Chapter 26
"Cassian."
"I apologize, Uncle. I'll make sure it leaves by tomorrow."
I stood with my head bowed in front of him.
The mahogany table between us felt like a boundary, separating him from throwing a punch.
He never hit me, though. At least, not anymore. Not since I proved my worth.
I couldn't say the same for Aurelio. The number of times I've seen him with an ice pack confirmed my suspicions.
"I'm disappointed. This type of rubbish, I expect from my son, Aurelio. But not you, Cassian, my nephew."
The anger bled through his voice. No matter how many explanations I gave, that wasn't what he wanted to hear.
It was always Cassian when I failed. Dominic only existed in success.
He liked reminding me whose name really mattered.
Cassian. Cassian. Cassian.
Never my first name, Dominic.
Cassian was also my late father's name. My uncle's elder brother.
Did it make him feel big when he belittled me? Did it make him feel like he was standing taller than his older brother?
"I'll head over there and make sure the shipment leaves tonight."
I raised my head.
A small, unreadable smile crept across his face.
"Good. I’d better hear good news."
His lips curled in disdain. "Have you seen Ms. Versace recently?"
My mind flashed back to that encounter, when I went to see Ms. Versace and ended up in her daughter, Ara's room. I was still shocked that they were related. The hate in her eyes though.
My eyes flickered. "She remains connected to this family, yes."
Uncle nodded. Satisfied, yet condescending."Remember, she is a tool. And a threat. Tread carefully."
I exhaled slowly.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"Of course."
He waved me off. "Come on, leave now. We don't want to delay the shipment any longer."
I nodded, gave a light bow, and walked out of there. A scowl crept back onto my face as I drove to the Moretti family headquarters.
The neon lights outside flickered, casting fractured glows across the marble floors. I stood by the tall glass window, watching rain streak down the city streets like tears on shattered glass.
The shipment was already long gone. With the right number of bullets and money, you could move anything.
I lit a cigarette but didn't bring it to my lips.
The smoke curled upwards, vanishing before it could burn. A useless gesture, like the ones I'd been making for months. Pretending I had control when everything inside was slipping.
A sharp knock broke the silence.
"Come in," I called.
Matteo walked in. Beside him was one of our messengers.
My eyes narrowed as a silver case was placed on my desk.
I peeled it open and saw it instantly. Our bullets. Our stock. Returned.
And a note, written in red-ink cursive:
Dominic Cassian Moretti, Your name carries weight. But your shipments don't.
-Versace Versace
I didn't blink. Didn't move. But my jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack.
"She sent it back," Matteo whispered behind me.
I turned slowly.
"She's questioning my product?"
The messenger nodded.
"She ran it through three syndicates. They confirmed that nothing was wrong with it."
I scoffed, dragging a breath through clenched teeth.
So, this was what we were doing now. Mocking me. Testing me. Playing games.
I nodded to Matteo, and he pulled the gun from his holster, shooting the messenger's ear clean.
The man screamed, gripping the side of his face, blood pooling onto the floor.
I crouched beside him, voice flat. "Deliver the shipment again. Triple the value. No note. No apology. No signature."
I paused.
"But this time, tie it with a white ribbon. Let her wonder."
"And the message?" he croaked.
I smiled, sharp and humourless. "Tell her I don't like repeating myself."
Later that night, I wasn't home. I wasn't anywhere I should be.
The club pulsed like a living organism, red lights bleeding through black walls, basslines like heartbeats on edge.
I didn't come here for pleasure. That had been beaten out of me a long time ago.
The moment I walked in, the regulars moved aside like parted waves. No one made eye contact. Not even the dealers.
"Where is she?" I asked, my voice low, aimed directly at the man leaning against the booth in the far back corner.
Lazaro. A runner. Always too eager. Always too careless.
He stiffened. "Sir, she said to wait. She's not done—"
I didn't stop walking.
By the time I reached him, the club was dead silent.
I raised my hand slowly. Deliberately. Then slapped him. Not hard, only enough to sting. Enough to humiliate.
"You don't speak for her," I said. "Not to me."
He stumbled back, and I stepped past the booth.
I reached behind the bar counter and picked up the phone. One encrypted number. One ring.
Then a voice, soft, cracked, laced with the Tehran accent she never lost.
"Dominic."
"Suriya," I murmured.
A long silence.
"You're sure?" she asked.
And for a moment—just a breath, I heard the shake in her voice.
"Versace's digging too close. She's looking into the shipment we sent through Trieste. She sent it back," I said, irritation knotting every word.
"That girl's got sharp teeth," Suriya whispered. "I told you she would."
I leaned against the wall, eyes closed. "I don't care what she has. She questions my shipment, she questions me."
"What did you do?"
I smiled bitterly. "Shot the idiot who handed it back."
A pause.
"She'll take that personally," Suriya said, glee in her voice.
"I'm counting on it." I replied.
"I'll be back tonight to see you. You better not go anywhere," I said slowly.
I could feel her glare through the phone. "Are you mocking me, Dominic? You know I can't go anywhere."
"I forgot."
-Back at Moretti Headquarters-
The glass doors swung open as I sat down in my chair.
"Sir." Matteo's voice was tight. "We received a message."
I didn't respond. Just held out my hand.
The paper was blood speckled. Fitting.
To Dominic Cassian Moretti, Next time, send bullets that don't jam. I'm not your apprentice.– Versace Versace.
My knuckles turned white.
The woman was fearless. Or stupid. Or both.
She was testing me like she always did. God help me, I wanted her to keep going.
"Get the next batch loaded," I said, voice low. "Personally check the gear."
"Yes, sir."
"And Matteo?"
"Yes?"
"Don't shoot the messenger this time. Just tell her..."
I paused, then smirked, something cruel rising behind my teeth.
"Tell her the next package won't come with a refund policy."
Later that night, I descended to the hidden floor under the club.
In the elevator, there was a secret level. I pressed the button, and the keypad blinked. I tapped the digits.
Going to Floor X.
The doors opened, and I stepped into the grand underground apartment. Hidden. Untouchable.
The air was colder down here. Like the walls had secrets. Like the shadows remembered blood.
Inside, cloaked in the dimness, Suriya turned to me, her black scarf slipping enough to show the scar on her cheekbone.
"Suriya."
"Would it hurt to say my real name even in private like this? I'm slowly having an identity crisis, Ya Allah."
I refused to respond to her because my thoughts were already flooded with Ara.
"You're pushing her too hard," she whispered, as if reading my mind.
"She's pushing herself," I replied.
"You love her," she said.
"No," I said too quickly. It snapped out of me like a reflex.
She smiled, sad. "You said the same thing about me once."
"Someone listening would think we once had a romantic relationship," I muttered, burying my hands in my hair.
I used to control everything. But lately? It felt like the world was laughing at me behind my back.
"Come see me often, Dominic. Maybe bring some Ghormeh Sabzi." Her voice trembled, not enough to hear, but enough to feel. Like maybe, for a moment, she remembered who she used to be.
And then she walked away, probably to her room, the scent of oud trailing behind her like a ghost.
Leaving me with my silence. With my thoughts.
And the truth I wasn't ready to tell.