“Driving home. Charles just...” I exhale sharply. “We need to talk. All three of us.”
“What happened?”
“Not over the phone. I’ll be there in ten.”
I disconnect before he can press, my mind already spinning through scena rios, calculating next moves, trying to figure out how to handle this without losing everything.
33
SILAS
The Hayabusa purrs beneath me as I pull into the driveway, my body aching in that particular way that comes from hours of controlled violence. Martin Chen confirmed everything—the embezzlement, the desperation, his debts. He also confirmed he’d been skimming for Marcus Romano, one of our competitors trying to destabilize our operations from the inside.
Chen won’t be a problem anymore. Neither will Romano.
But the blood soaked into my jeans, my boots, my shirt—that’s a problem. I’d done what I could at the warehouse, scrubbing my face and hands in the industrial sink until the water ran clear, but my change of clothes are the ones I’m wearing. Leather riding jacket over a black t-shirt that’s stiff with dried blood in places the jacket didn’t protect, jeans that look almost black in spots instead of their usual blue, boots that definitely need to be burned.
It’s been a long fucking day.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from my system. Through Parker’s downstairs window—where she lives with the boys—I can see movement in the kitchen. Parker’s there, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing one of those oversized sweaters she favors. Noah and Liam are on step stools beside her, clearly “helping” with whatever she’s making for dinner.
She’d invited us over. All three of us. Family dinner, she’d called it, her voice warm and slightly nervous over the phone this morning. Like she was still getting used to the idea that wecouldbe a family, that this thing between us could actually work.
I’m hoping it’s lasagna. The woman can make a mean lasagna. I remember from years ago, back when she was still in high school and would cook for us when our assignments ran late or we were too lazy. Rich, meaty, layered with cheese that got all bubbly and golden on top. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
But I can’t go over there like this.
Parker wouldn’t mind—she knows what I do, what I am, has never flinched from the violence that’s as much a part of me as breathing. But the boys don’t know. Don’t understand what the Carter organization does or what my role is within it. They think I work “security.” Think Uncle Silas is just really good at keeping people safe.
I don’t want to scare them. Don’t want them to see me covered in another man’s blood and have questions I can’t answer. They’re five. All they’d need is to tell a teacher that Uncle Silas came over covered in blood and all hell would break loose.
It’s not like the school doesn’t know what family Noah, Liam, Jimmy, and Lottie belong to—the Carter name opens doors and closes mouths in equal measure. But I’d rather not put anyone through the unnecessary hassle of dealing with curiousprotective services sniffing around because a kindergartener mentioned something alarming during circle time.
I head into our house. The garage smells like motor oil and leather, familiar and grounding. I strip off my jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook by the door, then toe off my boots and leave them in the mudroom where they won’t track blood through the house.
Not that the guys would care. More so I’m practicing being a functional normal adult that can be around kids.
The shower in my bathroom runs hot enough to scald, steam filling the space as I strip off the rest of my clothes and step under the spray. Water turns pink, then red, then pink again as it swirls down the drain. I scrub until my skin feels raw, until every trace of Martin Chen and Marcus Romano is gone, until I can look at my hands and see just skin instead of evidence.
By the time I’m done, the water runs clear and I feel almost human again.
I dress in clean jeans and a dark grey henley, running a towel through my hair as I head downstairs. The house is unusually quiet. Usually if both Jace and Cal are home, there’s music playing or the sound of them arguing about something stupid or the comfortable noise of people who’ve lived together long enough to exist in each other’s space without friction.
But tonight there’s just silence, heavy and oppressive.
I find them in Cal’s office—the room that’s basically a hacker’s wet dream, monitors and servers and enough computing power to launch a fucking satellite. Cal is hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying across the keys with that manic energy he getswhen he’s deep into something. Jace stands behind him, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
They both look tense.
I wonder why.
“What’s up?” I ask from the doorway.
Cal’s hands still on the keyboard. Jace’s jaw tightens further—something I didn’t think was possible.
“Parker’s going to the gala with Ryan Matthews,” Jace says, his voice flat. Controlled in that way that means he’s barely holding it together.
The words land like a punch. “What?”
