Chapter 17
Cassian
The call came during a meeting with Calabrese.
My phone vibrated against the mahogany table, Marco's name flashing on the screen. I silenced it without looking. Whatever it was could wait—Vincent was outlining his proposal for a joint operation against Matteo, and I needed to hear every detail before committing.
The phone buzzed again immediately. Then again.
Vincent paused mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. "You should probably take that."
Something cold slithered down my spine. Marco knew better than to interrupt unless it was critical. I stood, moving to the corner of the private dining room. "What is it?"
"Boss." Marco's voice was wrong—tight, strained. "There's been an incident. Central Park. The detail you had on Ms. Quinn and the boy."
My blood turned to ice. "What kind of incident?"
"An attack. Three vehicles, at least six hostiles. They took them both." He paused, and I heard something in his silence that made my vision narrow. "Marcus and Carlo are down. The scene is… It's bad, Cassian."
The phone nearly slipped from my hand. "Dead?"
"I'm looking at Carlo’s body now. Marcus is en route to the hospital. NYPD is already here, but I'm keeping them back. We have maybe ten minutes before this becomes a circus."
"Isla and Leo?" The names felt like gravel in my throat.
"Gone. Witnesses say they were forced into a van. Black, no plates visible. We're pulling traffic cam footage now, but—"
"Find them." The words came out cold, lethal. "I don't care what it takes. Find my son."
I ended the call and turned to find Vincent watching me with sharp, calculating eyes.
"Problem?" he asked.
"My family was just taken." I grabbed my jacket, already moving toward the door. "The meeting is over."
"Matteo?" Vincent stood, his expression hardening. "This is exactly what I warned you about. He's escalating."
"Then I'll eliminate the problem. Permanently."
"Cassian, wait." Vincent's voice stopped me at the door. "You can't go in hot. That's what he wants—you emotional, making mistakes. Let me help."
"I don't have time for politics, Vincent."
"This isn't politics. It's strategy." He pulled out his phone. "I have resources you don't. People who owe me favors. Give me two hours, and I'll have the location."
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, to handle this myself. But Vincent was right about one thing—charging in blind would get Isla and Leo killed.
"One hour," I said. "After that, I move with or without your help."
The drive back to the Morrison building took twelve minutes. It felt like twelve hours.
I called Marco from the car. "Status."
"Traffic cams show the van heading west through the tunnel. We lost it near the Jersey waterfront—too many blind spots in that area." His voice was grim. "But boss, we found something. One of the attackers was killed during the extraction. Marcus got him before he went down."
"And?"
"His phone had a partial text thread. Messages to a number we've traced back to one of Matteo's known associates." Keys clicked in the background. "The last message sent was 'Package secured. Two for the price of one.'"
My hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. "This wasn't opportunistic—they knew we'd be at that park today. Someone told them."
"A leak?" Marco's voice sharpened.
"Has to be. Only four people knew about today's outing—you, me, Marcus, and the driver." I pulled into the Morrison building's underground garage. "Find out who else knew and who talked. And Marco? When you do, I want them alive long enough to tell me why they betrayed me."
"Understood."
I parked and killed the engine, but didn't get out immediately. My mind was racing through possibilities. Marcus had nearly died protecting them—unlikely to be him. Marco had been with me for five years. The driver was new, hired just last month.
The driver.
"Marco. The driver today. When did we hire him?"
"Three weeks ago. Came with excellent references from—" He stopped. "Fuck. From the Castellano family."
The same family Matteo had been courting. The same family that controlled the northern docks.
"Bring him in," I said quietly. "Don't kill him. I want to know everything—who recruited him, what he told them, what else Matteo knows."
"On it."
And Cassian?" Marco's voice dropped. "The medical examiner is asking questions about Carlo. The wounds, the weapons used—this doesn't look like a random attack."
"Stall them. Tell them whatever you need to. I don't care about the police right now."
I ended the call and immediately dialed another number. Dmitri answered on the first ring.
"Where the fuck were your men?" My voice was ice.
"Boss, they were nearby but were too late—"
"You were supposed to protect them. That was the only job." I gripped the steering wheel. "And now Matteo has my son."
"We're mobilizing now. Full tactical response. We'll get them back—"
"You're damn right you will. Assault formation. Heavy weapons. I want every available operator at the Morrison building in twenty minutes."
"Understood. And Cassian? We won't fail twice."
"You'd better not." I hung up and stared at the building.
Dmitri's team hadn’t been there. Had failed to engage.
Which meant Matteo had come, knowing what he'd face.
This had been planned meticulously. Somehow, he'd known they’d be vulnerable and could take them.
But he wouldn't keep them. Not if I had to burn Brooklyn to the ground to get them back.
After hanging up, I forced myself to breathe, to think past the rage that threatened to consume rational thought. Matteo had my son. My child. The boy who'd looked at me with complete trust, who'd called me big, who'd smiled when I promised to build castles with him.
If he hurt Leo—if he so much as made him cry—there wouldn't be enough left of Matteo to bury.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Check your email. You have 24 hours. -M
I grabbed my laptop from the passenger seat, fingers shaking with fury as I navigated to my encrypted email account. One new message, no subject line. An attachment labeled "Terms.mp4"
I clicked it.
Leo's face filled the screen. Tears streaked his cheeks, his eyes red and swollen. He clutched his dinosaur and looked so small, so frightened, that something cracked open in my chest.
"Mama?" he whispered. "I want Mama."
The camera panned back to show him on a couch. Clean. Unharmed. But terrified.
Then Matteo's face appeared. "Hello, cousin. I believe I have something that belongs to you."
I watched the rest of the video in silence, every word carving itself into my memory. The demands. The threats. The twenty-four-hour deadline. The promise to send back pieces of my son if I didn't comply.
When it ended, I sat motionless in the driver's seat, staring at the frozen image of Matteo's smug face.
He'd made a mistake. A fatal one.
He thought taking my son would make me weak. Make me desperate enough to hand over everything I'd built.
Instead, he'd just removed the last restraint on what I was willing to do.
I forwarded the video to Marco with a single word: Analyze.
Then I pulled back onto the road and headed for the Morrison building, my mind already calculating every move, every contingency, every way this could end.
Only one ending was acceptable.
The penthouse felt wrong without them. Empty in a way it never had before.
I moved through the rooms, seeing evidence of their presence everywhere. Leo's toys were scattered across the playroom floor. Isla's book lay on the coffee table, a receipt marking her place. The half-finished castle we'd built together, the tower still leaning precariously.
I stopped in Leo's room. His bed was unmade, sheets tangled from where he'd kicked them off in his sleep. His favorite blue jacket—the one with the dinosaurs—wasn't in the closet. He'd likely been wearing it when they took him.
I sank onto the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. For the first time since Marco's call, I let myself feel the full weight of what had happened.
My son was gone. Taken because of me. Because of what I was, what I'd built, the enemies I'd made.
Marcus was barely alive, and Carlo was dead. Good men who'd followed my orders, who'd died trying to protect what I'd told them was important.
And Isla—God, Isla. She must be terrified. She'd finally learned what I was capable of, and now she was trapped in the nightmare I'd dragged her into.
I should have kept them at a distance. Should have let her leave when she wanted to. Should have been the man who walked away instead of the one who claimed what he wanted and damn the consequences.
But I'd been selfish. Possessive. I'd seen my son and decided he was mine, that they both were mine, and now they were paying the price for my arrogance.
My phone buzzed.
Marco: Jersey City. Abandoned warehouse district near the old shipyards. Vincent's people confirmed movement in the area—multiple vehicles, unusual activity. Sending coordinates now.
Finally.
I stood, straightening my jacket. The grief, the guilt—I could process that later. Right now, I needed to be what Matteo had forgotten I was.
Not a businessman. Not a CEO playing at being dangerous.
A killer.
I moved to my office and unlocked the bottom drawer. The Glock sat heavy in my hand, a familiar weight. I checked the magazine, chambered a round, and tucked it into my shoulder holster. The knife went into my boot. Extra ammunition in my jacket pocket.
I pulled up the security footage from this morning, watching Isla and Leo leave for the park. The way she'd smiled down at him. The way he'd bounced with excitement, his small hand in hers.
I'd get them back. Both of them. And then I'd make sure Matteo understood exactly what happened when you touched a Barone's family.
My phone rang. Dmitri.
"We're in position," he said. "Four-man team, fully equipped. Where do you want us?"
I pulled up the coordinates Marco had sent. "Jersey City. I'm sending the location now. Recon first—I want to know exactly what we're walking into before we breach."
"ROE?"
"Civilians avoid. Everyone else is a target." I grabbed my car keys. "I'm ten minutes out."
The warehouse sat like a cancer on the waterfront, its rusted metal and broken windows a testament to its decay. Three stories of decay surrounded by a chain link fence and Jersey industrial wasteland.
I parked two blocks away, cut the engine, and studied the building through binoculars. Two guards were visible at the main entrance. Another two on the roof. Professional stance, military bearing. Matteo had hired well.
Not well enough.
Marco pulled up beside me in an unmarked SUV, four more men in tactical gear following in a second vehicle. They moved with quiet efficiency, checking weapons and equipment with the ease of men who'd done this before.
"Dmitri's team is approaching from the east," Marco said, joining me. "They've identified six potential entry points, two with minimal security."
"Hostage location?"
"Thermal imaging shows two heat signatures on the second floor, east wing. One adult-sized, one smaller." He pulled up the image on his tablet. "That's got to be them."
The smaller signature had to be Leo. My son. Alive.
Relief hit me so hard I had to grip the steering wheel to steady myself.
"Another signature in the basement level," Marco continued. "Isolated. Could be the woman."
Isla. Separated from Leo, alone in the dark. Terror clawed at my chest, but I forced it down. Emotions were a liability in combat.
"How many hostiles total?"
"Best estimate? Fifteen to twenty. They're concentrated on the first floor and the roof. The second floor where the boy is has lighter security—probably banking on us not knowing the location."
I studied the layout, calculating angles and timing. "We split into three teams. Dmitri's group takes the east entrance and creates a distraction. Marco, you take your team through the south—that puts you closest to the basement. I'll take the north stairwell to the second floor."
"Boss, that puts you alone—"
"I'm not alone." I gestured to the two men in the second vehicle. "They're with me. We move fast, silent. Extract the boy first, then the woman. Anyone who gets in the way—"
"Doesn't get up," Marco finished. "I know."
I pulled out my phone and sent a group text to all team leaders: Fifteen minutes. Silent approach until first shot is fired. After that, it's open season.
Responses came back immediately. Everyone was ready.
I checked my Glock one final time, the weight of it grounding me. I'd killed my first man at seventeen—a rival's soldier who'd pulled a knife outside a Queens nightclub. My father had called it my baptism into the family business.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, I wasn't killing for power or territory or respect.
Tonight, I would kill to get my family back.
I looked at Marco. "If something goes wrong, if I go down, you get them out. That's your only priority."
"Nothing's going wrong," Marco said firmly. "You hear me? We're getting them both out, and then we're putting Matteo in the ground where he belongs."
I nodded, pulling on tactical gloves. Through the warehouse windows, I could see shadows moving. Matteo's men, thinking they were safe. Thinking they'd won.
They hadn't won.
They'd just signed their death warrants.
My phone buzzed one last time. Dmitri: In position. On your signal.
I typed back: Go.
Then I stepped out of the SUV and moved toward the warehouse, my team falling in behind me like shadows. The night air was cold against my face, carrying the smell of salt water and industrial decay.
Somewhere in that building, my son waited. Scared, alone, calling for his mother and father.
I was coming.
And God help anyone who tried to stop me.