A folded note fluttered to the floor from the unzipped pocket. She handed it to me.
You’re going to need these. Raise some hell. –Claire
I stared at it, brow furrowing. I had no idea when she’d snuck this into my suite. Typical Claire—ghosting in and out like a shadow with a mission.
I snorted, shaking my head, my own jeans and black t-shirt feeling plain by comparison.
“You look like you’re auditioning for a heist movie.”
Portia smirked, pulling on the leggings, her curves a distraction I didn’t need.
“Let me play along, Silas. I’m not here for the important stuff, anyway, right?”
I didn’t answer, my gut twisting. She wasn’t wrong—I’d planned to keep her on the sidelines, safe from the blood and bullets, but her fire made it hard to argue.
“Fine,” I said, my voice rough. “But you do what I say.”
We drove to the same condo I’d visited before, half a mile from Dominion Hall, its beige exterior blending into the night. Portia sat beside me, her black-on-black outfit absurdly serious, her hands steady but her eyes sharp, scanning the dark.
I hadn’t told my brothers about Caroline, about her plan to kill our grandfather, 77’s Number 1. It was stupid, I knew it now, keeping them in the dark, but fuck it—I was in too deep, my promise to Portia and my trust in my mother driving me forward.
Caroline opened the door before I knocked, her graying hair pulled back, her gaze flicking from me to Portia.
“You brought her,” she said, her voice flat, her disapproval clear.
Portia stepped forward, her chin high, her voice cool.
“I’m here for Monte … and for Silas.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed, assessing, but she stepped aside, letting us in. The living room was the same—sparse, tasteful, no trace of her life beyond the lilies on the coffee table.
Portia didn’t sit, her posture rigid, her eyes locked on my mother like she was vetting a suspect.
“Why should we trust you?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You left your sons, ran 77, let it hurt people. Why are you doing this now?”
Caroline’s face didn’t flinch, but her eyes softened, a flicker of understanding.
“I stayed to protect them. I failed, in many ways, but I’m here to end it. To stop my father, to burn Department 77 down.”
Portia’s jaw tightened. “For them? Or for you?”
Caroline’s gaze held hers, steady, unyielding.
“You’ll understand when you have your own children,” my mother said.
Her eyes flicked to me, a silent weight, and Portia’s shoulders eased, her fire dimming, like she saw something in my mother she recognized.
“Enough,” I said, my voice low, breaking the tension. “What’s the plan?”
Caroline turned, all business now, her voice crisp. “My father’s at Blackthorn Hollow, a small estate outside Charleston. He’s not alone—his inner circle, maybe half a dozen operatives, all loyal, all armed. It’s a fortress.”
I leaned forward, my hands on my knees.
“How do we get in?”
Caroline’s eyes met mine, calculating.
“We use you as bait. A staged kidnapping, my people doing their job. They’ll bring you to him, saying it was my operation. I’ll be inside, waiting to strike.”
