Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH“My mother is dead.”
Lydia repeated the sentence as if saying it enough times might make the world return to normal.
Cassian did not respond.
The Maybach lurched violently as the driver swerved around a delivery truck. Tires screamed against wet pavement. Somewhere behind them, a horn blared continuously.
“Cassian!” Lydia shouted. “Answer me!”
“I don't know what that man meant.”
“Don't lie to me again.”
“I'm not.”
He was telling the truth, but it was not the whole truth.
Ten years earlier, Cassian had seen two bodies removed from the wreckage of Daniel Hayes's vehicle.
He had personally identified Daniel.
He had never seen Evelyn Hayes's face.
The medical examiner had explained that the fire made visual identification impossible.
Cassian had accepted the report.
Now he wondered whether accepting it had been the greatest mistake of his life.
“Mateo,” he said into the intercom, “take the service entrance at Forty-Second. Call Gabriel. Tell him we're coming in hot.”
“Understood.”
The Maybach accelerated.
Behind them, the pursuing Escalade attempted to close the distance.
Then a dark SUV emerged from a side street and struck the Escalade's rear quarter panel.
Metal shrieked.
The pursuing vehicle spun sideways, slammed into a concrete barrier, and disappeared behind a curtain of spray.
Lydia felt the sudden change in speed.
“What happened?”
“Our escort caught up.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
Cassian looked at her.
Even now, after learning that her parents had been murdered, after being chased through Manhattan by armed men, she was asking whether strangers had been injured.
He remembered that about her.
He remembered everything.
“Probably,” he answered.
She turned toward the window.
“I hate your world.”
“So do I, sometimes.”
“Then leave it.”
Cassian said nothing.
Because men like him did not simply resign.
They were buried.
Twenty minutes later, the limousine entered an underground garage beneath a private residential tower overlooking the East River.
Lydia heard the steel security gate descend behind them.
The vehicle stopped.
“Where are we?”
“My residence.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“No.”
“Then I want my phone.”
Cassian retrieved it from her damp coat pocket and placed it in her hand.
“You can call anyone you trust. But don't tell them where you are until we know who's compromised.”
“That's convenient.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Good. Then you understand why I don't believe you.”
He helped her out only after asking whether she wanted assistance.
She refused his arm and unfolded her cane.
Cassian stepped back.
Mateo watched the exchange with visible disbelief.
No one refused Cassian Moretti.
No one spoke to him like this.
And no one had ever made him look so helpless.
Upstairs, Lydia discovered a space unlike any she had encountered before.
The apartment was enormous. Her cane tapped against smooth hardwood floors, then thick rugs. High ceilings created a subtle echo. Beyond the windows, distant traffic sounded like waves rolling against a shore.
A woman approached with quiet footsteps.
“Miss Hayes? My name is Rosa. I manage the household.”
Her voice was warm and steady.
“Would you like dry clothes and something to eat?”
“I'd like to know whether I'm going to survive the night.”
Rosa paused.
“Then we'll start with tea.”
Despite herself, Lydia almost smiled.
Cassian instructed Rosa to show Lydia the guest suite, explain its layout, and make sure she had everything she needed.
“Don't lock the door,” Lydia said immediately.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“And don't put guards inside.”
“They'll remain outside the apartment.”
She tilted her head.
“You're learning.”
Cassian watched her disappear down the hallway.
Then he turned to Mateo.
“Find out everything about Evelyn Hayes.”
Mateo frowned.
“Her mother?”
“Medical records. Death certificate. Dental identification. Everything.”
“Boss, she's been dead ten years.”
“Then proving it shouldn't be difficult.”
Mateo studied him.
“There's something else.”
He handed Cassian a phone.
On the screen was a photograph taken inside Lydia's apartment.
Her furniture had been overturned. Books lay scattered across the floor. A lamp had been smashed.
But the cello stand near the window remained untouched.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
Tell Moretti the girl has forty-eight hours. After that, we start taking fingers.
Cassian's expression hardened.
“Trace it.”
“Already tried. Disposable device.”
“Then find the person who bought it.”
Mateo hesitated.
“There's another problem.”
Cassian looked up.
“One of our men was killed outside her building. Romano's people knew exactly when we arrived.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone told them.”
Cassian felt something cold settle inside his chest.
The organization had survived decades of federal investigations, gang wars, and political betrayals.
But an enemy who knew their movements in real time could destroy them from within.
“Lock down communications,” he ordered. “Nobody leaves without my permission.”
Mateo nodded.
Then Cassian added, “And cancel the warehouse operation.”
Mateo looked startled.
“You ordered it yourself.”
“I know what I ordered.”
“The men are already positioned.”
“Call them back.”
Mateo's eyes narrowed.
“Vincent will see that as weakness.”
“Let him.”
Cassian walked away before the conversation could continue.
In the guest suite, Lydia sat on the edge of a bed wearing borrowed clothes.
Her phone was connected to a charger.
She had called her closest friend, Nora Bennett, three times.
No answer.
She called again.
This time, someone picked up.
“Nora?”
Silence.
“Nora, it's Lydia.”
A man's voice answered.
“Your friend is sleeping.”
Lydia went cold.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who remembers your father.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“What do you want?”
“The same thing everyone wants, sweetheart.”
“Which is?”
“The truth.”
A faint sound emerged behind the man's voice.
Three piano notes.
Then a woman's voice, distant and weak.
“Lydia?”
Lydia stopped breathing.
She knew that voice.
It had sung her to sleep when she was little.
It had comforted her after nightmares.
It had called her little star.
“Mom?”
The line crackled.
Then the woman whispered, “Don't trust the man who saved you.”
The call disconnected.
Lydia sat motionless.
Then she stood so quickly that her cane fell to the floor.
“CASSIAN!”
He reached the room seconds later.
She turned toward his footsteps.
“My mother is alive.”
Cassian froze.
“She just spoke to me.”
“Lydia—”
“She told me not to trust you.”
Cassian's phone vibrated.
An encrypted message appeared.
It contained a photograph of a middle-aged woman seated in a wheelchair.
Her hair was streaked with gray.
A faded scar crossed her left temple.
Her hands rested in her lap.
Cassian recognized her immediately.
Evelyn Hayes.
Below the image were six words.
Ask Cassian who ordered the crash.
Cassian stared at the screen.
Because he knew the answer.
May you like
And the man who had given the order was standing in the doorway behind him.
Mateo.
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