Chapter 6 - Knocking on the Door
The wind had died down, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating blanket of wet snow that muffled the sound of the city.
Cassian Raldi walked up the wooden outdoor staircase of the dilapidated apartment building on Throop Street. His polished leather dress shoes crunched softly against the icy steps. He didn't bring Marcone. He didn't bring a driver. He walked up the stairs alone, his breath forming white clouds in the freezing air, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat.
He stopped in front of apartment 2B.
He didn't knock. He simply raised his hand and struck his knuckles twice against the scarred wooden door.
Inside, there was no sound of a struggle, no frantic scramble for a weapon. Just the slow, deliberate scrape of a chair leg against the kitchen linoleum.
The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open.
Marin Kovach stood in the doorway. She was wearing an oversized grey knit sweater and dark sweatpants, her hair pulled back into a simple, loose ponytail. Her hands rested casually against the swell of her abdomen, and her slate-grey eyes met his with an unflinching, icy clarity that made every drop of blood in Cassian's veins run cold.
She didn't look surprised to see him standing on her doorstep at two-thirty in the morning.
"You took your time, Mr. Raldi," Marin said, her voice completely even, carrying a trace of her native European accent. "I expected you an hour ago, after Frankie and Sal reported back."
Cassian looked at her for a long, silent moment, taking in the bruised knuckles on her right hand and the calm, unyielding posture of a woman holding the fate of a multi-million-dollar criminal empire in the palm of her hand.
"You broke Frankie's knee and gave Sal a concussion," Cassian said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "My men usually handle things the other way around."
"Your men are sloppy," Marin replied coolly. "They rely on intimidation because they lack imagination. Would you like to come in, or are we going to discuss your federal indictments out here in the cold?"
Cassian stepped across the threshold, ducking his head slightly beneath the low doorframe.
The apartment was painfully sparse. A single worn-out sofa, a small wooden kitchen table covered in legal transcripts and ledger printouts, and a cheap metal floor lamp casting a warm amber glow across the room. There was no luxury here, no sign of illicit wealth—just the raw, vibrating energy of a woman who had lost everything and had nothing left to fear.
Cassian took off his coat, laid it carefully over the back of the single wooden chair, and sat down without being asked.
"You have four million dollars sitting in an offshore account linked to my primary holding company," Cassian said quietly, folding his hands together on the table. "You have unredacted digital ledgers that could put me away for the rest of my natural life. And yet, you haven't taken a dime, and you haven't fled the country."
Marin walked slowly over to the small kitchen counter, poured two mugs of hot chamomile tea, and placed one in front of Cassian before sitting down opposite him.
"Why would I flee?" Marin asked, taking a slow sip of her tea. "This is my home now. And money doesn't bring a man back from the bottom of an icy slip in Port District 4."
Cassian looked down at the steaming mug of tea, then back up at her face. For the first time in his life, the impenetrable armor of the crime lord slipped away, leaving only an aging man who realized he had pushed the wrong person too far.
"Stefan was a good man," Cassian said softly, the words catching slightly in his throat. "He was too honest for the docks. I told him to look the other way. I didn't order his death, Marin. But I signed off on the transfer that put him in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I covered it up to protect the union contracts."
Marin’s eyes narrowed, flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "You signed your name to the death warrant of a man who only wanted to provide an honest living for his wife and unborn child. And you expected the world to stay silent because you wore a tailored suit and controlled the loading docks."
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"I didn't expect an archivist," Cassian murmured, shaking his head with a bitter, self-deprecating smile. "I miscalculated."
"You did," Marin said firmly. "And now, Mr. Raldi, we are going to settle the account."
