And I screamed his name.
30
SILAS
The zip ties bit into my wrists, tight but not too tight, the plastic deliberately weakened by my mother’s blade before we’d left the condo. Mom had cut most of the way through, a silent promise I could snap them when the moment came.
She’d gone a different way into Blackthorn Hollow, striding through the estate’s shadows like the Number 2 of Department 77, her authority a mask as her men escorted me in.
I played the part—captive, head bowed as two of her operatives, faces hard and eyes cold, gripped my arms. The night was thick, the air heavy with moss and menace, the estate looming ahead like a decayed cathedral, its columns crumbling, its windows dark.
Portia was back in the rental car, her black-on-black outfit absurd but her resolve unbreakable, and I hated that she was here, hated that I’d let her come, but her hand in mine had anchored me, and now I was walking into the lion’s den.
The security team at the gate was all business, their rifles slung low, their eyes scanning me like I was a prize catch.
“Silas Dane,” one of them muttered into a comm, his voice clipped, relaying word to the head snake himself—my grandfather, the man who’d built 77 and broken my family.
They patted me down, their smirks telling me they thought I was beaten. I kept my face blank, my muscles loose, counting their numbers—four at the gate, two more by the side entrance, all with full vantage points of the access routes. This was a fortress, and it was going to be a fight. I hoped to hell mom had something else up her sleeve.
They pushed me through the house, its halls reeking of old money, portraits of dead men glaring from the walls. Guards stood at strategic points—corners, stairwells, doorways—their eyes sharp, their weapons ready. I counted six, maybe more, their positions covering every exit, every choke point.
My heart pounded, but I kept my breathing steady, my wrists flexing against the weakened zip ties, waiting for the signal. Caroline was somewhere in this maze, her plan to use me as bait hinging on her men playing their parts, but the air felt wrong, too heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.
They shoved me into a receiving room, opulent and grotesque, its canopied bed draped in silk, the air thick with the antiseptic sting of a hospital and the burn of expensive bourbon. I was pushed to my knees, the marble cold under me, my eyes scanning the shadows.
A guard moved to the bed’s side, his hand brushing the curtain, and I strained to see who was inside, but the angle was wrong, the light too dim. He pressed a button on the wall, and a mechanical hum filled the room, the bed rising, then shifting forward with a whine. The curtains parted, revealing a withered man, oxygen tubes snaking into his nose, his skin stretched tight over a skull-like face. He looked half-dead, his eyes sunken but sharp, a predator in a dying shell. I wondered what was killinghim—cancer, maybe, or just time—but his voice cut through the silence, clear as a drill sergeant’s.
“You’re Silas,” he said, his tone flat, assessing.
I didn’t answer, my jaw tight, my eyes locked on his. I searched for myself in him, for my mother, but saw only a husk, a man who’d traded his soul for power.
“You’re Silas,” he said again, louder, his voice a whip.
I met his gaze, my voice steady. “I’m Silas Dane.”
He let out a booming laugh, the sound jarring, too big for his frail frame. “Just as proud as your father. Do you know who I am?”
I smirked, my voice dripping with disdain. “The reincarnation of some dead guy who looks like a mummy?”
His eyes narrowed, no humor in them, his lips curling into a sneer.
“I’m your grandfather, boy. The man who built everything you think you’re fighting.”
I didn’t speak, my focus on the zip ties, my muscles coiled, ready to snap them and grab the nearest guard’s weapon. I wanted to empty it into this bastard, this poison who’d corrupted 77, broken my family.
Fuck him.
But he kept talking, his voice sharp, taunting. “Your mother never told you about me, did she?”
I stayed silent, my blood boiling, my hands flexing. He didn’t know I’d seen her, didn’t know she was here, and I kept my face blank, giving nothing away.
He leaned forward, the oxygen tubes shifting, his voice low, cruel. “Your father was a waste, Silas. A self-righteous bastard who thought he could walk away from me. He stole money, power, thought he could build a life without paying for it. But it’s time to pay it back.”
I broke my silence, my voice cold. “Why does a dying man need money? You’re rotting, old man. What’s it for?”
His eyes gleamed, his grin skeletal. “Control. America. You wouldn’t understand, boy. You’re too busy chasing your daddy’s ghost, thinking he was some knight in shining armor.”
I clenched my jaw, my fingers itching to snap the ties.
