Chapter 21 – Drew
I squeezed the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white as I pulled up outside Kirill’s place. The engine ticked as it cooled, a metronome counting down to something I wasn’t ready to face.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the building through the windshield, my mind a chaotic mess of half-formed thoughts and suspicions I couldn’t shake.
The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—a lonely, desperate sound that matched exactly how I felt.
My wife was lying to me.
My wife.
The woman I’d just married three days ago. The woman carrying my child. The woman I’d stood in front of my entire family and promised to protect, to honor, to love.
And she was hiding something that could destroy everything.
I wanted to be wrong. God, I wanted to be wrong so badly it physically hurt.
But every instinct I’d honed over years in this world was screaming at me that I wasn’t.
I finally got out of the car, my legs heavy, and walked to Kirill’s door. Each step felt like I was walking toward an execution—mine or Cassandra’s, I wasn’t sure yet.
I knocked.
Kirill answered in a hoodie and sweatpants, his blond hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. His sharp blue eyes took me in with one sweep, and his expression shifted from casual to concerned in half a second.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“I feel worse,” I said flatly.
He stepped aside without another word, and I walked in.
His place was exactly what I expected—minimalist and efficient, with tech equipment scattered across every available surface.
Multiple monitors glowed in the corner of the living room, lines of code scrolling across screens like digital waterfalls.
The air smelled faintly of coffee and electronic heat.
Jazz played softly in the background. Something slow and melancholic that matched my mood perfectly. Miles Davis, maybe. Or Coltrane. I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.
Kirill grabbed a bottle of vodka from his freezer—the good stuff, Russian, from home—and poured two glasses without asking. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t be here at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night unless something were seriously wrong.
He handed me my glass, and we moved to his den—a small room off the main living area with leather chairs, dark wood paneling, and shelves lined with books I doubted he’d ever read.
They were probably just for show, though, knowing Kirill, he’d probably read every single one and could quote them from memory.
I sank into one of the chairs and downed half my glass in one swallow. The vodka burned all the way down, sharp and cleansing, but it did nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Kirill sat across from me, cradling his own glass, studying my face with those sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. He didn’t speak. Just waited. Patient. Observant.
That was Kirill. He never pushed. Never prodded. He just sat there and let you come to him when you were ready.
I set my glass down on the side table, leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, and pressed my palms against my eyes.
“I think Cassandra’s still feeding Vance information,” I said, my voice rough and strained.”
Kirill still said nothing. Just took a measured sip of his vodka and waited for me to continue.
“I can’t go straight to Rafael,” I continued, dropping my hands and looking at him. The words tasted like ash in my mouth. “She’s my wife now. I can’t just…I can’t break her trust like that. I can’t throw her to the wolves without knowing for sure.”
“But you think she’s still lying to you,” Kirill said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded, my jaw so tight I thought my teeth might crack. “Yeah. I do.”
Kirill leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think she hasn’t stopped? She told you everything about Vance. About what she’d been doing. Why would she risk continuing after that?”
“The ambushes.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through every word. “The last two operations—both compromised. Both hit with precision that screams inside information. And the timing, Kirill. It all lines up with when she had access to those files.”
“Could be someone else,” Kirill offered, though his tone suggested he was playing devil’s advocate more than believing it.
“Maybe. But then there’s the anonymous tip.
” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“Rafael got a call from a burner phone warning him about the warehouse ambush. Minutes before it happened. A woman’s voice.
He couldn’t trace it, but it was enough warning that our casualties were minimal instead of catastrophic. ”
Kirill’s eyes sharpened. “You think it was her.”
“I know it was her.” My voice cracked, just slightly, and I hated myself for it.
Hated the weakness. Hated the certainty.
“She’s still giving Vance intel, but she’s trying to minimize the damage.
Trying to have it both ways. Trying to protect us while still keeping him satisfied enough that he doesn’t.
.. I don’t know. Whatever leverage he has on her. ”
Kirill was quiet for a long moment, swirling his vodka in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. Then he said, “She’s terrified of him.”
My stomach churned. “So you think she’s still trapped.”
“I think she told you what she could without getting herself killed,” Kirill said carefully. “And I think she’s been trying to walk a tightrope ever since—keeping Vance satisfied enough to stay alive while trying to protect the people she actually cares about.”
“By betraying us.” The words came out bitter.
“By surviving,” Kirill corrected. “There’s a difference.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say that survival didn’t justify betrayal, that she should have trusted me enough to tell me everything, that we could have protected her.
But could we have?
Vance Donovan was former FBI with connections and resources that ran deep. If he had something on Cassandra—something damaging enough to control her—what could we have done?
“There’s more,” I said, my voice hollow. “I’ve been tracking her movements. The files she accesses. The times she’s alone in Rafael’s office.”
Kirill raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“She’s still looking. Still searching for something in those restricted databases. Security protocols. Financial records. Communication logs.” I met his eyes. “She’s gathering intel, Kirill. Current intel. And the only person she’d be gathering it for is Vance.”
His expression darkened. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve seen the access logs. Cross-referenced them with the timing of the compromised operations.
” I pulled out my phone and showed him the spreadsheet I’d been building.
“Look at this. Two days before Seattle, she accessed the shipping manifests and security detail assignments. Three days before the warehouse, she pulled the operation timeline and personnel roster.”
Kirill studied the screen, his jaw tightening with each passing second. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I took the phone back, my hands shaking. “So either she’s still working with him, or—”
“Or he’s forcing her to,” Kirill finished quietly. “Either way, she’s in deep. Deeper than she told you.”
The room felt too small suddenly. Too hot. I stood up and paced to the window, staring out at the Chicago skyline without really seeing it.
“What do I do?” The question came out strangled. “She lied to me, Kirill. She told me she’d stopped. Told me she’d cut him off. And I believed her. I fucking believed her because I wanted to. Because I love her. And the whole time she’s been—”
“Hey.” Kirill’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “You don’t know the full story yet. You don’t know why she’s still doing it. You don’t know what he’s threatening her with.”
“Does it matter?” I turned to face him, and I knew my eyes were wild, desperate. “She’s putting all of us at risk. She’s putting herself at risk. Our baby at risk. When does the why stop mattering?”
“When you stop loving her,” Kirill said simply. “But you don’t. So it matters.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say love wasn’t enough when trust was shattered.
But I couldn’t.
Because he was right.
I sank back into the chair, my head in my hands. “Rafael’s going to find out eventually. He’s already suspicious. Once he starts digging—really digging—he’ll trace it back to her. And then...”
“And then she’s dead,” Kirill finished quietly. “Rafael doesn’t forgive traitors. No matter who they’re married to.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
“You have to talk to her,” Kirill continued, his voice firm. “Tonight. Give her one more chance to tell you everything. The whole truth this time. No more half-stories. No more secrets.”
“And if she won’t?”
Kirill was silent for a long moment. Then: “Then you have to decide what you’re willing to sacrifice. Your loyalty to the Bratva, or your wife.”
The choice felt impossible. Unbearable.
But I knew I had to make it.
I downed the rest of my vodka and stood on shaky legs. “Thanks.”
Kirill walked me to the door. Before I left, he gripped my shoulder. “Whatever you decide, Drew—make sure you can live with it. Because once you choose, there’s no going back.”
***
The drive home felt like it took hours.
Every red light stretched into infinity. Every turn felt wrong. Every mile was torture.
My mind kept replaying the evidence. The access logs. The timing. The anonymous tip from a burner phone that could only have been her.
She’d lied to me.
After everything—after I’d promised to protect her, after I’d married her, after she’d told me about Vance—she was still lying.
Still betraying us.
Still trapped in whatever web Vance had spun around her.
By the time I pulled into the parking garage, my hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
I sat there for several long minutes, trying to prepare myself for what was coming. Trying to steel myself for the conversation that would either save us or destroy us completely.
Then I got out and headed upstairs, each step heavier than the last
Cassandra was in the kitchen when I walked in.
She was wearing one of my shirts—an old gray one that was too big on her, sleeves rolled up to her elbows—and her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She looked soft. Domestic. Safe.
But I knew better now.
“Hey,” she said, turning to smile at me. The smile reached her eyes, warm and genuine. “I made dinner. It’s nothing fancy, just pasta, but I thought—”
“Did you give Vance information about the Seattle operation?”
The words came out cold. Flat. Lethal.
Her smile vanished instantly.
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint. The wooden spoon she’d been holding clattered to the counter.
“Drew—” she started, her voice trembling.
“Don’t.” My voice was low and dangerous. “Don’t lie to me. Not anymore. You told me you stopped. You told me you cut him off after you came clean. Was that a lie?”
Her lips trembled. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
“I saw the access logs, Cassandra.” I took a step closer, my chest tight. “Shipping manifests two days before Seattle. Operation timelines three days before the warehouse. You were still feeding him intel. After you promised me you’d stopped.”
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.
“I tried to stop it,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The warehouse—I called Rafael. From a burner. I tried to warn him before—”
“You warned him about an ambush you helped set up?” My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm. “You gave Vance the information, then tried to minimize the damage? That’s your defense?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” The words exploded out of her, desperate and raw. “He said if I didn’t give him something—anything—he would—” She choked on a sob, her whole body shaking.
“He would what?” I demanded, closing the distance between us. “What does he have on you that’s worth betraying everyone who’s tried to protect you?”
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. Her whole body trembled like she might shatter.
“Tell me,” I said, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Tell me the truth. All of it. Right now. Or I walk out that door and I don’t come back. Are you still his informant?”
The silence stretched between us, suffocating and endless.
“Yes.”