But some part of me stayed right there—in the ivy-shaded corridor, tucked beside the honesty of two women who reminded me what this work really meant. And why I gave it my whole heart.
10
SILAS
Isat in Dominion Hall’s ops room, the hum of monitors filling the silence, my eyes glued to the security feeds. Portia’s car rolled up the drive, sleek and deliberate, like she owned the place. She stepped out, and my breath caught. That dress—ivory silk, clinging to her curves like liquid sin—hit me like a punch. It skimmed her body, teasing every line, the hem flirting with her thighs, her shoulders bare under those thin straps. No bra, maybe no panties. The thought burned through me, hot and ugly, and I leaned closer to the screen, my jaw tight.
Monte opened her door, his suit crisp, his eyes scanning the grounds like he was her personal shield. Something about the guy grated on me, and I couldn’t tell if it was jealousy or instinct. Maybe both.
I flicked between feeds, tracking their path to the foyer. Monte stayed close, too close, his hand hovering near her back.
Family, he’d called her. Bullshit. No man looked at a woman like that—her fire, her sharp tongue, her body that could bring a saint to his knees—without wanting her. I’d seen it in his eyes inthat hallway at The Palmetto Rose, heard it in his voice when he said her name.
Protective? Sure. But there was more, and it made my blood boil.
The ops room door hissed open, and Elias strolled in, his laptop under one arm.
“What’s got you so focused?” he asked, glancing at the screens.
I leaned back, casual, like I hadn’t been staring at Portia like a creep.
“Keeping an eye on the pain-in-the-ass planner. She’s got her security guy sniffing around. Don’t trust him.”
Elias snorted, setting his laptop on the table.
“You don’t trust anyone. What’s new?”
He didn’t push, just opened his screen and started typing. Good. I didn’t need him digging into why I was obsessed with Portia’s every move.
“Any luck with that burner?” I asked, shifting gears. I’d given Elias the phone from the Rusty Anchor, told him it came from a source claiming it linked to Department 77. I hadn’t mentioned the message.That was mine, a private wound I wasn’t ready to share. Not with my brothers, not yet.
My Silas.
My mother’s voice, pulling me into a game I didn’t understand.
Elias shook his head, his fingers flying over the keys.
“Dead end. No prints, no data, no nothing. Chip’s fried, like it was designed to wipe itself after one use. Whoever sent it knew what they were doing.”
I leaned forward, keeping my voice steady, probing to cover my tracks.
“No trace at all? No origin, no signal logs?”
“Nada,” he said, not looking up. “Thing’s a brick. Could’ve been a decoy, or maybe your source is jerking you around. You sure this guy’s legit?”
“Doyle’s a rat, but he’s reliable enough,” I lied. Doyle hadn’t known shit about the phone, just handed it over with that Post-it note—Give to Silas Dane. I pressed harder, testing Elias’s read. “What about the facial recognition? Any code left behind?”
Elias shrugged, his tech-nerd brain in overdrive.
“Wiped clean. Standard encryption, nothing fancy. If it was 77, they’re not leaving breadcrumbs. No malware, no trackers. Just a ghost in the machine.”
Ghost. The word hit like a slug, but I kept my face blank.
Elias didn’t mention our mother, never did. None of us did, not since Charlie’s sighting cracked open that old wound.
I wanted to ask if he’d found anything else—any hint of her, of 77’s plans—but I stopped myself. Too risky. If I pushed too hard, Elias would smell something off, and I wasn’t ready to spill.
My Silas.
