Kidnapping the Assassin: The Mafia Don’s Fatal Mistake

The Iron Cage

Chapter 19

**[Cassian]**

My head felt like it had been packed with shattered glass and submerged in battery acid. 

I tried to open my eyes, but the heavy steel lids refused to cooperate. A dull, rhythmic throbbing echoed behind my temples, matching the slow, mechanical drip of something nearby. I tried to lift my hands to rub my face. 

Metal scraped against metal. I couldn't move my arms. 

Instinct overrode the chemical fog in my brain. My eyes snapped open. 

I was sitting in a heavy, steel-backed chair. Thick iron cuffs encircled my wrists, securely bolted to the armrests. My ankles were shackled to the heavy iron legs of the chair. I strained against the restraints, my muscles bunching and screaming in protest. The metal didn't budge a millimeter. 

"Don't bother. The chains are rated for industrial stress. You'd break your own bones before you warp the steel."

The voice was cool, detached, and painfully familiar. 

I stopped struggling and looked up. 

I was in a sprawling, subterranean basement. It wasn't a dungeon; it was clinically clean, lined with sterile concrete and lit by harsh, recessed LED lighting. 

She was sitting ten feet away, casually leaning against a heavy mahogany desk. 

The woman from the penthouse. The Donna of the Rossi Syndicate. 

She had traded her bloody trench coat for a simple black silk blouse and tailored slacks. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe knot. She was stunning in a terrifying, absolute way, like a beautifully crafted blade. But it was her eyes that set my nerves on edge. They were a vivid, stormy gray, entirely unreadable and completely devoid of fear. 

People usually looked at me with terror. She looked at me like she owned me. 

"Where am I?" I rasped, my mouth tasting like copper and sedatives. 

"You're in my house," she replied smoothly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Underneath the Rossi estate."

I let out a dark, mocking laugh that sent a spike of pain through my skull. "The Rossi estate. So you captured the Corsican’s best enforcer and dragged him to your home turf. You’re either extremely confident or incredibly stupid."

"I lean toward confident," she murmured. 

She walked slowly toward me. She moved with an eerie, predatory grace, her footfalls making absolutely no sound on the concrete floor. She stopped just out of kicking distance. 

"Who hired you, Hound?" she asked softly. "Which Corsican boss put the contract on me?"

"You think I’m going to talk because you tied me to a chair?" I sneered, leaning my head back. "I've been tortured by professionals, sweetheart. You don't have the stomach for what it takes to break me."

A strange, humorless smile touched the corner of her mouth. It was a deeply sad smile. 

"I know," she said quietly. "I know exactly what you can endure. That's why I'm not going to torture you." 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the matte-black combat knife I had held to her throat yesterday. She flipped it casually in her hand, the blade catching the harsh light. 

Then, she did something that entirely short-circuited my brain. 

She tossed the knife onto the floor, directly between my shackled feet. 

"I'm not your enemy, Cassian," she stated. 

The name hit me like a physical blow. The sudden, violent pressure in my skull spiked. That name. It buzzed at the back of my mind like a swarm of angry hornets, a phantom itch I couldn't scratch. The Corsicans told me I didn't have a name. They told me I was a stray they pulled out of the river. 

"Stop calling me that," I growled, gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned white. 

"It's your name," she insisted, taking another step closer. She ignored the knife on the floor. She was completely vulnerable. "Your name is Cassian Rossi. You are the rightful Don of this syndicate. And you belong in the room upstairs, not chained in this basement."

I stared at her. "You're insane."

"Look at your shoulder," she ordered, her voice hardening with absolute authority. 

I frowned, glancing down. I was wearing a cheap white t-shirt. 

"The scar on your left shoulder," she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "A jagged, ugly spread of scar tissue. Buckshot. You took a bullet meant for me in a parking garage."

My breath hitched. My left shoulder ached constantly, especially when it rained. I had no idea how I got the scar. 

She took another step, entirely invading my space. She stood directly between my shackled legs. She reached out, her cool, soft fingers brushing the thick, dark tattoo covering my left pectoral. The ink depicted a crown entangled in thorns. 

"The Rossi crest," she whispered, her touch sending a violent, unwanted jolt of electricity straight through my nervous system. "You are the king of this city."

I jerked my chest away from her touch as if she had burned me. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. 

"The Corsicans put that ink on me," I snarled, desperate to maintain my reality. "They own me. I don't know who the hell you are, lady, but your psychological games aren't going to work."

She stared down at me. The icy mask finally cracked. For a fraction of a second, I saw an ocean of devastating, absolute heartbreak in her gray eyes. It made my chest physically ache, a ghost pain I didn't understand. 

She slowly raised her left hand, displaying a heavy vintage gold ring. 

"My name is Elara," she whispered, leaning down until her face was inches from mine. "And I'm your wife."

I stopped breathing. The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis. 

*Wife.* 

The word echoed in the empty cavern of my mind. A sudden, blinding flash of a memory hit me a massive cathedral, the smell of burning beeswax, and the taste of this exact woman's mouth under a stormy sky. The memory vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving me dizzy and nauseous. 

Before I could recover, the heavy steel door at the top of the basement stairs banged open. 

"Elara!" a frantic male voice yelled down the stairwell. 

Elara instantly straightened, the vulnerability vanishing from her face like smoke. She turned toward the stairs, her hand dropping to the sidearm at her hip. 

A young syndicate soldier ran down the steps, completely out of breath. He looked at me, his eyes widening in pure terror at the sight of my face, before looking at his Donna. 

"What is it?" Elara demanded sharply. 

"It's the hospital in Geneva," the soldier panted, his face pale. "The private security team just checked in. The High Table found her, Donna. They found your sister."

The temperature in the basement plummeted. 

Elara stood perfectly still. The blood drained entirely from her face. I watched the woman transform before my eyes. The desperate wife pleading with my amnesia evaporated. The lethal, merciless assassin I had fought in the penthouse returned. 

"Prep the jet," Elara ordered in a dead, hollow whisper. "Arm every man in the compound."

"What about him?" the soldier asked, pointing a shaking finger at me. 

Elara didn't look at me. She turned on her heel and walked toward the stairs. 

"Leave him chained," she commanded coldly. "If I don't come back, let him starve."