Redacted Desires

CHAPTER THREE

The letter was still in my bag.

I’d moved it twice — once from my jacket pocket to my work bag, once from my work bag to the bottom drawer of my desk at home where I kept things I wasn’t ready to look at. It sat there now while I got dressed in the dark, while Sam argued with Sadie about whose turn it was to do the dishes.

I knew the number. I just wasn’t ready to truly face it.

Andrea was already at her desk when I arrived, coffee in hand, reading something on her screen with the focused expression of someone who had already been productive for an hour.

“Second day,” she said without looking up. “Harder than the first.”

“Why?”

“First day you’re too nervous to notice anything. Second day you actually see where you are.”

She wasn’t wrong.

We went to the coffee place at ten-fifteen — two blocks east, exactly as Andrea advertised. Small, warm, the kind of place that had been there long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. Andrea ordered without looking at the menu. I followed her lead.

We were waiting at the counter and I looked around admiring the place. I turned slightly.

A man stood near the window, coffee in hand, in conversation with someone beside him. Tall. Well-dressed effortlessly. He wasn’t looking at his companion. He was looking at me — steady, unhurried, with the kind of eye contact that didn’t apologise for itself.

I looked away first.

“He’s still looking,” Andrea murmured into her cup.

“You’re imagining it.”

“Sienna.” Her voice was flat. “I have eyes.”

I glanced back once. He was. And when our eyes met again he didn’t look away — just held it for one long unhurried second before the faintest suggestion of something crossed his face. Not quite a smile. Something more considered than that.

Then his companion said something and he turned away.

“Who is that?” I asked quietly.

Andrea’s expression shifted into something between recognition and caution. “Marcus Castello.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him.” She picked up her order. “I keep up with these things.”

“These things mean what exactly?”

She gave me a sideways look. “Families, Sienna. The kind with names.”

I laughed despite myself. “How do you keep track of all of them?”

“They just happen to have a lot of buzz around them.” She held the door open. “And you should too.”

I looked back once more before we left. Marcus Castello was in conversation again, not looking our way. But the deliberateness of that eye contact the way it had been a choice and not an accident — stayed with me longer than I meant to let it.

Two men came off the elevator.

Cassius first — same unhurried certainty in a dark suit today. Beside him was an older man, also in a dark suit. Same jaw as Cassius. Same eyes, colder.

Mathilda Armstrong was already at her office door.

She opened the door herself to welcome him in. She said something that made him nod once, satisfied. Then her office door closed and the floor exhaled.

“Who was that with him?” I asked.

Andrea didn’t look up. “Raphael Moretti.”

She said nothing else. I didn’t ask anything else.

Inside Mathilda’s office - Cassius

The room was all clean lines and expensive restraint. Mathilda sat behind her desk like she’d been built for it. Seventy percent of the city’s legitimate logistics infrastructure ran through Verizon’s network. The other thirty percent nobody talked about.

My father stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the city the way he looked at everything he owned.

“The eastern routes are clean,” Mathilda said. “No flags, no delays. The new shipping contracts give us three additional access points through the port. Untraceable on paper.”

“And the western corridor?”

“Operational by November.” She folded her hands. “The Moretti name doesn’t appear anywhere. Neither does mine.”

My father nodded once. Satisfied. “Good.”

The room held its particular silence — the silence of people who had been in business long enough that trust was a transaction and transactions didn’t require warmth.

Mathilda opened a drawer and produced a document. Slid it across the desk toward me.

“Head of Strategic Operations,” she said. “You will also take control of the Research and Finance department, temporarily but effective immediately. Full access to all logistics divisions, port authority contacts, and internal network infrastructure.” She looked at me directly for the first time.

“It’s the best I can do. Having you as a full-time worker diverts attention.” She looked at me directly. “You’re making sure nothing that shouldn’t move, moves without our knowledge.”

I picked up the pen. Signed where she indicated. The title meant nothing to me. The access meant everything to my father, which was the same thing.

Mathilda took the document back and looked at my father. “The Castellos.”

“What about them?”

“The eastern routes run directly through their distribution network. Three of our key access points are held under Castello-affiliated entities.” She set the document down. “If the alliance fractures for any reason, we lose those access points overnight. The Russians would know within forty-eight hours.”

“The alliance won’t fracture.”

“You’re certain.”

“The betrothal makes it certain.” My father turned from the window. “Cassius and Amelia Castello. Formal announcement end of October. The two families bound publicly — the Russians see that and they see a wall they can’t move through.”

Mathilda nodded slowly, the way she nodded when she was satisfied but not finished. She looked at me then — a different look than before. Something that wasn’t business.

“And you?” she said. “The Castello girl.”

My expression didn’t change.

“It’s an arrangement.”

“I know what it is.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’m asking if you understand what it isn’t.”

I held her gaze and said nothing.

She let the silence sit for exactly three seconds. Then — “Don’t.” Her voice was quiet. “Whatever you’re thinking. Whatever you’re already doing in your head — don’t. This isn’t about what you want. It never was.”

“I’m aware of what it’s about.”

“Are you.” Not a question. Her eyes stayed on mine a moment longer, reading something she didn’t share, then moved back to my father. Professional again. Completely. Like the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. “I’ll have the operational files transferred to his access by the end of the week.”

My father checked his watch. “We’re done.”

He moved toward the door. Hand on the frame. Stopped.

Didn’t turn around.

“One more thing.” His voice was the same as it always was — level, unhurried, the particular calm of a man who had never once needed volume to be heard. “I believe we have someone on the inside feeding information out. The Russians continue to be our biggest threat solely because they’re always two steps ahead of us.”

Nobody spoke.

“I don’t know who yet.” He opened the door. “But I will.”

He left.

Mathilda and I remained in the clean-lined office with its expensive restraint and the weight of what he’d just put in the room. She looked at the door. I looked at the door.

Then she picked up her pen and went back to work like the ground hadn’t just shifted under both of us.

I buttoned my jacket and left without a word.

The floor outside was exactly as we’d left it. Screens. People. Work. Nobody looked up.

I didn’t look at anything on my way to the elevator.

But at the doors, waiting, I was already thinking about my father’s voice. I don’t know who yet. But I will.