Chapter 4 - The Letters in the Dark
Before I stepped into the armored SUV to hunt Victor Vane, I sat in the darkened back corner of my executive office on the third floor of the estate.
Outside, the storm howled against the reinforced glass windows, but inside, the only light came from a single green banker's lamp resting on my mahogany desk.
In front of me sat the stack of seven blood-stained envelopes.
My fingers were trembling slightly—a physical weakness I hadn't displayed since I was twelve years old—as I picked up the first letter. It was dated November 14th of last year, three weeks after Elena had packed her bags and left my life.
I broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. Her handwriting was neat, elegant, and instantly recognizable.
Cassian,
*I am writing this from a small diner two hours south of the city. My hands won't stop shaking.
Three days ago, after I left the courtroom, I went to see Dr. Evans because I had been feeling dizzy for a month. I thought it was stress from the divorce. I thought my body was simply breaking down under the weight of watching us destroy each other.*
I was wrong.
I am pregnant, Cassian. The ultrasound showed two tiny heartbeats. Two.
I know what you're going to say. I know you think a man in your position cannot afford weaknesses. I know you think the world you live in will turn any child into a target. But they are yours. They were made in the weeks before we stopped talking, during that short window in October when I thought we might actually save us.
I don't want your money. I don't want your estate. I just want you to tell me that you don't hate me for carrying your blood. Call me. Please.
— Elena
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the leather chair as a thick, hot knot of air caught in my throat.
I opened the second letter, dated a month later.
Cassian,
You didn't call. I checked my phone every hour for thirty days until the service provider canceled my number because I forgot to pay the bill. I used a public payphone to call your private line yesterday, but your security director answered and told me that 'Mr. Drake does not take unsolicited calls from former associates.'
Former associates.
Is that what I am to you now? Six years of marriage, six years of lying beside you while you tossed and turned with nightmares of your father's death, and I am reduced to a 'former associate'?
The babies are growing. I felt the first small flutter yesterday morning. It felt like a butterfly caught in a storm. I named them in my head today, but I won't write them down until I know if their father will ever hold them.
If you're doing this to punish me for walking out, you've won. I am destroyed, Cassian. You can stop now.
A tear dropped from my eye, hitting the crisp white paper, smudging the dark ink of her signature.
I opened the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth letters in rapid succession. With every page, her hope eroded further, replaced by a desperate, heartbreaking acceptance. By the sixth letter, she had stopped asking me to come back. She was simply writing to inform me of her medical status, detailing her blood pressure readings, the dates of her planned C-section, and her fears that Victor Vane’s scouts were closing in on her small apartment in the slums of South Boston.
The final letter—the seventh one—was written only forty-eight hours ago. It was brief, scrawled in jagged, hasty strokes that showed her rising panic.
Cassian,
They found me. I saw a man with a teardrop tattoo watching my window from a grey sedan across the street. I don't have time to run again. The doctor says the twins are coming early—my blood pressure is too high, and the stress is triggering contractions.
I am going to Grace Memorial under the name Marsh. If I don't survive the birth, please... please don't let them grow up in an orphanage. Even if you hate me, they are innocent.
They have your eyes, Cassian. I saw it on the 4D scan today. They have your eyes.
Goodbye.
I let the last letter fall from my hands onto the polished desk.
Seven months. Seven months during which I had assumed she was living comfortably in some seaside cottage on her divorce settlement, sipping wine and forgetting my name. Seven months during which my corrupt head of internal communications—a man named Gregory who managed my private mail and phone routes—had been taking bribes from Victor Vane to intercept every single message Elena sent me.
Gregory had ensured I stayed blind. He had ensured Elena stayed isolated. And he had served her up on a silver platter to Vane the moment she checked into the hospital.
I stood up from the desk, my face completely drained of color, my eyes glowing with a terrifying, absolute clarity.
I picked up the intercom receiver on my desk.
"Dante."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Bring Gregory to the basement firing range," I said softly. "And tell him he doesn't need to wear a coat."
"Understood, sir."
I walked to the window, watching the rain strike the glass like tears from a cold, uncaring sky.
Victor Vane thought he was playing a game of territory. He thought he was fighting a mafia war over shipping lanes and protection rackets.
He didn't know that he had just turned a cold businessman into a monster with nothing left to lose.
May you like
I pulled my leather gloves on, flexing my fingers as I snapped the knuckles into place.
"I'm coming for you, Victor," I whispered into the empty room. "And God help anyone standing between us."
