Perspective: Rook
Pain was a familiar old friend. It throbbed at the base of his skull, sharp and rhythmic.
Rook opened his eyes. The world was blurry. He wasn't in a car. He was zip-tied to a steel chair in a damp, windowless room.
His memory rebooted in flashes.
The Hotel Corridor. 3:00 AM. He had been standing guard outside Suite 101.
He remembered the elevator pinging. He remembered the smell of ozone. He remembered the flashbang grenade rolling out of the service elevator before he could draw his weapon.
He had taken down two of Claudia's guards before the third one pistol-whipped him from behind.
Cassian and Elena. Did they get out?
He strained against the plastic zip ties cutting into his thick wrists. He checked his body—bruised ribs, a splitting headache, but no bullet holes. He was alive. Which meant they wanted something.
The heavy steel door creaked open.
A man walked in, the tip of a lit cigar glowing in the dim light.
Rook recognized him instantly. Don Vittorio Morell.
Vittorio looked impeccable in a tailored navy suit, despite the concrete surroundings. He smiled—a shark showing its teeth.
"So," Vittorio said, his voice smooth like oil. "The beast wakes up."
Rook stared at him. His face was a stone mask. He gave him nothing.
"You failed, you know," Vittorio taunted, circling the chair. "Your master is running like a rat. My men are sweeping the island. It's only a matter of time."
Rook remained motionless. If they are sweeping the island, it means they haven't caught them yet. Good. Cassian was smart.
"I have a proposition," Vittorio said, leaning against the metal table. "My daughter has something of mine. A USB drive. I want it back. And I want the location of where Cassian is taking her."
He placed a pen and a pad of paper on the table.
"I know you can't speak," Vittorio whispered, leaning close. "But you can write. Tell me where the safe house is, and I will let you walk out of here. I'll even pay you double what the Shadow Syndicate pays."
Rook looked at the pen.
He remembered Elena. He remembered how she looked at him not as a monster, but as a friend. She was the only innocent thing in this war.
Rook leaned forward. He picked up the pen with his bound hands.
Vittorio's eyes lit up. "Good dog."
Rook pressed the pen to the paper.
He didn't write coordinates. He drew a single, crude picture. A middle finger.
He looked up at Vittorio and smirked.
Vittorio's face twisted in rage. He snatched the paper and crumbled it. "You loyal fool."
The door opened again. Claudia stepped in. She looked disheveled, her white suit stained with soot, a bandage on her cheek where a concrete chip (from Elena's warning shot) had cut her.
"Stop wasting time with the mute, Vittorio," she snapped.
"Did you find them?" Vittorio demanded.
"No," Claudia admitted, anger radiating off her. "They stole a boat. The Midnight Runner. They cleared the marina twenty minutes ago."
Rook allowed himself a small, internal sigh of relief. They made it.
"A boat?" Vittorio paced the small room. "Where is he going? There's nothing north but open ocean and..." He stopped. He looked at Claudia. "The Cabin."
Claudia nodded grimly. "Blackwood. It's the only off-grid property Cassian owns with water access."
Rook's blood ran cold. They knew.
"Prepare the chopper," Vittorio ordered, buttoning his jacket. "We hunt tonight."
He turned back to Rook. "And as for him... keep him alive. If Cassian tries to negotiate, we might need a hostage."
Vittorio and Claudia swept out of the room. The heavy door slammed shut, the lock engaging with a final thud.
Rook sagged against the ropes.
They were going to Blackwood. They were going to ambush them.
He had to warn them.
Rook looked at his wrists. The zip ties were thick, industrial grade. But Rook was a man who had survived having his tongue cut out. He had survived war. He wasn't going to let a piece of plastic stop him.
He began to rub the plastic tie against the sharp metal edge of the chair bolt behind his back. Friction. It would take hours. It would bleed. But he would cut through.
The Wolf was coming.
Blackwood Cabin wasn't really a cabin. It was a fortress disguised as a vacation home.
Hidden deep in a cove accessible only by water, the structure was built of dark timber and stone, blending perfectly into the surrounding pine forest. As Cassian cut the boat's engines, letting us drift toward the private dock, the silence of the woods felt heavier than the noise of the city.
There were no gunshots here. No sirens. Just the lap of water against the hull and the cry of a distant hawk.
Cassian tied off the boat and hopped onto the dock. He didn't ask; he simply reached down and lifted me into his arms again.
"I can walk," I murmured, though the throbbing in my bandaged feet argued otherwise.
"Not on this terrain," he said, carrying me up the rocky path toward the front door. "And I'm not taking chances with infection."
He kicked the door open. The air inside was stale, smelling of pine needles and disuse, but the space was impressive. A massive stone fireplace dominated the main room. A thick bear-skin rug lay in front of it. The furniture was leather, heavy, and covered in white dust sheets.
Cassian set me down on the kitchen counter like a doll.
"Don't move," he ordered.
He went into tactical mode, even here. He checked the windows. He checked the back door. He pulled up a floorboard in the pantry and retrieved a dusty duffel bag—weapons, ammo, cash. Only when he was satisfied that we were truly alone did his shoulders finally drop.
He turned to me. The setting sun cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched there.
"Hungry?" he asked.
I realized with a start that I hadn't eaten since... well, since before I became a fiancée, a fugitive, and a shooter.
"Starving," I admitted.
What followed was the most surreal hour of my life.
The feared Underboss of the Shadow Syndicate took off his tuxedo jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and raided the pantry. He found a box of pasta and a jar of sauce. He found a bottle of red wine that had been aging in the rack for years.
He cooked.
I watched him from the counter, mesmerizing by the domesticity of it. He chopped garlic with the same knife skills he used to threaten men. He poured the wine into two dusty glasses.
We ate on the floor in front of the fireplace, the flames Cassian had kindled casting a warm, flickering glow over the room.
"It's good," I said, twirling the pasta on my fork. "I didn't know you could cook."
"A man who relies on others for survival is a dead man," Cassian replied, taking a sip of wine. He watched me over the rim of the glass. "Besides, I spent a lot of time alone before... before I took you."
"Tell me," I said, putting my fork down. The food sat heavy in my stomach. I needed the truth more than I needed calories. "The files. We didn't finish reading them."
Cassian went still. He set his glass down.
"Elena, we're safe for tonight. We can deal with the ghosts in the morning."
"No," I said, reaching for the waterproof bag where he'd stashed the USB drive. "If they are coming for us—if my father is coming—I need to know why. I need to know everything."
Cassian sighed, a sound of resignation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the drive. He plugged it into a dusty old laptop he had retrieved from the hidden cache. It wasn't connected to the internet, but it could read the files.
The blue light blinked.
Cassian clicked on the folder we hadn't opened yet. Folder 4: The Incident (May 2009).
"May 2009?" I frowned, doing the mental math. "I was kidnapped in October 2009. This is five months before you took me."
"This," Cassian said quietly, "is the catalyst. This is about your mother."
He opened a scanned document. It was a coroner's report. Name: Isabella Morell. Date of Death: May 12, 2009. Cause of Death: Accidental Overdose.
"My mother died of a heart attack," I whispered. "That's what my father told the press."
"Read the toxicology report," Cassian pointed to the screen.
I scanned the medical jargon. High levels of a sedative. But at the bottom, a handwritten note: 'Injection site found between toes. Bruising consistent with struggle.'
"He killed her," I breathed.
"Isabella was going to leave him," Cassian explained. "She found out about his ties to the Syndicate. She threatened to go to the FBI. So... she had an accident."
He clicked the next file. A video.
It was grainy footage dated May 12, 2009. My father was arguing with my mother.
"I won't let you raise her in this filth, Vittorio! I'm taking Elena and I'm leaving!"
"You aren't taking my daughter anywhere."
The argument escalated. Vittorio shoved her. She fell, hitting her head.
And then, in the corner of the frame, a tiny figure toddled into the room.
Me. Three years old. Holding a stuffed bear.
I watched as my father checked the body, realized she was dead, and then turned to look at the toddler standing in the doorway.
He walked over, picked me up, and covered my eyes.
"It's okay, Elena," he whispered on the tape. "Mommy is just sleeping."
Cassian slammed the laptop shut.
"You were the only witness," Cassian said, his voice hard. "For five months, he kept you in that house, terrified that you might say something. That you might remember 'Daddy hurting Mommy.' When I broke in to kidnap you in October... I didn't just steal a child. I stole the only evidence that could send him to prison for life."