Chapter 19 – Drew
The warehouse reeked of gunpowder, scorched wood, and death. Shattered crates littered the floor like broken bones. Bodies lay scattered around me—Vance’s men, every single one of them, their eyes still open, staring at nothing.
We’d been ready. Thanks to Rafael’s anonymous tip, we’d shown up armed, organized, and lethal. The ambush had turned into a massacre in under ten minutes.
Only one man remained alive.
Barely.
He was slumped against a steel beam, blood pouring from a wound in his side, his breathing shallow and ragged. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and his eyes kept flickering like he was fighting to stay conscious.
I crouched in front of him, my Glock still in my hand, my own clothes soaked in blood that wasn’t mine. My chest heaved with adrenaline, my pulse still hammering from the fight.
“Name,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous.
The man blinked, spat blood onto the concrete, and laughed. It was a broken, wheezing sound that scraped against my nerves like nails on glass.
I slammed my fist into his face.
The scream that ripped out of him echoed through the warehouse like a firecracker, sharp and brutal.
“Name,” I repeated, my knuckles throbbing, blood—his blood—dripping from my fist.
He gasped, his head lolling to the side, his breath coming in wet, rattling bursts. “Fuck…you….”
I raised my fist again.
“Okay! Okay!” He choked on the words, coughing up more blood. “Vance…Vance Donovan.”
I froze, my fist still raised, my mind racing.
Vance Donovan.
Fuck.
I pressed my comm, keeping my eyes locked on the dying man in front of me. “Kirill.”
Static crackled, then Kirill’s voice came through, smooth and efficient. “Already halfway there, man. Donovan’s name came up in the chatter last week. FBI, but dirty, if I’m digging right.”
FBI.
My jaw tightened.
This wasn’t just a rival gang. This wasn’t some street-level crew trying to muscle in on Bratva territory.
This was Cassandra’s tormentor.
“Get me everything you can on him,” I said into the comm. “Background, connections, current location. Everything.”
“On it.”
I let my fist drop, stood up, and looked down at the man slumped against the beam. His eyes were glazing over, his breaths getting shallower.
He wouldn’t last much longer.
“Who does he work for?” I asked.
The man’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Who. Does. He. Work. For?”
He laughed again, softer this time, almost sad. “No one…anymore….”
Then his head dropped, and he stopped breathing.
I stared at him for a long moment, my chest burning, my hands still shaking with adrenaline.
Vance Donovan. Former FBI. Same man who had been threatening Cassandra.
And somehow, he’d known about the warehouse. Known about the shipment. Known exactly when and where to hit us.
Someone had fed him that information.
And I had a sinking feeling I knew who.
***
The drive home was a blur.
The stink of gunpowder and iron followed me all the way back, clinging to my skin, my clothes, my lungs. I could still feel the weight of my Glock in my hand, still hear the screams, still see the bodies.
By the time I walked through the door, it was past three in the morning.
Cassandra was awake.
She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of my shirts, her eyes red-rimmed like she’d been crying. When she saw me, she gasped and shot to her feet.
“Drew.” Her voice cracked. “Are you okay?”
I looked down at myself—blood splattered across my shirt, my hands stained dark, my jeans torn at the knee.
“It’s not mine,” I said flatly.
Her face went pale. “What happened?”
“Work.” I walked past her, heading straight for the bathroom. “Don’t wait up.”
I didn’t give her a chance to respond. Just shut the door behind me, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the shower.
The water ran red at first, swirling down the drain like all the violence I couldn’t wash away. I stood there under the scalding spray, my hands braced against the tile, my head bowed.
Vance Donovan.
The name looped in my head, relentless and accusing.
Did she really give him information about the warehouse??
My fists clenched against the tile.
If it was—if she’d been working with him, feeding him intel, betraying Bratva—I didn’t know what I’d do.
Kill her, the way I was supposed to.
Or protect her, and damn myself in the process.
I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, then got out, dried off, and pulled on clean clothes.
When I walked back into the living room, Cassandra was still awake, sitting on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Drew,” she said softly. “Please talk to me.”
I stopped a few feet away, my jaw tight. “Not now, Cass.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my damp hair, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. “Just…not now.”
She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and I felt like the worst kind of bastard.
But I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not until I knew the truth.
Not until I figured out what the hell I was going to do about it.
***
The next morning, Rafael summoned me to his office.
I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw bodies. Heard screams. Felt the weight of my gun in my hand.
And I saw Cassandra, lying to my face.
I dragged myself out of bed, left her sleeping, and headed to the office early.
When I walked into Rafael’s office, he was already at his desk, a glass of scotch in hand despite the fact that it was barely nine in the morning.
“Sit,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I sat.
He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes sharp and calculating. Then he set his glass down and leaned back in his chair.
“You look like hell.”
“Long night,” I said flatly.
“I heard.” He tapped his fingers against the armrest, his expression unreadable. “Vance Donovan. Former FBI. Now a ghost with a vendetta.”
I nodded. “Kirill’s digging into him.”
“Good.” Rafael paused, then added, “But that’s not why I called you here.”
I frowned. “Then why?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze boring into mine. “I know about Cassandra.”
My blood ran cold.
“I know she’s pregnant,” Rafael continued, his voice calm, almost gentle. “I know the baby is yours. I know you’re living together. I know you have…an uneven relationship.”
I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand.
“I’m not angry, Drew. I’m not here to lecture you.” He picked up his glass again, swirled the amber liquid. “But I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“Cassandra is broken.” His words hit me like a sucker punch to the chest. “She hides it. Masks it with her sharp mouth and cold eyes. But I know what broken looks like. And she’s barely holding it together.”
I clenched my jaw, my hands fisting on my thighs.
“You’re the only one who gets through to her,” Rafael said. “The only one she lets in. So I’m telling you—comfort her. Protect her. Because if she falls apart, we all lose something valuable.”
“I’m trying,” I said, my voice rough.
“Try harder.” He set his glass down again, his expression hardening. “And marry her.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Rafael’s tone was calm, absolute. “The child is Bratva. And we don’t raise bastards in chaos. You will make this right.”
“We haven’t even talked about—”
“I don’t care.” He cut me off, his voice dropping into something lethal. “This isn’t about feelings, Drew. This isn’t about whether you’re ready or whether she wants it. This is about control. About protection. About making sure our blood is legitimate and secure.”
I stared at him, my mind reeling.
“She’s carrying your child,” Rafael continued. “A Kamarov. That makes her family, whether you like it or not. And family doesn’t live in limbo. Family has structure. Stability. A name.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can. And I am.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “You’ll marry her, Drew. Sooner rather than later. And you’ll do it with a smile, because that’s what’s expected.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him he couldn’t dictate my life like this, but the look in his eyes stopped me cold.
This wasn’t a suggestion.
It was an order.
“Dismissed,” Rafael said, waving a hand like he’d just assigned me a routine task.
I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the door.
“Drew.”
I stopped, my hand on the doorknob.
“This isn’t about tradition,” Rafael said quietly. “It’s about survival. Yours. Hers. The baby’s. If she’s unprotected, if she’s vulnerable, someone will exploit that. And I won’t let that happen to my people.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and walked out.
***
I didn’t go back to my office.
Didn’t trust myself to sit at a desk and pretend everything was normal.
Instead, I walked. Down the hallway, through the building, out into the cold morning air.
Marry her.
Rafael’s words echoed in my head, relentless and inescapable.
I’d thought about it, of course. Thought about what it would mean to make Cassandra my wife, to bind her to me in a way that went beyond a baby, beyond desire.
But I’d never said it out loud. Never let myself believe it was possible.
Because how could I marry someone I didn’t trust?
Someone who might be betraying everything I cared about?
I pulled out my phone, dialed Kirill.
“Talk to me,” I said when he answered.
“Vance Donovan,” Kirill said immediately. “Forty-one. Former FBI. Clean record until about three years ago, then he disappeared. No termination papers, no reassignment, just…gone.”
“Why?”
“Working on it. But from what I’m piecing together? He was dirty. Got too close to something—or someone—he shouldn’t have, and the bureau cut him loose.”
“Connected to Bratva?”
“Maybe. I’m still digging. But Drew?” Kirill’s voice dropped. “This guy’s dangerous. Not just because he’s got skills, but because he’s got nothing to lose. Men like that don’t stop until they’re dead.”
“Find him,” I said. “I don’t care what it takes. Find him.”
“On it.”
I hung up, stared at my phone, then pulled up a text thread.
Cassandra.
Her last message was from this morning. Are you okay?
I hadn’t responded.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t know what to say.
So I shoved my phone back in my pocket and kept walking.
Because the truth was coming.
And when it did, I didn’t know if I’d be able to save her.
Or if I’d have to destroy her instead.