Chapter 4 – Cassandra
Drew Kamarov was ignoring me, and it wasn’t the passive kind of ignoring where you’re distracted or busy. This was deliberate, calculated. The kind of silence that said I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to acknowledge my existence.
For three days, he’d moved through Rafael’s office like I was furniture.
When I spoke, he’d respond to the air beside my head.
When I entered a room, he’d continue whatever he was doing without so much as a glance in my direction.
He behaved as if I were invisible, a ghost haunting space he barely noticed.
And that pissed me off more than anything he could have actually said.
I’d survived worse than silent treatment. Had endured years of being nobody in that orphanage, months of being invisible to drunk assholes in Seattle bars. But this? This felt different. Personal. Like Drew had decided I didn’t deserve even the basic human courtesy of recognition.
Like he’d seen something in me that made me unworthy of his attention.
The thought gnawed at me during meetings where he’d address Rafael and the rest of the room but skip over me entirely.
Clawed at my composure when he’d accept documents from my hands without meeting my eyes.
Twisted in my chest like a knife when he’d leave the office at precisely the moment I entered.
By the third day, I was ready to burn the entire building down just to get a fucking reaction.
***
I found him in his temporary office late afternoon, the setting sun casting long shadows across the floor.
He sat behind the desk with his tablet, fingers moving across the screen with that precise efficiency that suggested he was reviewing something important.
Security protocols, maybe, or surveillance logs.
Maybe logs of me doing things I shouldn’t be doing.
The thought made my pulse spike, but I pushed it down. I was done with his calculated silence, done with being treated like I didn’t exist in the space we both occupied.
“If this is one of your games—” I started, my voice sharper than I’d intended.
“Leave.” He didn’t look up from the tablet, didn’t acknowledge my presence beyond that single word. “I don’t want to talk to you, Cassandra. I’m not playing any game.”
Something inside me snapped.
I’d spent three years perfecting the art of control, of keeping my emotions locked so far down that nothing could shake them loose. But Drew’s dismissal, his absolute refusal to even look at me, cracked something fundamental in that careful construction.
I crossed the room in three strides and shoved him. Hard.
His shoulder rocked back slightly, and for the first time in three days, those steel-gray eyes met mine. There was a warning in them, cold and absolute.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, setting the tablet down with deliberate care. “Don’t do that.”
“Or what?” I shoved him again, harder this time, needing any reaction besides that calculated indifference. “You’ll finally acknowledge I exist? You’ll stop pretending I’m furniture you can ignore?”
“Cassandra—” His voice carried an edge now, dangerous and sharp.
I shoved him a third time, and that’s when he moved.
One second, I was standing, hands pressed against his chest. The next, he’d caught my wrist in an iron grip, spun me around, and slammed me against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
The cold surface bit into my back through the thin fabric of my shirt. His body caged mine, one hand still wrapped around my wrist, pinning it above my head. The other braced against the wall beside my face, trapping me completely.
“I warned you,” he said, his voice low and rough with something that might have been anger or restraint or both. “I told you not to push.”
We were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his gray eyes, could smell whatever cologne he wore mixed with something sharper—adrenaline, maybe, or the same barely leashed violence I felt thrumming through my own veins.
“What are you going to do about it?” The words came out breathless but defiant. A dare wrapped in challenge.
Something shifted in his expression. The control he wore like armor cracked just enough for me to see the truth underneath—he wanted this as much as I did. Wanted to break whatever careful distance we’d been maintaining. Wanted to cross the line we’d both been dancing around for three weeks.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on mine.
Not gentle. His lips crashed against mine with hunger that felt like violence, like he was trying to consume everything I’d been holding back. His hand released my wrist only to tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, angling my head exactly where he wanted it.
I gasped against his mouth, and he took the opening, tongue sliding past my lips with the kind of confidence that said he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t need permission.
His other hand found my waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks, pulling me flush against him until there was no space left between our bodies.
I clawed at his shirt, buttons popping under my desperate fingers.
Wrapped my legs around his waist because standing wasn’t enough, because I needed to be closer, needed more of whatever this was.
He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us, and pressed me harder against the wall.
His hands were everywhere—my hair, my waist, sliding up my ribs to brush the underside of my breast through the fabric. Each touch sent electricity racing along my nerves, building something hot and desperate and completely out of control in my chest.
I bit his bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he growled—actually growled—before kissing me harder. Messier. Like we were fighting with our mouths instead of our words, like he was trying to prove something or punish me or maybe both.
I wanted more. Wanted his hands on bare skin, wanted his control to shatter completely, wanted to drown in whatever this volatile thing was between us.
And then he stopped.
Drew pulled back like I’d burned him, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen and slightly bloody from where I’d bitten him. His shirt hung open, exposing the muscled chest I’d been trying not to notice for weeks.
He looked wrecked. Dangerous. Like he was balanced on a knife’s edge between dragging me back for more and putting a bullet in his own skull.
“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.
Then he turned and walked away. Just fucking walked away, leaving me pressed against the wall with my shirt twisted, my hair a mess, and my entire body screaming for something he’d started but refused to finish.
I stood there for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened. Trying to understand how I’d gone from furious at being ignored to desperate for more of him in the span of minutes.
My hands were shaking. My lips felt bruised. Between my legs, I ached with an emptiness that made me want to scream.
Drew Kamarov had kissed me like he was claiming territory, then walked away like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
The rage that swept through me was hot and visceral and directed at everyone—at him for starting something he wouldn’t finish, at myself for wanting it so desperately, at the entire fucked-up situation that had put us in the same space to begin with.
I slammed my fist into the wall. Once. Twice.
Pain exploded through my knuckles, sharp and clarifying, punishment for wanting something I had no business wanting.
The skin split, blood welling up and dripping down my fingers, but I welcomed it.
Better to feel pain I could understand than this confused mess of desire and fury.
I cradled my bleeding hand against my chest and forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Control. That was what I needed. Control over my body, my reactions, my goddamn traitorous heart that was beating too fast for someone who knew better.
***
My phone buzzed an hour later while I was wrapping my knuckles in the bathroom. Vance’s name flashed across the screen like a curse, and I almost didn’t answer. But ignoring Vance was more dangerous than facing whatever he wanted.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said without preamble. “Starting to think you forgot our arrangement.”
I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, continuing to wrap my hand with deliberate care.
“I haven’t forgotten shit. Before, I had Joaquin and Beaumont to do my dirty work.
I leaked intel to them as anonymous tips, and they handled distribution.
Now they’re both dead, and my channels are closed. These things take time to rebuild.”
“Time we don’t have. Rafael’s expanding operations—”
“I know what Rafael’s doing.” My voice came out sharper than intended. “I’m the one managing his calendar, remember? I’m the one with access to his files, his meetings, his entire fucking life. If anyone knows what’s happening in this organization, it’s me.”
Vance was quiet for a moment, and I could practically hear him recalibrating. “Are you losing focus, Cassandra? Because if you’re forgetting why you’re there—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, the word hard as steel.
“Don’t remind me of my mission. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m the only one with the power to destroy the Bratva’s business from the inside.
But I also know that one mistake gets me killed.
So, unless you want to lose your inside asset, you’ll let me work at the pace that keeps me alive. ”
The silence stretched longer this time, and I used it to finish wrapping my hand. The white bandage was already starting to show red where blood seeped through.
“Two weeks,” Vance said finally. “I need something substantial in two weeks, or we’re going to have a very different conversation about your commitment.”
He hung up before I could respond, leaving me staring at my phone with hatred burning hot in my chest. Hatred for Vance and his manipulation.
Hatred for the Bratva who’d killed my father.
Hatred for myself for getting tangled up in Drew Kamarov’s orbit when I should have been focused on the mission.
I pulled up my messages and typed quickly: Club. Tonight. Need drinks and sanity. - C
Both Hailey and Barbara responded within minutes with variations of “already there” and “say less.”
***
Nocturne was packed when I arrived, the bass line vibrating through my bones like a second heartbeat. I found Hailey behind the bar and Barbara in our usual booth, drinks already ordered and waiting.
“Jesus Christ,” Hailey said the moment she saw me, her sharp eyes zeroing in on my bandaged hand. “What happened?”
“Wall had a disagreement with my fist. Wall won.” I slid into the booth and immediately downed half my drink—vodka cranberry that burned exactly right.
Barbara studied me with those honey-brown eyes that saw too much. “This about work or the Russian who’s been making you crazy for three weeks?”
“Both. Neither. Everything.” I laughed, but it came out bitter. “Drew kissed me today.”
The words hung in the air for a beat before both of them erupted simultaneously.
“He what?”
“I knew it!”
I held up my good hand for silence. “I confronted him about ignoring me. We fought. I shoved him. He warned me to stop. I didn’t. He shoved me against the wall and kissed me like he was trying to prove something or punish me or both.”
“And?” Hailey leaned across the bar, eyes bright with interest.
“And I wanted more.” The confession tasted like defeat. “I wanted everything. Wanted him to ruin me right there against the wall. Wanted to drown in whatever the fuck that was between us.”
“But?” Barbara prompted gently.
“But he stopped. Said it was a mistake and walked away like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.” I finished my drink and immediately signaled for another.
“So I punched a wall and got a phone call from Vance reminding me that I’m supposed to be destroying the Bratva, not making out with Rafael’s cousin. ”
The reminder of my actual purpose here settled over me like a shroud. For a few glorious, terrible minutes in Drew’s arms, I’d forgotten. Forgotten about my father’s murder, about Vance’s blackmail, about the mission that had consumed three years of my life.
I’d just been Cassandra, wanting Drew, getting lost in sensation that felt real and immediate and nothing like the carefully constructed lies I lived every other moment.
“Cass.” Hailey’s voice pulled me back. “What are you going to do?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? What was I going to do about Drew Kamarov, who saw too much and made me feel things I had no business feeling? What was I going to do about Vance’s two-week deadline when my channels were dead and my position more precarious than ever?
What was I going to do about wanting a man whose family had destroyed mine, whose blood was stained with the same violence that had stolen my father?
“I’m going to survive,” I said finally, accepting my second drink from Hailey. “Same thing I always do. I’m going to play my role, feed Vance enough to keep him satisfied, avoid Drew until he goes back to Russia, and remember that feelings are liabilities in our world.”
“Except you’re already in too deep,” Barbara said softly. “With Drew, I mean. You don’t punch walls over someone who doesn’t matter.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d spent three years maintaining perfect control, never letting anyone get close enough to crack my armor. Then Drew had walked into Rafael’s office with his calculating eyes and relentless observation, and he’d gotten under my skin in ways I couldn’t defend against.
He’d made me feel seen. Not just watched or surveilled, but actually seen—the real Cassandra buried under layers of performance and survival.
And then he’d kissed me like he was claiming something that belonged to him, only to walk away like it didn’t matter.
“Five more weeks,” I said, more to myself than to them. “He’ll be gone in five more weeks, and my life can go back to what passes for normal.”
Hailey and Barbara exchanged one of those looks that said they knew I was lying but loved me enough to let me pretend.
We drank in companionable silence after that, the music washing over us and the club’s chaos providing cover for our shared understanding that nothing was ever as simple as we wanted it to be.
My hand throbbed under its bandage. My lips still felt bruised from Drew’s mouth. My heart beat an unsteady rhythm that suggested it hadn’t gotten the memo about not catching feelings for the enemy.
But I was Cassandra Miller—survivor of orphanages and bar fights and three years of betraying the man who’d saved me from poverty. I’d survived worse than wanting someone I couldn’t have.
I’d survive this, too.