Chapter 105: Death Sentence

CASSIAN

The rhythmic crack of the shotgun echoed across Mateo’s sprawling estate, a sharp, violent sound that should have been cathartic. Another clay pigeon disintegrated into a cloud of orange dust against the bruising purple of the Spanish twilight.

I didn’t feel the thrill of the hit. I didn’t feel the satisfaction of the perfect lead or the steady kick of the stock against my shoulder. I felt nothing. Just a cold, dense numbness that had been settling into my marrow since I walked out of that conference room.

Skeet shooting is what men like us do when we want to destroy things without the inconvenience of a cleanup. It’s clinical destruction. But as the afternoon bled into evening, even the mechanical slaughter of ceramic discs wasn’t enough to drown out the noise in my head.

“Good shot, Cass,” Mateo remarked, his own Beretta resting casually over his shoulder. He’d been talking for two hours… about the market, about his latest mistress, about the vintage of the whiskey waiting for us on the terrace. I hadn’t processed a single word.

Now, we were sitting on his sprawling stone porch. The air was cooling, the scent of lavender and dry earth wafting up from the gardens. A glass of heavy, peat-soaked whiskey sat in my hand, and a thick cigar burned in the ashtray beside me.

Mateo was mid-sentence, his voice a steady, irritating drone. “… and then she had the audacity to show up at my office. Can you believe that? I told her it was over three weeks ago, but you know how these things go. She’s convinced we’re ’meant to be’ or some romantic bullshit.”

I lifted my glass and drained half of it. The liquid was liquid fire, searing my throat and blooming in my stomach. I welcomed the burn. It was the only thing that felt real.

I reached for the lighter on the table. The silver, heavy metal, with his initials worn almost smooth by the years I’d spent obsessively rubbing my thumb over them. It was the last thing I had of him.

Click. The lid flipped open. I struck the flint, watching the flame dance in the twilight.

Click. I snapped it shut, plunging the small circle of light back into darkness.

“I’m thinking about acquiring that property in Barcelona,” Mateo said, oblivious to the storm brewing three feet away from him. “The market there is… Cassian? You listening?”

“Mm,” I grunted.

I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t. My mind was a broken record, skipping over the same jagged groove, playing back the recording of a voice that had finally stopped pretending to be afraid of me.

“You’re pathetic, Cassian.”

Click. Open. Close.

“You’re selfish. Heartless. You manipulate people like it’s a fucking game.”

My chest tightened, a familiar, crushing pressure building behind my ribs. I pulled on the cigar, letting the smoke… laced with something much stronger than tobacco… fill my lungs until my head swam. I wanted to choke out the memory of his face. The way his green eyes had turned into shards of glass.

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You’re toxic. Controlling. You take what you want and throw it away when you’re bored.”

The whiskey wasn’t working. The smoke wasn’t working. Every accusation Noah had hurled at me was a heat-seeking missile, bypassing my armor and striking the soft, rotting core I’d spent a decade hiding.

And then there was the part about Alex. The part that made my teeth grind until my jaw ached.

“You hate him because he’s everything you’re not. He’s kind. He’s genuine. He actually gives a shit about people. He’s a good person and you’re not.”

Click. I struck the lighter harder this time, my thumb pressing so deep into the flint it hurt.

“You can’t stand that someone like him exists. That someone might treat me better than you do.”

The worst part… the part that made me want to burn the whole world down… was that he was right. Every word. Every jagged, hateful syllable. I knew what I was. I knew the trail of broken things I’d left in my wake. I was the man who kept people in cages of debt and legal jargon. I was the man who had looked at a boy’s grief and saw a “distraction.”

Noah hadn’t just insulted me; he had performed an autopsy on my soul and found it empty.

My gaze drifted to the silver lighter. Julian.

The void inside me widened. It was a cold, dark cavity where a heart should be, a black hole consuming everything I tried to fill it with.

“Cassian, man, I think you’ve had enough,” Mateo’s voice drifted in, muffled, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well.

I looked at the table. It was littered with empty glasses. Some were knocked over, amber stains seeping into the expensive wood. I’d lost count an hour ago. My hands felt numb, detached from my body, except for the rhythmic click-click-click of the lighter.

“Oh my god, so THIS is where you’ve been?”

The voice was sharp, a familiar blade cutting through the whiskey-soaked haze. I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to. Cyan.

“I’ve been looking EVERYWHERE for you!” He marched onto the terrace, his footsteps echoing like gunshots. “You wouldn’t answer your phone!”

“Leave me alone,” I slurred, my voice sounding rough and alien to my own ears.

“There’s no fucking way I’m leaving you alone like THIS,” Cyan snapped. He gestured wildly at the wreckage on the table. “Are you TRYING to kill yourself? Do you have ANY idea how much you’ve had to drink? Your liver is going to give up on you at this rate!”

I finally lifted my head, the world tilting precariously on its axis. Cyan’s face swam in and out of focus, blurred by the smoke and the alcohol.

I gave him a slow, lopsided shrug. “Good.”

The word was flat. Dead. The implication hung in the air like the smell of spent gunpowder. Better that way. If the machinery just stopped. If I didn’t have to hear Noah’s voice anymore. If I could just… cease.

Cyan’s face went pale, the anger draining out of him and being replaced by a stark, naked fear.

Mateo stood up, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Cassian. I had to call him. You… you can’t go back to your suite like this.”

“Yeah. Whatever,” I muttered, waving a hand dismissively. I felt like a passenger in my own skin, watching the scene play out from a great distance.

Cyan grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

I didn’t resist. I let him haul me up, my legs feeling like they were made of cooling wax. The world spun violently, the stars above Mateo’s estate blurring into long, white streaks. Cyan half-dragged, half-carried me toward his car, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

He shoved me into the passenger seat of his sleek Audi. I slumped against the window, the cool glass a mercy against my burning forehead. Cyan climbed into the driver’s side and slammed the door, but he didn’t start the engine.

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by our breathing. I could feel him staring at me. That look. I knew it. I hated it.

I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I hissed, the slur still heavy on my tongue.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some pathetic… ” I stopped. The word caught in my throat, a jagged bone I couldn’t swallow. Pathetic. Noah’s word.

Cyan was quiet for a long moment. Then, his voice came out soft, devoid of its usual bite. “How can I not?”

“Don’t,” I warned.

“You look like your whole world just fell apart,” Cyan said, his voice dropping an octave. “Again.”

He shook his head, looking at me with a raw pity that made me want to retch. “I’ve known you for years, Cassian. I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you violent. I’ve seen you so cold you could freeze the room. But this?” He gestured to the wreck of a man sitting in his passenger seat. “This is rare.”

I looked back out the window at the darkness.

“The last time I saw you like this,” Cyan whispered, “was when you told me about… ”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The memory of that night… the smell of blood, the crushing weight of the things I never said… came rushing back, merging with the image of Noah’s disgusted face.

“So what the hell happened, Cassian?” Cyan asked, leaning in. “You were fine yesterday. Or as fine as you ever are. And now…” He trailed off, the question hanging in the air like a death sentence.

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