Breathe,” I murmur, my hands lingering until her pulse steadies, her body softening under my touch.
I step back, pulling my comm. “Orlov, private garage. Two SUVs. Clinic entrance cleared. ICU window three-thirty to five. Masks, gloves, alias band prepped.” She confirms moments later—route map sent, thirty minutes for prep. Done.
“You’ll be on your way soon,” I tell her, “but we still have time for one thing.”
Her brow lifts. “What’s that?”
I grin, dark and hungry. “Your punishment.”