Chapter 14 – Cassandra
I was sitting in my office, laptop screen glowing, a document half-read, a ledger file open but untouched. My eyes weren’t on any of it. They were somewhere else entirely—miles away, drowning in thoughts that felt more like quicksand than clarity.
The arms deal. Chicago. Hidden behind three shell corporations and a fake tech export front that would’ve fooled anyone who wasn’t looking hard enough.
I’d been looking hard enough.
And now the information sat in my head like a loaded gun, and I was weighing whether to pull the trigger.
Whether to give it to Vance.
My conversation with him in Seattle still echoed in my skull, looping like a broken record I couldn’t shut off. The way he’d leaned forward in that booth, his dark green eyes cold and hungry.
He wasn’t after justice. Not for me. Not for my father.
I’d been stupid enough to believe that once.
When he first approached me two years ago in Ohio, showed me those photos, told me the Bratva had murdered my father and buried the truth, I’d believed him.
Believed he was the good guy. The one fighting against the criminal empire that had stolen my life.
But things were unraveling now. Thread by thread. Lie by lie.
Vance wasn’t fighting for justice. He was on a revenge spree. Personal. Vicious. And I had no fucking idea what the Bratva had done to him to make him this way.
I should’ve asked. Should’ve demanded answers before I became his weapon.
But I didn’t have the courage.
Because asking meant admitting I’d been used. Manipulated. Played like a goddamn fiddle for two years.
And I still hadn’t found anything concrete connecting the Bratva to my father’s murder. Nothing but Vance’s word. His photographs. His promises that the truth would come if I just kept digging, kept feeding him intel, kept betraying the people who’d given me everything.
My stomach churned again. That same nausea that had been plaguing me for days now, turning my body into a battlefield I couldn’t escape.
I pressed my palm against my abdomen, willing it to settle.
My phone buzzed on the desk. I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
I picked it up anyway.
“Tell me you have something.” Vance’s voice was clipped, impatient. No pleasantries. No pretense.
“I’m working on it,” I said, keeping my voice low even though my office door was closed.
“Working on it isn’t good enough, Cassandra.” His tone sharpened. “I need results. A code. A ledger. A secret deal. Something that brings them down.”
My jaw tightened. “I’ve given you plenty—”
“And none of it has been enough.” He cut me off like my words didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. “I need something big. Something that bleeds them dry.”
“Why haven’t you involved the FBI?” The question burst out before I could stop it. “I’ve given you intel for two years. Enough to build a case. Why haven’t you done anything with it?”
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
Then he laughed. Cold. Humorless. “Because I don’t want a clean arrest, Cassandra. I don’t want them in prison playing cards and getting three meals a day. I want blood. I want the Kamarovs to suffer.”
My chest tightened. “What did they do to you?”
“That’s not your concern.” His voice dropped, lethal. “Your concern is finishing what you started. Or did you forget why you’re doing this?”
My father’s face flashed in my mind. Vague. Blurred. A memory I could barely hold onto.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I whispered.
“Good. Then give me something. Now.”
Every nerve in my body screamed at me not to. Screamed that this was wrong, that Vance was dangerous, that I was standing on the edge of a cliff and one more step would send me plummeting.
But I was so tired. Tired of the lies. Tired of the fear. Tired of waking up every morning, wondering if today would be the day Rafael put a bullet in my head.
“There’s an arms deal,” I said, my voice flat. Dead. “Chicago. Next week.”
“Details.”
I closed my eyes. Felt the words crawling up my throat like poison. “Port 7. Tuesday. 2 a.m. Codename Volkov.”
“Good girl.” The satisfaction in his voice made my skin crawl. “Anything else?”
“What about me?” The question ripped out of me, raw and desperate. “What happens to me when Rafael finds out?”
“You better make sure he doesn’t.” His tone was flat. Final. Like my life was collateral damage he’d already written off.
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, my hand trembling so badly I nearly dropped it.
What the fuck had I just done?
I’d sold Rafael out. Given Vance the exact intel he needed to sabotage the deal, maybe get people killed, maybe destroy everything Rafael had built.
My chest constricted. Guilt wrapped around my ribs like barbed wire, squeezing tighter with every breath.
My hands were shaking. My whole body was shivering like I’d been dunked in ice water.
I pressed my palms flat against the desk, trying to ground myself. Trying to breathe. But the air felt too thin, like I was suffocating on my own choices.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy. Familiar.
I looked up just as Rafael passed my office, then stopped. Backtracked. Leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his dark eyes sweeping over me with that unnerving precision he always had.
“You look like hell,” he muttered. “Go to a doctor.”
I forced a smile. It felt like cracking glass. “I’m fine.”
His brow arched. “You don’t look fine.”
“Just tired.” I waved a hand dismissively, trying to inject some normalcy into my voice. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”
Rafael studied me for a long moment, his gaze too sharp, too knowing. Like he could see straight through me.
My pulse hammered in my throat.
Did he know? Had he figured it out? Was this it—the moment everything came crashing down?
“Drew says you’ve been sick,” he said finally.
“Just a bug,” I lied. “It’s passing.”
Rafael’s jaw tightened. “If you need time off—”
“I don’t.” The words came out sharper than I intended. I softened my tone, tried again. “I’m fine, Rafael. Really.”
He didn’t look convinced. But he nodded once, slow and deliberate. “If you say so.”
Then he pushed off the doorframe and walked away, his footsteps fading down the hall.
I waited until I couldn’t hear him anymore before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
My hands were still trembling. My stomach was still churning.
I stood up on shaky legs, crossed to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass. The city sprawled below me, indifferent and endless.
Somewhere out there, Vance was planning his next move. Using the intel I’d just handed him like a weapon.
And I had no idea what he was going to do with it.
No idea if people would die because of me.
No idea if Rafael would survive what was coming.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass—pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost of the girl I used to be.
Maybe I’d never been that girl. Maybe she’d died the moment I let Vance convince me that revenge was justice.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out, half-expecting another message from Vance.
But it was Hailey. Drinks tonight? You look like you need it.
I almost laughed. Almost cried.
Can’t, I typed back. Rain check?
Her response came immediately. You okay?
No. I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay in two years.
Just tired, I sent. Promise I’m fine.
Another lie. Add it to the pile.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and turned away from the window. My laptop was still glowing on my desk, the ledger file still open, mocking me with its neat rows and columns.
Numbers. Codes. Secrets.
Everything Rafael trusted me with.
Everything I’d just betrayed.
I wanted to throw up. Wanted to scream. Wanted to rewind time and take back the last five minutes, the last two years, the last lifetime.
But I couldn’t.
So I sat back down at my desk, closed the ledger, shut my laptop, and pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.
The nausea surged again. Worse this time.
I bolted to the bathroom down the hall, barely making it before my stomach emptied itself. I gripped the porcelain, gasping, my whole body shaking.
When it finally stopped, I rinsed my mouth, splashed cold water on my face, stared at myself in the mirror.
I looked like a stranger. Hollow. Haunted.
Maybe I was.
I straightened, smoothed my hair, fixed my expression into something resembling normal.
Then I walked back to my office, sat down, and opened my laptop again.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
I’d made my choice. Pulled the trigger. And now I had to live with the fallout.
Even if it killed me.
Even if it killed everyone I cared about.
I pulled up a new document, started typing, pretending like I was working. Pretending like my hands weren’t shaking. Pretending like I wasn’t falling apart from the inside out.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I was already broken.
And there was no putting me back together.