Chapter 4 - The Sound of Broken Glass
By three in the morning, the storm had transformed into a howling gale that rattled the heavy, triple-paned reinforced windows of the penthouse. Lydia sat on the edge of a massive king-sized bed, her fingers tracing the intricate silk embroidery of the duvet. She had refused to change into the silk pajamas Cassian’s staff had left for her, remaining in her damp sweater and trousers, her white cane resting across her lap like a weapon.
A quiet knock disturbed the silence.
"Lydia?"
It wasn't Cassian. It was Matteo.
"Come in," she said, her voice cautious.
The door clicked open, and the underboss entered, carrying a silver tray. The scent of hot chamomile tea and fresh honey flooded her senses, momentarily pushing back the oppressive smell of leather and security equipment.
"The boss told me you probably wouldn't eat anything substantial," Matteo said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who had pulled a Glock-19 in a hotel lobby three hours ago. "But he insisted you have some tea. He remembers you like two spoonfuls of clover honey. He... he had us source it from the specific organic market near your apartment three years ago."
Lydia let out a small, stunned breath. "He knows how I take my tea?"
"He knows everything, Miss Hayes," Matteo said, setting the tray down on the nightstand with a soft clink. "He wasn't lying to you. For ten years, your safety has been the line items on our weekly operations budget that never got questioned. When the Moretti family went to war with the Lucchese family in 2019, Cassian moved three of his best shooters to the roof of your apartment building for six months just in case a stray bullet came your way. He took a bullet to the shoulder himself during that war because he refused to leave his observation post across from your concert hall."
Lydia reached out, her fingers finding the warm porcelain of the teacup. "He's a murderer, Matteo. The news calls him the 'Butcher of Tribeca.'"
"He’s a man who inherited a kingdom of knives, Miss Hayes," Matteo said quietly. "If he doesn't hold the blade, someone else will use it to cut his throat. But in ten years, I have never seen him look at a ledger, a shipment, or a pile of cash the way he looked at you tonight. When you collided with him... I thought his heart was going to stop. He thought you were a ghost."
Before Lydia could respond, a sudden, deafening explosion rocked the north side of the penthouse.
The heavy glass windows didn't shatter—they were ballistic-grade—but the shockwave shuddered through the structure, throwing Lydia off the bed onto the floor. The teacup shattered against the nightstand, hot liquid spilling across her hand.
Instantly, the penthouse’s emergency sirens began to wail—a low, rhythmic crimson pulse that Lydia could feel in the sudden shift of the air currents.
"Ambush!" Matteo roared, his gun clearing his holster before he even hit the floor. "Breach on the terrace! They used a thermal charge on the frame!"
Lydia scrambled backward, her hands sweeping across the floor looking for her cane, her heart hammering in her throat. The sound of automatic gunfire erupted from the living room—deafening, terrifying, like firecrackers exploding inside a metal drum.
"Lydia!"
The door to the bedroom was thrown open with such force it hit the wall. Through the smell of smoke and cordite, Cassian’s scent hit her like a tidal wave. Before she could scream, large, powerful arms lifted her completely off the floor, crushing her against a hard chest covered in Kevlar body armor.
"I’ve got you," Cassian growled into her hair, his breath coming in short, furious gasps. "Matteo, suppress the hallway! Vincent brought his personal hit squad. They bypassed the lobby cameras using an insider badge."
"Cassian, your arm!" Matteo shouted over the din of another blast.
Lydia reached up instinctively, her hand brushing against Cassian’s shoulder. Her fingers came away wet, warm, and thick with a substance she didn't need eyes to recognize.
Blood. He had been hit.
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"It’s a scratch," Cassian snarled, spinning around to shield her body with his own as a spray of plaster dust rained down on them from a bullet striking the doorframe. "Hold onto me, Lydia. Do not let go."
For the first time in ten years, Lydia didn't fight his grip. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into his blood-slicked shoulder as the most feared mafia boss in New York carried her straight through a gauntlet of fire and broken glass.
