Charlie snorted. “You’re late to the party. Elias already hit them. If this is about the hack?—”
“It’s not,” Marshall said, turning with a shark’s grin. “Not that hack. Not your brilliant brother and his magic fingers. I’m talking about the original theft.”
Silence stretched between us like a loaded wire. I had zero idea what they were talking about.
Charlie’s brows pulled tight. “What original theft?”
Marshall chuckled, slow and mean. “Where do you think your daddy got all those billions?”
The breath caught in my throat.
Charlie’s jaw flexed. “Contracts. Training. Defense.”
“Oh, sure,” Marshall said with a nod. “But seed money matters, Charlie. Foundations matter. And Byron Dane’s foundation was built on Department 77’s dime.”
For a second, Charlie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The words hung in the air like a loaded gun, and I watched them hit him—square in the chest.
His breath left him in a sharp exhale, shoulders going rigid. His jaw flexed, that muscle twitching in the way I’d come to recognize as restraint barely holding. But it wasn’t just fury I saw there. It was betrayal. Cracks spiderwebbing beneath the surface. Not just in his faith in his father—but in the story he’d spent his whole life believing.
I reached for his hand without thinking, fingers curling around his.
He didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on Marshall like he could set the man on fire with a glance. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.
Because this wasn’t just a twist. This was a rewire of everything he thought he knew. The mythology of Byron Dane fracturing right there in front of us.
When Charlie finally did speak, his voice was low. Dangerous.
“You’re lying.”
“No.” Marshall stepped closer, voice cooling. “I’m not. Byron was their golden boy. Handpicked. Trained. Funded. Positioned to create a front organization that would do their dirty work while keeping their own hands clean. Everything was going great—until your mother showed up.”
Charlie blinked. “What the hell does my mother have to do with anything?”
Marshall smiled. “Ask your father. Oh, wait, you can’t. Better yet … ask Sylvia Carrington.”
My blood iced.
Charlie glanced at me, then back to him. “What does Sylvia have to do with this?”
Marshall exhaled like this bored him. “She was your father’s first love, or maybe just lust. Sylvia’s daddy was high up in Department 77—one of the architects. He vouched for Byron. Gave him access. Gave him Sylvia.”
“Jesus,” Charlie muttered.
“But then along came Caroline Hilliard, who would become Caroline Dane. The sweet-faced young woman with perfect manners and no ties to the shadow world,” Marshall went on. “Byron married her. Left Sylvia behind. Broke the alliance. Broke Sylvia’s father’s trust. And shortly after that? Sylvia’s father turned up dead.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My grandfather—Sylvia’s father—had died before I was born. I’d only ever known him through old photographs and the soft-filtered stories my mother occasionally told when she was feeling nostalgic or sentimental or had one too many martinis. In those photos, he always looked serious but kind, his hand resting protectively on Momma’s shoulder or holding her little hand. She’d been his only child, and he’d adored her. That much was clear.
He’d been in intelligence—something adjacent to the military, I’d always been told. There were medals in a case, locked away in one of the upstairs closets. I’d never known the full story. Just that he died young. Too young. My mother had never talked about how. Or why.
Now, with Marshall’s words still echoing in my ears, the silence around his death felt less like grief and more like conspiracy.
Marshall looked at me, eyes gleaming. “She never forgave them, you know. Sylvia. She played nice for a while—stayed in the game. But she’s been waiting a long time to cash in her chips.”
“You’re saying she’s involved in this?” I asked. “That she’s helping this Department 77?”
“I’m saying,” he said slowly, “that she made a deal. Long ago. One that’s coming due.”
