The War Room, he called the basement. But he has a study on the ground floor. I’ve seen him retreat there in the evenings. It’s where he keeps the scotch. It’s where he keeps the secrets he doesn't take underground.
Curiosity itches under my skin, a maddening rash.
Go to your room,he ordered.Lock the door.
Disobedience thrills me. It’s the only power I have left. If he’s going to track me like a dog, I might as well dig up the yard.
I descend the stairs. My bare feet make no sound on the marble. I am a ghost haunting my own prison.
I check the corners. No Marta. I can hear the faint hum of a vacuum cleaner coming from the west wing. She’s occupied.
I slip down the east corridor. The air here is cooler, smelling of old paper and cedar.
The office door is tall, dark oak.
I reach for the handle, expecting it to be locked. Silas is paranoid. Silas is thorough.
But Silas left in a hurry. He left because of a threat level one. He left to save my father.
I turn the knob.
It resists. Locked.
Of course.
I lean my forehead against the wood, frustration bubbling up. I don't know why I thought it would be open. I don't even know what I’m looking for. A phone? A weapon? A way out?
No. I’m looking for answers.
I turn to leave, but my gaze catches something on the small console table next to the door. A silver bowl, usually empty. Today, there’s a small, brass key sitting in it.
It looks forgotten. Or...
I left the key for you,he had said about the penthouse office.I wanted to see if you were brave enough.
Is this another test? Is he watching me right now, seeing if I’ll take the bait?
I look up at the ceiling corners. No cameras here. The hallway is blind, designed for privacy.
I snatch the key.
My heart rate spikes. I can feel it.Thump-thump-thump.
Are you seeing this, Silas? Are you wondering why my pulse just jumped to 120?
I jam the key into the lock. It turns with a heavy, satisfyingclunk.
I push the door open and slip inside, closing it softly behind me.
The office is masculine, imposing. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk that looks like it was carved from the hull of a ship. The curtains are drawn, casting the room in a perpetual twilight.
It smells like him. Sandalwood, tobacco, and that underlying scent of cold winter air. It makes my knees weak.
I walk to the desk. It’s cluttered with papers—unusual for him. He must have been working when the call came.
I scan the documents. Shipping manifests. Port authority bribes. Bank transfers to shell companies in the Caymans. Evidence of a criminal empire so vast it makes my head spin.
But I don't care about the money.
