Cassandra Vale

4.

Chapter 4: The Shadow in the Room

The door creaks open, and my heart slams against my ribs like a caged animal. The shadow in the frame isn’t Dimitri—too slim, too quick, holding something that glints like a blade or a gun. I’m crouched beside the bed, my switchblade gripped tight, my breath shallow to keep quiet. The penthouse’s city glow filters through the blinds, painting the room in stripes of neon and shadow. My locket swings against my chest, a reminder of Mom and Tommy, the only reasons I’m in this mess. Whoever this is, they’re not here for a chat.

I ease back, my sneakers silent on the hardwood, and tuck myself against the wall, out of the intruder’s line of sight. The shadow steps inside, moving with a predator’s grace, and I catch a glimpse—short dark hair, a leather jacket, maybe a woman. The glint in their hand is a knife, not a gun, but that’s no comfort. My pulse races, and I weigh my options: scream for Dimitri and risk outing myself as weak, or handle this myself and maybe not walk away.

The figure pauses, scanning the room, and I hold my breath, my switchblade ready. “I know you’re here,” a woman’s voice says, low and sharp, with a hint of an accent—Eastern European, maybe, like Dimitri’s. “Come out, or I make this messy.”

My stomach twists. She’s not one of Dimitri’s goons—she’d know the layout, wouldn’t hesitate. I tighten my grip, my mind flashing to Tommy’s text about someone watching our apartment. Is this connected? I need answers, not a fight, but I’m not betting on her being chatty. I step out, keeping the bed between us, my blade raised. “Who the hell are you?” I say, my voice steady despite the fear clawing my throat.

The woman turns, and the neon light catches her face—sharp cheekbones, green eyes like mine, auburn hair tucked under a cap. She looks like me, or close enough to make my skin crawl. The photo in Dimitri’s pocket—Elena?—flashes in my mind. “Put the knife down,” she says, her own blade steady, her eyes locked on me like I’m a puzzle. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I snap, my heart pounding. “Sneaking into my room with a knife screams friendly.”

She smirks, a flicker of amusement that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re not what I expected,” she says, lowering her knife slightly but not enough to make me relax. “Cassandra Vale, right?”

I stiffen. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot,” she says, stepping closer. I back up, my hip brushing the nightstand. “Dimitri’s new toy. Or are you more than that?”

“Toy?” I laugh, bitter. “I’m nobody’s plaything. Who are you? One of Viktor’s?”

Her face hardens at the name, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “Not Viktor,” she says, her voice tight. “I’m… let’s say a ghost from Dimitri’s past.”

My breath catches. “Elena?” I blurt, the name out before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen, just for a second, then narrow. “He told you about me?” she asks, her voice sharp. “What did he say?”

I hesitate, my mind racing. Dimitri called Elena his sister, gone, but this woman’s alive, standing here, looking too much like me. “He said I remind him of you,” I say, watching her reaction. “Showed me a photo. Why does that matter?”

She steps closer, her knife still in hand, and I raise mine, my heart hammering. “You don’t know,” she says, almost to herself. “He’s using you. You’re bait, Cassandra. For me.”

“Bait?” My voice shakes, anger mixing with fear. “For what? What does he want with you?”

She opens her mouth, but a shout from the living room cuts her off—Dimitri’s voice, furious. “Cassandra!” Heavy footsteps pound down the hall, and the woman curses under her breath, darting toward the window. She’s fast, but I’m faster, lunging to grab her arm. My fingers close around her jacket, but she twists, her knife flashing toward me. I dodge, barely, the blade grazing my sleeve, and I swing my switchblade, catching her wrist. She hisses, dropping her knife, and I kick it under the bed.

“Who are you?” I demand, pinning her against the wall, my blade at her throat. Her eyes—green, like mine—burn with defiance, but there’s fear there too.

“Cassandra!” Dimitri bursts in, his gun drawn, his t-shirt rumpled like he just woke up. His eyes flick from me to the woman, and his face goes pale, like he’s seen a ghost. “Elena,” he breathes, his voice breaking.

I freeze, my blade still at her throat. “Elena?” I say, my voice shaking. “Your sister? She’s alive?”

“Let her go,” Dimitri says, his gun lowering, his eyes locked on her. “Cassandra, now.”

I hesitate, my mind a storm. This is her—the girl from the photo, the reason I’m here. I step back, keeping my blade ready, and Elena rubs her wrist, glaring at Dimitri. “You bastard,” she spits. “Using her to lure me out? Low, even for you.”

Dimitri’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it. “You’re alive,” he says, his voice raw. “All these years, I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” she snaps, her accent thicker now, her eyes blazing. “You left me to rot, Dimitri. You and your empire.”

I’m caught between them, my head spinning. “Someone explain this,” I say, my voice sharp. “Now. Why am I bait? What’s going on?”

Dimitri glances at me, his expression torn—guilt, anger, something softer I can’t name. “Not here,” he says. “Not now.”

“Bullshit,” I snap, stepping toward him. “You dragged me into this. You rigged my mom’s bills, didn’t you? To trap me. And now your sister’s here, alive, and I’m what? A stand-in?”

Elena laughs, a bitter sound. “You’re more than that,” she says, her eyes on me, searching. “Ask him why you really look like me.”

My stomach drops. “What’s she talking about?” I ask Dimitri, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t answer, his eyes on Elena, like she’s a bomb about to go off. “Why are you here?” he asks her. “If you wanted to talk, you didn’t need to sneak in.”

“I don’t trust you,” she says, her voice cold. “Not after what you did. I came for her.” She nods at me, and my skin prickles.

“For me?” I say, my grip tightening on the blade. “Why?”

Elena hesitates, her eyes flicking to Dimitri, then back to me. “Because you’re not just bait,” she says. “You’re—”

A sharp crack cuts her off—a gunshot, not in the room but close, maybe the hallway. Dimitri’s head snaps toward the door, his gun up again. “Stay here,” he barks, moving to the hall.

“No way,” I say, following him, my blade still out. Elena grabs her knife from under the bed, falling in beside me. I don’t trust her, but I trust Dimitri less right now. The penthouse feels like a warzone waiting to happen.

In the living room, the city lights cast long shadows, and the front door’s ajar, a sliver of hallway light spilling in. Dimitri crouches by the couch, his gun trained on the door. “Get down,” he whispers, but I’m already moving, my instincts kicking in.

“Who’s out there?” I hiss, my voice low. “Your buddy Marco back for round two?”

“Not Marco,” Dimitri says, his eyes scanning the shadows. “Viktor’s men, maybe. Or worse.”

Elena snorts, her knife ready. “Always your mess, Dimitri,” she mutters. “You never change.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, but there’s pain in his voice, like her words cut deeper than any bullet.

I crouch beside him, my heart racing. “What’s worse than Viktor?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see fear—real, raw fear. Before I can press, a shadow moves in the hallway, and a voice calls out, low and taunting. “Ruvan, you in there? Got a message for you.”

Dimitri stiffens, his gun steady. “Stay back,” he tells me, but I’m done being a pawn.

“Who’s that?” I demand, my voice shaking but firm. “What do they want?”

The voice laughs, cold and sharp. “Not just you, Ruvan. The girl, too. Hand her over, and maybe we don’t burn this place down.”

My blood runs cold. Elena’s eyes meet mine, and I see the same fear, the same questions. Who’s out there? And why do they want me?