BLOOD IN SILK

The snow had started to fall.

Thick flakes blurred the warehouse's outline as Cassian stood at the edge of the lot, hood drawn up, waiting for the signal. His crew was scattered in silence — no engines, no radio chatter, just disciplined stillness.

Everything had to be perfect.

He was taking Alina out of the state — off-grid, new ID, new life. He hadn't told her where. Only that she had one shot to disappear… and live.

She hadn't asked questions. That should've told him something.

Inside the warehouse, Alina sat on the cot, backpack at her feet, coat zipped halfway. Her hands were clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

Cassian entered silently, his presence always a storm on mute.

"It's time," he said.

She looked up. And smiled.

That smile would haunt him later.

---

The car moved fast through backroads and frozen woods. Cassian drove, Alina beside him. No words passed. His grip on the wheel was steady, but his mind was not.

He had done the unthinkable: broken protocol, cut off contact with the syndicate, and risked war — for her.

Not because she asked.

Because he wanted to.

Because somewhere between violence and memory, she had carved a place in him.

And for the first time in years, he believed maybe he deserved more than blood and silence.

But love, he was about to learn, can be sharper than any knife.

---

They reached the safehouse — an abandoned estate outside Albany. Hidden by forests and time. Cassian led her inside, checked every door and window, then turned to her.

"You'll stay here until I arrange the new papers," he said. "Two days. I'll bring you food, burner phones, and the route north."

She nodded. "You're not staying?"

He looked at her too long. "I can't. Not tonight."

Her gaze searched his face. "You trust me alone?"

His answer came slower than usual. "I shouldn't."

She stepped closer. "But you do."

His hand brushed her cheek. That same fire stirred.

"Don't make me wrong about you, Alina."

She rose on her toes and kissed him — slow, soft. Nothing like their first. This one was quieter.

Crueler.

Because it felt like a goodbye.

---

Three hours later.

She was gone.

Cassian returned just after midnight.

The front door was ajar.

The window latch broken.

The safe in the back room — where he'd hidden the flash drives, the names, the routes, and the blackmail on Senator Darrow's allies — emptied.

His breath turned to steel.

"No," he whispered.

He ran room to room, calling her name.

Nothing.

Not a note. Not a sound. Not a scent.

Just the ghost of her smile… and the truth screaming in his gut.

She used him.

The full weight of it slammed into him like a bullet to the chest.

He went still.

Then he crushed the table with his bare hands.

---

Two days later — Washington D.C.

Senator Darrow sat calmly in his office as Alina stepped inside, coat dusted in snow, eyes colder than he'd ever seen them.

She placed a sealed envelope on the desk.

"Everything you need," she said. "Names. Routes. The entire Vale syndicate structure. From him."

He opened it, scanned the pages, then leaned back with a smirk.

"You did well, sweetheart."

Alina didn't respond.

Her father's voice shifted. "Cassian Vale. The underboss."

Her eyes flickered — just for a second.

"He trusted you," the senator said. "I almost admire him for that."

Alina turned to leave.

But he stopped her with one final question:

"Did he ever touch you?"

She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable.

"No," she lied.

And walked out.

---

Weeks later — Sicily

Cassian stood on a rooftop overlooking the harbor, snow long melted, the cold inside him permanent.

His men kept their distance.

The Cassian they knew — the one who dealt punishment with a surgeon's precision, who preferred silence over speeches — was gone.

What remained was something else.

Colder. Harder.

Cruel.

He no longer spoke to anyone unless it involved blood.

He no longer slept in silence — only drank until his head throbbed and the memories stopped.

He no longer wore the chain she once touched around his neck.

He had cut it off the night she vanished.

Luca, his right hand, approached with hesitation.

"We found nothing," he said. "No trail. Not a whisper."

Cassian stared at the sea.

"She's gone," Luca added. "Vanished. Even her father moved her off the grid."

Cassian's lips barely moved.

"Then I'll find him first."

Luca hesitated. "And her?"

A pause.

Then:

"She's dead."

The lie was so flat, even he didn't believe it.

But he needed it to be true.

Because the version of him that could love her had already died in that broken safehouse.

---

Back in D.C.

Alina stared out the window of a hotel room high above the city. She clutched a photo she hadn't let go of in days.

It was old.

A boy watching her steal figs by the sea.

And now?

She had betrayed the only person who remembered her as more than her father's pawn.

She hadn't run to be saved.

She ran to win.

And she won.

So why did it feel like she had burned the last good part of herself to do it?