Chapter 30
CASSANDRA
There’s nothing quite like the week before New Year’s in New York.
I’m in a long coat, a scarf I stole from the villa closet, and knee-high lace-up boots, doing the winter stomp. Alex walks with me, scanning like he’s reading code only he can see.
He decided to take a leave of absence from the NYPD after the shooting incident with the sedan. Damien gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse to work exclusively for him until this is over.
We’re on Madison, heading toward a kitchen store. Damien sent a list with instructions to “upgrade the basics,” which is so him. Understated, yet bossy.
Inside, the air is warm and smells faintly of coffee and copper polish.
Counters gleam. Every surface shines. Stand mixers sit in a row like muscle cars—cream, matte black, mint green, a ridiculous chrome you can see yourself in, and a deep ruby red that makes my heart do a stupid little dance.
I touch it. It hums back at me, at least in my mind. I’m in love.
Alex watches me tour the aisles with the face of a keen and patient cop. I test the weight of a copper skillet—heavy, balanced—the handle made to fit a human hand rather than a sculpture’s idea of one. I set it down and pick up a carbon steel pan next, light and more manageable.
“This one’s for steak,” I say. “Or eggs, if you’re brave.”
Alex nods. “Put it in the pile. Now, the fun part—knives.”
We do an efficient sweep of the knife section.
An eight-inch chef’s knife from a small Japanese maker that makes me feel like a pro just holding it, a paring knife that could easily carve the word “precision” into hardwood, a long serrated bread knife that promises to cut loaves as soft as a whisper.
I add a maple end-grain cutting board that weighs as much as a small child, two half sheet pans, a Silpat, a fish spatula, an instant-read thermometer, and two silicone spatulas that won’t melt under pressure. We find a Dutch oven in a deep, moody blue. I stroke the lid like it’s alive.
We pause at the espresso machines. Damien’s current one is impressive but a little past its prime. I point to a sleek model with clean lines.
“This one.”
At the register, a sales associate rings us up while two stock guys treat our pile like priceless antiques. Alex handles the logistics with a text; a car will swing by the loading zone. He’s good at making things appear, disappear, and reappear where they should. Useful magic.
Outside, the cold stings my cheeks like a slap. I pull my scarf up and step aside while the guys hustle the boxes to the curb. That’s when I nearly collide with Raquel.
She’s wearing a white parka with fur trim and dark sunglasses, even though the sun is just a rumor these days. For once, her voice isn’t sharp when she speaks.
“Cassandra. Are you okay?” She seems genuinely concerned.
My mind goes back to the ballroom before the shooting—her little digs, the way she looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t get out. My hand tightens around the shopping bag handle I’m holding.
“You were there,” I say. “You should know.”
Her mouth forms into a flat line, her brows knitting with concern. “I didn’t know you were shot. I was already gone by that point. I typically don’t stay for the more, ah, festive part of Damien’s Christmas party.”
Alex steps closer. “Want me to—”
Part of me does. But another part sees the actual worry in Raquel’s expression. I have to admit, I’m curious about the one-eighty.
“I’m fine. Give us a minute?”
He doesn’t love it, but he does it anyway. He takes two steps back, eyes scanning the street, the rooftops, me.
Raquel tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and tries on a softer smile. It fits weirdly, but maybe she’s practicing. “Look,” she says, “we got off to a bad start.”
“We? If I recall, you were downright mean.”
She huffs out a breath. “Fair.” Her tone drops. “I was actually scared when I heard. That kind of thing doesn’t usually touch the curated crowd. Not like that.”
“It touched,” I say.
Her lower lip trembles, but she tries to hide it. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I don’t see the point.”
“Interesting,” I say, because it is.
“Besides, if you think this is about jealously, it’s not.
I’m with Ivan now,” she declares, watching my face closely for my reaction.
“Before you say anything, no, I didn’t fall for him on purpose.
It just happened. And he’s been different lately.
He’s changed. For the better.” She shrugs. “Maybe we’re good for each other.”
I keep my face neutral. Inside, the words feel like icy water trickling down my back.
“So,” she says, gesturing between us, “there’s no reason for this.” Her hand draws a little loop in the air, the universal symbol for drama.
“No reason at all,” I reply. It lands somewhere between agreement and a question mark.
“I meant what I said,” she adds. “About the party. About being scared. Life’s too short.”
For her, that’s basically holding out a branch with an olive taped on. I nod once. “I hear you.”
Alex steps forward. “Time’s up.”
“Of course,” Raquel says, cool again, though the softness hasn’t completely snapped back into armor. “Happy New Year, Cassandra.”
“You too,” I reply coolly, then watch her glide away, the crowd parting around her.
“I need something to eat,” I tell Alex.
He doesn’t argue. We cross the street to a small café. Inside, it’s warm, the pastry case glowing like salvation. My eyes zero in on one thing.
“Pecan tart,” I say, smiling. “Please.”
Alex orders it along with ginger tea for me, coffee for him. We take a table by the window. When the tart arrives, glossy with caramel and studded with pecans, I actually sigh. I take a bite and the top cracks, the filling sweet and nutty.
“If this kid doesn’t come out screaming for pecans, I’ll be shocked,” I say before my brain catches up with my mouth.
Alex smiles. “Better than pickles and ice cream,” he says.
“Do not jinx me,” I tell him, pointing my fork like a weapon. “If I show up at your door at midnight demanding a bagel with, I don’t know, marshmallow fluff, it’s your fault.”
“I’ll keep a stock of pecans,” he says, deadpan. I laugh, some of the weight that’s been sitting on my chest since the hospital lightening up.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
I smile. I can tell he means it. “Thanks.”
He sips his coffee and watches the room the way he always does, alert and ready. A man in a dark coat pauses at the corner of the cafe, head cocked, then moves on. My radar goes up.
“We’re being watched,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes on my tea.
“Not here,” Alex says, just as quiet. “You’re safe.”
“You sure?” I ask, not arguing so much as testing.
He tilts his chin toward the street. “I’ve got two outside and one at the corner. Orlov’s across the way pretending to shop. You’re covered.”
I swallow another bite and breathe through the stupid urge to cry into a pecan tart. “Okay,” I say. “For now.”
“For now,” he echoes, and lets it sit.
We sit in comfortable silence. People come in red-cheeked and cold, smiles quickly forming in the warm atmosphere.
A baby in a puffy snow suit and matching hat gurgles so loudly the entire café turns and grins like idiots.
My hand goes to my stomach without asking permission.
Alex notices and looks away like it’s a private prayer.
“Thank you for not… stepping in,” I say after a minute.
“With Raquel?” His mouth twitches. “I had a speech ready.”
I laugh. “I’m sure you did.”
“You made the right call,” he adds. “Listening isn’t agreeing.”
“Exactly.” I take another bite, chewing slowly. “She says she’s with Ivan now. Says he’s better.”
“Hm,” he says, which is not agreement nor disbelief. More a placeholder for a file likely to be opened later.
“She acted… human,” I say. “At least for a second.”
“Everybody does when they think they might lose,” he says. There’s a history in his tone I don’t pry open.
I angle the tart plate his way. “Want a bite?”
“I’ll stick to coffee.”
Outside, a snow flurry starts and gives up, just a handful of glitter shaken out of the sky. The man in the dark coat reappears across the street, checks his phone, then turns the corner. It could be nothing. It could be everything.
“Ready to go?” Alex asks when my plate is empty and my tea is gone.
“Yeah.” I stand and gather my scarf. “Let’s take the back street.”
He nods, already changing our route in his head. He texts Orlov. We step out into the cold together, the city’s noise greeting us with horns, voices, a bus sighing at a stop. I press my fingers to the red ribbon on my wrist.
We head south, past window displays that look like dreams. Alex walks like a moving wall. I match his pace and let the day’s wins be just that—new kitchen tools that will make a home out of a fortress and an unexpected truce with Raquel.
At the corner, I glance back. No dark sedan. No man in a black coat hanging out too long in a doorway. Just the bite of winter, the two of us, and the hope of getting to tomorrow.