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."