Chapter 28
Time doesn't pass in a straight line when you're waiting for a bullet. It bends, stretches, and stops.
It had been six hours since Cassian left. Six hours in which the apartment had gone from fortress to sarcophagus.
I'd already walked the perimeter of the living room forty times.
Already checked the manual lock on the door ten times.
Already drank three bottles of water, but my mouth stayed dry, tasting of ash and metal.
Cassian's Sig Sauer was heavy in my cardigan pocket.
Its weight bumped against my hip with each step, a constant reminder that normalcy had been revoked.
I tried to draw. Went to my “chaotic” corner, picked up the charcoal and paper. But my hand trembled. The lines came out erratic, aggressive. Instead of faces or landscapes, I drew bars. Crossed black lines.
“Focus, Solaia,” I murmured to myself, dropping the charcoal. “He knows what he's doing. He's the Ice. He'll find the rat and be back for dinner.”
But doubt is a silent worm. Cassian was brilliant.
Tactical. Lethal. But he had a blind spot, one he himself admitted last night: loyalty.
He expected betrayal from enemies, but struggled to accept it from those who ate at his table.
He suspected the Capos—Moretti, Rossi—because they were political rivals.
But what if the rat wasn't a rival? What if it was someone who didn't want the throne, just the money?
I stood up and walked to the hallway. Stopped in front of the office door. Rule number two: Privacy. My office is off-limits.
I looked at the oak door. Cassian wasn't here. His rules, though they echoed in my head, seemed irrelevant against the knot in my stomach. I turned the handle. Locked. Of course.
But I remembered something. On the night of the zipper, when he was distracted by my skin and the scent of vanilla, I saw him type the code on the numeric keypad beside the door. He didn't cover the panel. He trusted that I wasn't looking, or that I wouldn't care. 10-21-88. My birthday.
A shiver ran down my spine. He used my birthday as a password. I typed the numbers. Beep-beep. Click. The light turned green.
I stepped inside. The office was cold, smelling of him. Paper, cold coffee, and sandalwood. The blinds were closed, leaving the room in shadow. The three monitors were in standby mode, displaying the Varro Holdings logo.
I sat in his chair. It was too big for me. The leather still held the shape of his body. I touched the mouse. The screens came to life, demanding biometric or alphanumeric access. I didn't have his finger. And I didn't know the system password.
But there was a secondary tablet on the desk. An iPad Pro he used to control the home automation and security cameras. I picked up the device. Swiped my finger. No password. He assumed no one would get past the office's armored door.
The screen showed the live camera feed. Camera 01: Elevator hall (Empty). Camera 02: Building lobby (Doormen, delivery people). Camera 03: Garage entrance. Camera 04: External perimeter.
I watched the grainy black-and-white images. Everything seemed calm. I tapped the “History” icon. I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe nothing. Maybe I just needed to see that the world outside kept turning.
I scrolled through the event log. 06:00 - Authorized Exit: Vehicle 1 (Cassian). 06:05 - Lockdown Protocol Activated.
I kept scrolling back. Last night. The day of the warehouse attack. Everything seemed normal.
But then, something caught my attention. An audio file archived in the “Internal Security” folder. It was a recording from the parking garage guardhouse, dated two days ago. The night I escaped to see Chloe. The night of the gray sedan.
I hit play. The image was static—just the audio from the security team's radio. I heard Cassian's voice, distorted by static, shouting orders to the driver when he rescued me. But before that... five minutes before.
There was an exchange of messages between central and the street team.
“Target in motion. Heading to Oak Street.” It was the voice of one of the observers.
“Copy. Maintain distance.” Franco's voice.
Calm. Professional. “Unidentified vehicle approaching target. Gray sedan. Plate covered.” There was a pause.
“Franco? The sedan is accelerating. Intercept?” Silence for ten seconds.
Ten crucial seconds. “Stand by,” said Franco's voice. “Let me confirm visual.”
Hold for visual confirmation. He told them to wait. While the sedan sped up to snatch me, the head of my security, the man my father trained, told the team to wait.
The tablet slipped from my fingers and hit the desk with a thud. My blood ran cold. Cassian arrived in time because he was personally monitoring my GPS. He ran the red light. But the security team? Franco's team? They were a block away, stopped, waiting for an order that never came.
“It can't be,” I whispered. “Franco is loyal. He carried my father's coffin.”
I went back to the live feed. Camera 01.
The private elevator hall, just outside my door.
It was empty. But then the elevator opened.
Franco stepped out. He wasn't alone. Two men were with him.
Big men in generic tactical uniforms, no Varro Holdings crest. They carried black backpacks, and in their hands, compact rifles held at the ready. They were ready.
Franco walked to my penthouse door. He looked up at the camera on the ceiling. And smiled. Not the respectful smile of an employee. A cold, predatory smile. He raised his hand and touched his earpiece.
Slowly, I watched the little red light on the camera blink. Signal Lost. The tablet screen went black—Camera 01 was gone. He'd cut the feed.
Panic exploded in my chest like a grenade. They weren't here to reinforce security. They were here to clean out the apartment.
I dropped the tablet and grabbed my phone. My fingers were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I dialed Cassian's number. Calling... Calling...
“Come on, Cassian, pick up!” I begged, pacing back and forth in the dark office.
“You've reached the voicemail of...”
I hung up and called again. Voicemail. His phone was on silent. He was out hunting, not knowing the real hunt was happening in his own home.
I tried the Family emergency number. The central office answered. “Security Central, identify yourself.” “This is Solaia Varro. Code Red at the penthouse. Franco is—” “One moment, Mrs. Varro. I'll transfer you to the Chief of Security.”
The line went silent. They were going to transfer me to Franco. The entire network was compromised. Or at least the part that controlled the building.
I hung up. Threw the phone on the couch. It was useless now. It could be tracked.
BEEP.
The sound came from the living room. The intercom. I ran out of the office, stopping in the middle of the hallway. My hand went to my cardigan pocket, closing around the Sig Sauer. I flicked off the safety, just like Cassian taught me. The metal felt like ice burning my skin.
The intercom rang again. I walked slowly to the panel on the living room wall and pressed the audio button.
“Yes?” My voice came out shaky, but I tried to steady it.
“Signora Varro.” Franco's voice was smooth, calm. The same voice that had wished me good morning for years. “We have a situation. Mr. Varro made contact. The penthouse location has been compromised.”
A lie. Cassian would never send a message. He'd have a code. A security phrase we'd agreed on the night of the nightmare. “Lilies,” or “Marble.” Something. He wouldn't send Franco.
“Where's Cassian?” I asked.
“He's on his way to a secure location. He asked us to extract you immediately. We have a helicopter waiting on the rooftop of the neighboring building. Please unlock the manual lock.”
“Have him call me, Franco.”
“He can't, ma'am. Radio silence. The Kovacs are monitoring the frequencies. We need to move. Open the door.”
I looked at the armored door. The three automatic locks. The manual lock. They had the biometric code. Franco had system access. The only thing between me and them was the mechanical lock I'd turned this morning.
“I'm not opening it without talking to him.”
Silence on the other side. Then a heavy sigh. “Solaia... don't make this difficult. I don't want to have to blow the lock. It'll ruin the finish.”
The mask had fallen. He didn't call me Signora. No more pretense of protocol. “Don't make this difficult.”
I backed away, gun raised with both hands, pointing at the door. My breathing was shallow. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I was alone. Cassian was far away, chasing shadows, while the real monster stood at my front door with a crowbar or C4.
“Go to hell, Franco,” I shouted.
“A pity,” he replied.
I heard a sound. Not at the main door. An electronic hum coming from the kitchen. The service elevator. The one I'd used to bring up the pink sofa. Franco had the master keys. He was distracting me at the front door while his men came up the back way.
I spun toward the kitchen. The service elevator doors opened.
Two men in black emerged. Gas masks. Rifles. They saw me. I saw the black barrels of their weapons.
I didn't think. Didn't hesitate. I squeezed the trigger of the Sig Sauer.
BANG.
The shot hit the elevator doorframe, tearing off shards of metal and concrete. The men ducked, surprised. They hadn't expected the “princess” to be armed. They'd expected a girl crying under the bed.
“Back off!” I shouted, firing again. BANG.
But I knew the truth. It was two against one. They had vests. They had tactical training. And Franco was about to break down the front door.
The fortress had fallen. I ran down the hallway toward the bedrooms, seeking cover. I needed to buy time. Needed to survive long enough for Cassian to realize the radio silence wasn't tactical—it was fatal.
I locked myself in the master bedroom. Cassian's scent was still there. I pressed my back against the door and aimed the gun at the wood. Hot tears streamed down my face.
“Cassian…” I whispered. “I hope you burn the whole city down for this. Because I don't think I'm going to be here to see it.”
I heard the front door explode with a muffled boom. Heavy footsteps in the hallway. The hunt had begun. And I was the fox cornered in her den.