Cassandra Vale

2.

Chapter 2: Into the Shadows

My heart slams against my ribs as Dimitri yanks me toward the elevator, his grip on my wrist like a vice. The garage is a tomb of concrete and flickering lights, the air thick with the acrid tang of burnt rubber. Another gunshot cracks, echoing off the walls, and I duck instinctively, my duffel bag slipping from my shoulder. “Who’s shooting at us?” I hiss, my voice barely steady.

“Stay low,” Dimitri snaps, his gun steady in his hand, eyes scanning the shadows like a predator. He’s all sharp edges now, the suave fixer gone, replaced by something feral. “Move when I say.”

I want to argue, to demand answers, but the ping of a bullet ricocheting off a pillar shuts me up. My switchblade’s in my pocket, useless against guns. I’m a bartender, not a damn action hero. Dimitri pulls me behind a concrete column, his body shielding mine. His cologne—sandalwood and gunpowder—mixes with the sweat on his skin, and I hate how it makes my pulse jump for reasons beyond fear.

“Who are they?” I whisper, peering past him. The garage is a maze, cars glinting like sleeping beasts. A shadow moves near a black van, too quick to track.

“Viktor’s men,” Dimitri says, his voice low, clipped. “Or someone stupider. Doesn’t matter. They’re dead if they come closer.”

Viktor. The name’s a ghost story at the bar, a rival who carves his deals in blood. “Why are they after you?” I ask, my breath hitching as another shot grazes the column, spraying dust.

Dimitri’s eyes flick to me, cold but flickering with something else—worry, maybe? “Not just me. You’re with me now, Cassandra. That makes you a target.”

My stomach lurches. “Great. One hour in your world, and I’m already dodging bullets.”

He smirks, but it’s tight, no humor in it. “Welcome to my life. Now move.”

He shoves me toward the elevator, his gun trained on the shadows. My sneakers squeak on the concrete, and I clutch my bag like it’s a lifeline. The elevator doors are ten feet away, but it feels like a mile. A figure steps out from behind a car—black hoodie, face masked, gun raised. I freeze, but Dimitri doesn’t. He fires, the sound deafening, and the figure drops with a grunt. My ears ring, and I stumble, my mind screaming, This is real. This is happening.

“Cassandra, go!” Dimitri barks, pulling me forward. I sprint, my legs shaky, and slam my hand on the elevator button. The doors slide open, agonizingly slow. Another shot rings out, and Dimitri grunts, his body jerking. My heart stops. “You hit?” I yell, grabbing his arm.

He shakes his head, but his jaw’s tight, a dark stain spreading on his sleeve. “Flesh wound. Get in.”

We dive into the elevator, and I jam the button for the top floor, my fingers trembling. The doors close just as another bullet pings off them. I slump against the wall, my breath ragged. “This is insane,” I mutter, glaring at Dimitri. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, checking his gun, blood dripping onto the floor. “You said I’d be safe!”

“I said your family would be safe,” he corrects, his voice calm despite the blood. “You’re in my world now. Safety’s relative.”

I want to scream, to punch him, but the elevator dings, and the doors open to a sleek hallway, all marble and dim lights. It’s a different planet from my crumbling apartment. Dimitri strides out, motioning me to follow. “Keep up,” he says, his tone sharp but his eyes scanning me, like he’s checking for cracks.

I trail him, my bag slung over my shoulder, my mind racing. Tommy’s text about someone watching him burns in my head. “My brother,” I say, stopping in the hallway. “You said he’s safe. Prove it.”

Dimitri pauses, his back to me. For a second, I think he’ll ignore me, but he pulls out his phone, taps it, and hands it over. A live feed shows Tommy in our apartment, sprawled on the couch, playing video games. Relief floods me, but it’s short-lived. “Who’s watching him?” I demand, shoving the phone back. “Your goons?”

“My people,” Dimitri says, pocketing the phone. “They’re there to protect him. For now.”

“For now?” I step closer, my voice rising. “What happens when your month is up, huh? You toss us to the wolves?”

He turns, his gray eyes locking onto mine, and I feel that pull again, like he’s a magnet and I’m steel. “You’re not a prisoner, Cassandra. You’re a deal. Keep up your end, and Tommy stays safe. Simple.”

“Nothing about you is simple,” I snap, my locket warm against my chest. Mom’s face flashes in my mind, her frail hands, her tired smile. I’m doing this for her. For Tommy. Not for him.

He steps closer, too close, and I back up, my shoulders hitting the wall. “You’re right,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “I’m not simple. But neither are you. That’s why I chose you.”

My breath catches. “Chose me? You mean trapped me. You rigged those hospital bills, didn’t you?” It’s a shot in the dark, but his flinch—barely there—tells me I’m close.

“You’re smart,” he says, his lips twitching. “Too smart, maybe. But you don’t know the half of it yet.”

“Then tell me,” I challenge, my heart pounding. “Why me? Why not some other desperate i***t?”

He leans in, his breath warm against my cheek. “Because you fight,” he says softly. “Because you’re not just anyone. You’re… familiar.”

That word—familiar—hits like a punch. The photo in his pocket, the girl who looked like me. Before I can press him, he pulls back, gesturing to a door at the end of the hall. “Come on. You need to see your new home.”

I follow, my legs heavy, my mind a tangle of fear and curiosity. The door opens to a penthouse that steals my breath—floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights sprawling like a neon sea, sleek furniture that screams money. It’s a fortress, a palace, a cage. “This is where you live?” I ask, dropping my bag on the polished floor.

“For now,” Dimitri says, shedding his jacket. The blood on his sleeve is stark against his white shirt. He catches me staring and shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

“Let me see,” I say, surprising myself. He raises an eyebrow, but I don’t back down. “You’re no good to me bleeding out.”

He smirks, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a graze on his bicep, shallow but messy. I grab a towel from the bathroom, my hands steadier than I feel, and press it to the wound. He doesn’t flinch, just watches me, his gaze unnerving. “You’re good under pressure,” he says, almost like he’s impressed.

“Bartending teaches you to handle drunks and disasters,” I mutter, tying the towel tight. “Don’t read into it.”

He chuckles, a real laugh this time, and it’s disarming, like a crack in his armor. “Noted. But you’re in deeper than drunks now, Cassandra.”

I step back, wiping my hands on my jeans. “So, what’s the plan? I’m your… what? Trophy? Servant? Explain the rules.”

He sits on a leather couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “You’re mine for thirty days. You stay here. You go where I go. You do what I say. Meetings, deals, whatever I need. And…” He pauses, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back up. “You share my bed.”

My face burns, anger and something else twisting in my gut. “You’re disgusting,” I spit, crossing my arms. “I’m not your toy.”

“Not a toy,” he says, standing, his height towering over me. “A partner, in a way. You’re smart, Cassandra. I need that. And I need you close.”

“Close for what?” I snap, my voice shaking. “To parade me around? To screw with my head?”

He steps closer, and I don’t back down, even though my heart’s racing. “To keep you safe,” he says, his voice low, almost sincere. “And to draw someone out.”

“Who?” I demand, but he shakes his head.

“You’ll know when you need to,” he says, turning away. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

I want to scream, to demand more, but exhaustion hits me like a wave. He points to a guest room, all sleek lines and soft linens, a far cry from my lumpy mattress. “Sleep,” he says. “You’ll need it.”

I grab my bag, my switchblade still in my pocket, and head to the room. The door’s heavy, like it’s sealing me in. I lock it, not that it’ll stop him. My phone’s dead now, no way to check on Tommy. I sink onto the bed, my locket clutched in my hand, Mom’s face in my mind. I’m doing this for her. For him. But Dimitri’s words—familiar, draw someone out—gnaw at me. What does he want? And why does it feel like I’m already in over my head?

I lie down, the city’s glow filtering through the blinds. Sleep’s a long way off, my mind replaying the gunshots, Dimitri’s blood, that photo. I’m drifting, half-conscious, when a soft thud jolts me upright. It’s coming from the hall, faint but deliberate, like footsteps. My heart races. I grab my switchblade, creeping to the door, and press my ear against it. Another thud, closer now, and a low murmur—voices, not just Dimitri’s. Someone’s in the penthouse.