Chapter 18
Isla
Time had no meaning in the darkness.
I'd counted my breaths, trying to estimate hours passing, but kept losing track. The concrete floor had long since leeched all warmth from my body, leaving me shivering despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
The makeshift weapon—the broken chair back with its jagged metal edge—sat hidden against the wall where I'd positioned it. Close enough to grab. Sharp enough to do damage if I got the chance.
But the chance hadn't come.
The guard who'd thrown me the phone hadn't returned. No one had. Just silence broken occasionally by distant footsteps, muffled voices, the creak of an old building settling.
And Leo's cries, which had stopped hours ago.
The silence was worse than the crying. At least when I could hear him, I knew he was alive, knew where he was. Now there was nothing, and my imagination filled the void with horrors I couldn't stop seeing.
He's fine, I told myself for the hundredth time. Matteo needs him alive. He's leverage.
But two-and-a-half-year-olds didn't understand leverage. They understood fear, missing their mother, and wanting to go home.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My wrists throbbed where the zip ties had cut, dried blood cracking whenever I moved. The injection site on my neck burned, a reminder of how quickly they'd taken control.
How powerless I'd been.
Marcus's face flashed through my mind—the surprise in his eyes when the bullet hit, the way he'd fallen. He'd tried to protect us. And I didn't even know his last name, didn't know if he had family who'd be worried, crying over what happened.
And the other guard. He died because of me. Because Cassian made us targets.
No. That wasn't fair. He died because Matteo was a monster who saw a child as a weapon.
The anger felt better than the fear. I held onto it, feeding it, letting it burn away the helplessness.
A sound broke through my thoughts—a door opening somewhere above me. Footsteps on stairs, growing closer.
I tensed, moving silently to where I'd hidden the chair back. My fingers closed around the metal, cold and reassuring.
The footsteps stopped outside my door. Keys jangled. The lock clicked.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, weapon raised, heart hammering. If they came in alone, if I was fast enough—
The door swung open. Light spilled in, momentarily blinding. A silhouette filled the doorway—large, broad-shouldered.
"Well, well." The voice was smooth, cultured. Familiar. The man from the video. "The mother shows spirit."
Matteo.
He stepped inside, and I saw him clearly for the first time. The resemblance to Cassian was striking and disturbing—the same strong jaw, the same commanding presence. But where Cassian's eyes held layers of control and calculation, Matteo's held something colder. Crueler.
Two guards flanked him, hands on their weapons.
I lowered the chair back slightly, recognizing the futility. Three against one, and they were armed.
"Resourceful," Matteo observed, nodding at my makeshift weapon. "I can see why Cassian kept you around. You're not just a pretty face."
"Where's my son?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Safe. Fed. Playing with toys probably worth more than your entire apartment." He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "I'm not a monster, Isla. I don't hurt children. Not unless I have to."
"You threatened to cut off his fingers."
"Motivation." He shrugged elegantly. "Cassian responds better to concrete threats. He's always been that way—needs to see the cost before he'll pay the price."
He moved closer, and I raised the chair back again. He stopped, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Easy. I'm just here to talk. To help you understand your situation."
"I understand perfectly. You're using my son to get to Cassian."
"Smart and beautiful. I really can see the appeal." He leaned against the wall, casual, as if we were having coffee instead of him holding me prisoner. "But you don't understand. Not really. Did Cassian tell you about our family? About what we are?"
"He told me enough."
"Did he tell you that his grandfather—our grandfather—built this empire on blood?
That every dollar Cassian has comes from someone else's suffering?
" Matteo's voice took on an edge. "Did he tell you about the people who've disappeared when they crossed him?
The deals made in back rooms, the bodies that wash up in the East River? "
"You're no different," I shot back. "You're doing the same thing."
"Oh, I'm very different." He pushed off the wall, circling me slowly. "Cassian pretends to be civilized. Wears expensive suits, plays the businessman, and acts like the oil empire makes him legitimate. But I'm honest about what we are. What we've always been."
"Criminals."
"Family." The word came out sharp. "This is about loyalty, about blood, about taking back what should have been mine from the beginning.
Cassian was never supposed to be Don. That was my father's role, my birthright.
But because my father made one mistake, one error in judgment, Cassian's father took everything. "
His voice had risen, anger bleeding through the polished facade. The guards shifted uncomfortably.
"And now Cassian has the empire, the power, the respect—while I'm left with scraps." He stopped in front of me, his eyes cold. "But he made a mistake. He let himself care about something. About someone. About that boy sleeping two floors above us."
The confirmation that Leo was here, in this building, sent relief and terror through me in equal measure.
"And you," Matteo continued, studying me. "You're an interesting variable. The mother of his child. The woman he's been protecting, moving into his home. Tell me, Isla—does he love you? Or are you just another possession he's claimed?"
"I don't have to answer your questions."
"No, you don't." He smiled again, that empty, threatening expression.
"But you will. Because here's what's going to happen.
In—" he checked his watch, "—sixteen hours, Cassian's deadline expires.
And if he hasn't surrendered everything to me by then, I'll bring your son down here and let you watch while I hurt him.
Not kill. Not yet. Just hurt enough to make Cassian understand I'm serious. "
The chair back was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. I swung it at his head with all my strength.
One of the guards caught my wrist mid-swing. The metal clattered to the floor.
Matteo didn't flinch. Just watched me struggle against the guard's grip, that awful smile never wavering.
"Spirit," he said approvingly. "Cassian always did like them fierce." He nodded to the guard. "Let her go. She's earned a small mercy."
The guard released me, and I stumbled back against the wall.
"You want to hurt me?" Matteo asked. "Go ahead. Try. But understand—every bruise you give me, I'll return to your son tenfold."
The threat froze me solid.
"That's better." He moved toward the door. "Sixteen hours, Isla. Make them count. Think about what you'll say to your son when I bring him down here. How you'll explain why his mother couldn't protect him."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
I slid down the wall, shaking with rage and helplessness.
Sixteen hours.
Cassian had to be looking for us. Had to have gotten the message, seen the video. But was sixteen hours enough time? The building could be anywhere. Brooklyn was huge, full of warehouses and industrial zones where you could hide anything.
Anyone.
I forced myself to breathe, to think past the fear. The guard had taken my weapon, but the bucket remained. The broken light fixture overhead. The chair frame still bolted to the floor.
Something. There had to be something.
I was examining the door hinges, looking for weak points, when I heard it.
A sound so faint I almost missed it. A crack, sharp and distant.
Then another.
Was that gunfire?
I pressed my ear against the door, heart racing. More shots, closer now. Shouting. Running footsteps above me.
Cassian.
It had to be. He'd found us.
The lights flickered, then went out completely, plunging me into absolute darkness. Emergency lighting kicked in seconds later, bathing everything in red.
More gunfire. Sustained now, the rapid crack of automatic weapons. Men screaming orders, feet pounding on stairs.
I grabbed the bucket and positioned myself beside the door. If someone came through, if they tried to move me or hurt me, I'd fight. I'd buy time for Cassian to get to Leo.
The building shook with an explosion. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Please let Leo be okay. Please let him be far from the fighting.
The door handle rattled. I raised the bucket, ready to bring it down on whoever entered.
The door flew open, kicked in with brutal force.
A man in tactical gear filled the doorway, weapon raised. Not one of Matteo's guards—the gear was too professional, too military.
His eyes locked on me. "Isla Quinn?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He lowered his weapon slightly. "Marco sent me. Cassian's orders—get you out. Now."
"My son—"
"Being extracted by another team. Come on, we don't have much time."
"I'm not leaving without Leo!"
"You don't have a choice." He grabbed my arm, not rough but firm. "Cassian was very clear. You get out first. The boy is his priority, and he's going for him personally."
Another explosion rocked the building. The emergency lights flickered.
"We need to move now," the man insisted. "The building's been rigged. Matteo's scorched earth—if he can't have the victory, no one gets out."
The words hit like ice water. Leo was somewhere in this building, and Matteo was willing to bring it down around all of us.
"No." I wrenched my arm free. "I'm not leaving my son."
"Ma'am—"
"I said no!" I pushed past him into the hallway, ignoring his curses behind me.
The corridor was chaos—smoke, flashing red lights, the distant sound of gunfire. I ran toward the stairs, toward where Matteo had said Leo was being kept. Two floors up.
The tactical team member caught up with me. "You're going to get us both killed!"
"Then leave!" I didn't stop running. "I'm getting my son."
He swore again but fell into step beside me, weapon raised. "Second floor, east wing. That's where the last thermal signature placed the child. But Cassian's already heading there—"
An explosion, close enough to knock us sideways. Part of the ceiling collapsed, showering debris.
"Go!" He shoved me forward. "Stairs, now!"
We burst through the stairwell door. Above us, I could hear more gunfire and shouting. And underneath it all, a sound that stopped my heart.
A child crying.
Leo.
I took the stairs three at a time, my escort struggling to keep up. Every instinct screamed to get to my son, to hold him, to get him somewhere safe.
The second-floor door hung open, smoke pouring through. I ran through it without hesitation.
The hallway beyond was a war zone. Bodies on the floor, bullet holes in the walls. My escort pushed ahead of me, clearing corners, checking rooms.
"Clear! Keep moving!"
Then I saw it—an open doorway at the end of the hall, light spilling out.
And standing in that doorway, Leo clutched against his chest, was Cassian.
Blood stained his shirt, his face was grim with smoke and violence, but his arms held our son with infinite gentleness.
"Mama!" Leo's scream of relief cut through everything else.
I ran. Cassian met me halfway, and suddenly we were together—Leo between us, all three of us whole, alive.
"I've got you," Cassian said, his voice rough. "Both of you. I've got you."
Another explosion shook the building. Cassian's grip on us tightened.
"We need to move," he said. "Now. The whole place is coming down."