Chapter 36
CASSANDRA
A few hours earlier…
Iwake in the dark, feeling like the house has pressed a hand over my mouth.
The fire in the suite is dead. The vents hum. A pipe knocks and settles. I lie very still, my heart pounding as the memories come back in a flood I can’t dam—a knife too close, gunshots, Damien’s voice, the basement, the man in the chair.
My hand goes to my stomach. Small. New. Dependent.
The thought is a flashing sign in my head—I can’t bring a child into this.
I sit up. The bandage on my forearm tugs. Outside the tall window, a slice of sky looks like the color of steel. The house is silent in that heavy way big houses are, like it’s listening to see what I’ll do next.
I have to leave.
I get dressed, hair in a low knot. I pack light and fast: phone, charger, wallet, ID, insurance card, the sample box of prenatal vitamins the nurse gave me. Clara’s tiny photo album—the one with the Santa hats and the crooked cake.
My sketchbook goes on top. I remove the red ribbon and the diamond bracelet from the night stand, wrap both in tissue, and shove them deep so I don’t have to look at them.
I pause at the door. The coat he wrapped around me the other night hangs on the chair. I don’t touch it. I can’t. If I touch it, I might lose my nerve.
Healthy baby. Living sister. Everything else is noise.
I open the suite door and step into the hall, moving quietly down the back stairs and through the mudroom.
I ease the garden door open, close it gently with both hands, and breathe in the cold. Snow crusts the edges of the flagstones, the trees like a line of dark shoulders against the sky.
The gate is high, but snow has drifted against one brick column, creating a makeshift step.
I climb where the drift gives me six stolen inches.
The metal is colder than I expect. I swing a leg, catch my boot, swear under my breath, and drop to the other side in a soft explosion of powder.
I crouch and listen for a beat. Nothing. I run.
The road outside the estate is a thin black ribbon between pines.
My breath fogs white as my boots crunch over the snow like they know where they’re going.
I don’t. I just move. At the sign for the bus stop, I stand under a dead street lamp, head down, hands in pockets.
The bus grumbles up at the edge of dawn, and I climb on, pay, then take a seat at the back, keeping my hood up. No one looks twice.
From the bus stop, I catch the first subway into Queens, then the one that will carry me to Brooklyn. The train car is filled with construction guys, suits, and ghosts like me. I keep my phone off. Every time I catch my reflection in the window, I look away.
When I close my eyes, I see the basement, the man in the chair, and Damien’s face. I press my palm to my stomach and breathe through my nose. In. Out. Counting helps.
By the time I push out of the Franklin Avenue station, the city is waking up and thawing around the edges.
Salt trucks on the road. A deli prepping.
The scent of coffee and baked goods. Murals lifting their bright chins.
Bodega neon blinking to life. I keep my head down and my pace steady, the way you do when you want to be unremarkable.
My apartment now feels like a stage set someone put in storage.
The building wears its chipped paint like a badge.
Inside, the hallway smells like dust while the radiator clicks and sputters.
Our door sticks and then gives. The apartment welcomes me with the old, thrifted couch and the plants I bullied into thriving for Clara, though they’re looking a little weepy seeing as no one has been here to care for them.
It makes me want to cry, which I refuse to do until later.
I move fast. I open the closet and grab a large duffel bag, throwing in two pairs of jeans, three sweaters, leggings, bras, underwear, socks.
A warm robe. My mother’s earrings I never wear but can’t lose.
The sewing kit I’d allowed myself to splurge on.
Bathroom essentials. I add my old sketchbook and a roll of pencils.
I stop and place my palm on the frame with the photo of Clara and me on the stoop our first summer here, cherishing it. Then I put it face-down.
My hand is on the zipper when I hear footsteps in the hall. Heavy, certain, purposeful. My heart flips. The knock that follows is the kind that demands to be answered.
I look through the peephole. Two men in dark coats. The hair at the back of my neck stands up.
Are they Damien’s? Or Ivan’s? I don’t wait to find out.
I kill the lamp, swing the duffel over my shoulder and cross the living room in three silent strides.
The fire escape window sticks, then grudgingly gives.
Cold slaps my face. I climb out, swallowing a curse when the old metal groans, and start down, past the second-floor Christmas lights and the first-floor broken wind chime.
In the alley, the snow is dirty. I press against the wall and listen.
Upstairs, I hear wood splinter. They kicked the door in. An irritated voice speaks, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. I picture them in my head moving through our little space, opening drawers. I can’t think about it. I have to go.
I stick to the shadowy side of the street, hood up, head down.
I don’t run. You don’t run unless you want to be chased.
I walk with intent. Every parked car is a trap ready to open.
Every corner is a test. I pass a church, a storefront dispensary, and a guy selling bootleg headphones.
I glance over my shoulder, counting to twenty in between checks and seeing nothing.
I turn too fast at the corner and slam into a human. Coffee splashes at my feet. A hand shoots out, steadying the cup tray.
“Careful.”
Raquel Chesterfield stands in front of me like she surfaced from a billboard, a tray of coffee balanced on one palm. It looks like she’s about to scold me when she registers my face.
Her expression flips. Concern lands where disapproval usually lives. “Cassandra?”
I step back and lean my shoulder into the brick. My duffel thumps my hip.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice steadier than my insides. “I wasn’t looking.”
“No, you weren’t,” she says, and then softer, “What’s wrong?”
I laugh because the alternative is to cry in front of Raquel, and I refuse. “You don’t have time for the list. What are you doing in Bed-Stuy?”
She shrugs. “Photo shoot, believe it or not. I know—Brooklyn, right? First time I’ve been out of the city in months.” She looks past me, then back, reading me like a book. “Are you being followed?”
The question hits too close. I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. She shifts the tray to her left hand and touches my elbow with the other.
“Inside,” she says, tipping her chin at the café door. “Come on.”
“That’s not—” Safe. I don’t finish. The wind knifes down the block as I think about the men in my apartment.
They could be Damien’s, which would be bad in a different way, or they’re not, which is probably worse.
The café is warm and has witnesses. I follow her through the door and into the smell of cinnamon and steamed milk.
The barista glances up, sees Raquel, and brightens with the particular celebrity focus small businesses are excellent at. Raquel smiles. It’s not the ice queen one. It’s tired and human and doesn’t make me hate her. It’s different.
We take a two-top by the window. Raquel sets the tray down, plucks a cup and slides it across to me. “Chamomile. It’ll calm you down. Drink.”
“You don’t have to—”
She waves a hand. “Maybe it’ll be my good deed for the year. Drink.”
The cup is hot and my hands are cold. I’m not a complete idiot. I wrap my fingers around it and let the heat climb into my bones. When the tea kisses my lip, I realize I don’t remember the last time I had anything. I take another sip. My stomach sends up a cautious thank you.
“You look like hell,” she says, and then adds, “and not in your usual way.” A small, playful, teasing smirk follows.
“I ran out of time to contour.”
She chuckles. Her eyes keep circling my face, the duffel, the window. She doesn’t ask the question directly again, which makes me like her more than I want to.
“Why are you—” I stop. Start again. “Why are you being nice to me?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Because I’m not blind, and because I know what it’s like when his world gets too close.”
My spine tightens. “Whose world exactly?”
She gives me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Don’t make me say the man’s name like we’re in a soap opera.”
I sit back. The tea tastes good. Outside, a bus whizzes past, leaving a smear of exhaust that the snow swallows whole. My breath slows. It feels like I’m on borrowed time, and I tuck into it like a warm blanket.
“I’m fine,” I say, which is a lie the size of Manhattan.
“Of course you are.” She leans forward, elbows on the table, all that perfect hair spilling over one shoulder. “Listen, I’m not going to do the girl-boss pep talk. I’m not good at it and you don’t need it. But if you want me to tell whoever is sniffing around you to go take a walk, I can do that.”
I picture Raquel out on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, telling two huge, dangerous men in dark coats to beat it. The laugh that comes out of me is ugly and relieved. “That’s a generous offer.”
“It’s an expensive offer,” she says. “My voice coach charges extra when I shout.”
The joke lands. It also makes me feel warmth in my chest because it’s normal. My life has not had normal in a minute.
The door opens and a cold draft licks the back of my neck. A couple wanders in, arguing amiably about whether nutmeg is a Christmas spice or a year-round thing.
“Why were you there?” I ask before I think better of it. “At the party.”
She tips her head. “Because he invited me.”
I angle the cup between my hands. “And… Ivan?”
Raquel purses her lips. “He’s useful company. On certain nights.”
“So bedtime stories are off the record.”
“Something like that.”
She takes a breath. “Look. We don’t have to be enemies, Cassandra. You’re not my competition.” She lifts a hand before I can fire back. “Not in that way. I’m not a fool. He made a choice. I can dislike it and still not do the cartoon-villain thing.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I don’t have the time for an archnemesis.”
That earns me a genuine smile. It makes her prettier in a way photos don’t catch.
I look out the window, because if I look at her too long, I’m going to ask her something stupid like whether she ever felt safe with him and how she did it.
The street outside is ordinary in that loud, blessed way—delivery trucks double parked, a guy jogging in shorts like it’s summer, a kid dragging a too-large sled over the sidewalk.
“You should keep your phone off,” she says casually. “I you think you’re being tracked.”
My fingers tighten around the cup. “What makes you believe I think that?”
She levels me with a look I hate because it’s accurate. “Because I have eyes.”
Silence sits with us for a beat. She takes a sip of her own drink, makes a face at the foam, then spoons it into her mouth.
“Where are you going?” she asks softly, glancing at my duffel.
I keep my tone light. “Somewhere.”
“Mm.” She taps a nail against the table. “Then sit for five more minutes and let your hands stop shaking. After that, I’ll walk you out the back and call you a car.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Don’t spread it around,” she says. “It will ruin my brand.”
I hold the cup and let the heat sink in. The baby thought flickers and settles, not exactly calming, but making me feel less alone. I glance at the window again and catch my reflection. I look pale, tired, and scared.
I’m not safe, but I’m safer than I was ten minutes ago.
Raquel nudges the tray toward me. “Eat the biscotti,” she orders. “You look like a strong wind could take you.”
“You sound like my sister. She always tries to feed me when I’m worried. Says if you’re going to be worried, might as well worry with a full stomach.”
“Sounds like your sister is smart.”
“She is,” I say, my voice softening around the words. The picture of Clara asleep in that hospital room warms me. I breathe deeply in and out.
Raquel sits across the table like a statue. Her eyes keep scanning the door, then returning to my face. I want to trust her, but I’m not sure I can.
“Thank you,” I say after a beat.
She shrugs with one shoulder and picks up her latte. “Sure. Just don’t make it weird.”
I won’t. I sip and count to twenty between glances at the street.
Five more minutes, then we move.
Raquel gives me a cat-like smile, one that means trouble. “You know, I hate to say it, but—” she leans in and lowers her voice so it doesn’t carry— “I told you so.”
I arch a brow. “Told me what exactly?”
“That the Bratva life isn’t for everyone.” She says it with a snicker that’s half smug, half pity. “It looks glamorous from the outside—money, parties, protection—but it’s all blood underneath. Most people can’t stomach it. Honestly? I don’t blame you for leaving.”
I laugh sharply. “Glad you approve.”
She waves a hand, dismissing the bite. “Don’t twist it. I’m not mocking. I’ve seen enough women try. None of them lasts. It eats them alive. You’re smart to want out.”
The words land harder than I expect. She’s too casual, too smooth, like she’s rehearsed this before. But then she leans closer, eyes softer, and it knocks me off balance.
“How about this,” she says quietly. “I’ll take you to the hospital.
You can see your sister, say what you need to say.
After that, you slip into a cab. Keep your head down.
Don’t tell the driver your real address.
Pick a random corner and walk the rest. No credit cards, cash only.
Change cabs once if you can. Keep your phone off until you’re in a safe place.
And leave the hospital through the parking garage on foot. East exit, it’s harder to track.”
I blink at her. That’s a lot of detail. “Since when are you my guardian angel?”
“Since I realized no woman has ever dared leave Damien before.” Her eyes flash, a mixture of admiration and fear.
“He doesn’t let go. And I’m scared for you.
” Her fingers drum the cardboard sleeve of her latte, stopping abruptly.
“You think I like the man? I don’t. But I know what happens when someone steps outside his circle.
I’m worried for you, Cassandra. I mean it. ”
I take a sip of my tea. “You’re worried about me?”
Her smile fades, stone serious. “Yeah. I am.”
And just like that, she’s no longer a rival. No longer the woman who draped herself over Damien’s arm and hurled insults at me.
She’s just a woman sitting across from me in a café, sliding me a lifeline I’m not sure I should take.