Chapter 4
Two guards moved in with mechanical efficiency. They seized Brennan by the collar and dragged him across the polished floorboards like a slaughtered hog, his heels squeaking against the wood as his muffled protests faded down the basement stairs.
Lavinia sank to the floor, her champagne dress bunching around her knees, staring at her packed luggage as if it were a coffin.
Cassian turned his attention back to his mother. The terrifying, sovereign predator vanished from his posture, replaced by a son whose heart was breaking in silence. He approached Estelle, who was still leaning heavily against Greta, her frail hands clutching the wool shawl.
“Come, Mama,” Cassian whispered, his deep voice thick with an ancient reverence. “You’re sleeping in my suite tonight. No one will ever lock a door on you again.”
Estelle looked up into his face, her weathered fingers reaching out to touch his bearded jaw. Her touch was feather-light, trembling with the shock of a survivor who still couldn't believe the rescue was real.
“He said you were dead, Cassian,” Estelle whimpered, fresh tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks. “Brennan stood at the foot of my bed on Tuesday and told me your car went off the bridge on Route 9. He told me the family belonged to him now.”
Cassian’s jaw set into stone, the muscle feathering beneath his skin. “He lied, Mama. I am very much alive. And this house is still yours.”
He gently scooped the old woman into his arms, lifting her against his chest as if she weighed no more than a child. He turned to Greta.
“Greta, bring Dr. Vance to the third-floor master wing,” Cassian instructed. “Have him bring IV hydration, vitamins, and a fresh medical kit. Then prepare warm broth and clean linen. You answer only to me from this moment on.”
“Yes, Don Morretti,” Greta said, wiping her eyes with her apron, bowing her head in deep respect. “Right away.”
Cassian carried his mother up the grand sweeping staircase, past the oil portraits of three generations of Morretti bosses who had bled to secure the eastern seaboard. In his arms, Estelle felt terrifyingly light, her ribs protruding beneath the torn dress, her breath shallow and rattled.
He laid her down on the king-sized down mattress in his private suite, pulling a heated cashmere duvet up to her chin.
“Cassian,” Estelle whispered, her fingers catching the cuff of his dress shirt. “Don’t kill your brother. His father’s blood is in him.”
Cassian leaned down and kissed her weathered forehead, his voice smooth, warm, and entirely unyielding.
“Rest now, Mama,” Cassian said softly. “Let me carry the sins of this family.”
He waited until her eyelids fluttered shut under the warmth of the room before turning on his heel. He walked back into the hallway, where Frank stood waiting, an encrypted leather folio clutched under his arm.
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“Report, Frank,” Cassian commanded as they descended the back stairs.
“We decrypted Brennan’s private server in the guest house, Boss,” Frank said, his voice grim. “It’s worse than we thought. Lavinia wasn't just planning to run with him. They sold the northern shipping routes to the Falco syndicate in Atlantic City.”
