He is not wearing tactical gear. He is wearing a dark, soaking wet trench coat. He holds a heavy, silver revolver entirely lowered at his side.
Hayes Vance.
My brother. The federal agent who hunted us to the island. He survived the explosion. He followed the extraction team.
Dante instantly raises his assault rifle, aiming directly at Hayes’s chest. The Syndicate soldiers flanking the SUVs simultaneously raise their weapons, the mechanicalclackof chambered rounds echoing loudly in the damp air.
"Hold fire!" I scream, my voice entirely tearing through the tension.
Hayes doesn't look at the guns pointed at his head. He looks entirely at me. His eyes, the same shade of midnight-blue asmy own, are completely shattered, swimming with a mixture of profound grief and absolute, visceral disgust.
"You are actually taking him," Hayes whispers, his voice cracking, entirely unable to comprehend the reality of the situation. "He murdered our mother, Sybil. He slaughtered our family. And you are walking out of here with him."
Thayer tenses against my side, a low, feral growl entirely vibrating in his chest. He reaches blindly for the Glock tucked into the waistband of my pants, fully prepared to execute my brother right here in the parking lot.
I grab Thayer’s wrist, completely stopping him.
I step forward, completely out of the protective shadow of my husband and my underboss. I stand entirely alone in the humid night, facing the ghost of my bloodline.
"He didn't slaughter our family, Hayes," I state, my voice ringing with a cold, absolute sociopathy that completely chills the air. "Arthur Vance sold me to a monster. He left me to be butchered in a wedding dress. Our mother tried to rip me away from the only person who ever truly saw me."
"He manipulated you!" Hayes screams, taking a desperate step forward. "He brainwashed you! You are suffering from a sickness, Sybil! Let me help you! Walk away from him right now, and I will protect you!"
I stare at the man who shares my DNA. I feel absolutely nothing. No connection. No empathy. The bond of blood is entirely meaningless in the face of the trauma bond that forged my soul.
"I don't need your protection," I reply softly, entirely reaching into my blazer. I pull the heavy, suppressed 9mm Glock from my holster.
Hayes freezes, his eyes widening as I raise the weapon, entirely locking my elbows, aiming the barrel directly at the center of his chest.
"Sybil, don't do this," Hayes begs, a single tear slipping down his cheek.
"I have the Black Book, Hayes," I state, my voice dropping into a lethal, venomous hum. "I own the Director. I own the task force. If you ever come looking for us again... if you ever speak his name, if you ever try to cross the ocean to find my island... I will not shoot you. I will use the billions of dollars at my disposal to entirely dismantle your life. I will frame you for treason. I will ensure you spend the rest of your miserable life rotting in Florence ADX."
The absolute, unyielding darkness in my eyes entirely convinces him. He looks at me, and he finally sees the absolute truth. I am not his sister anymore. I am the Donna.
I slowly lower the gun, turning my back on him entirely.
I walk back to Thayer. I slip my arm around his waist, entirely supporting his heavy frame.
"Let's go home," I murmur, looking up into his pale, obsessive eyes.
Thayer smiles, a dark, terrifying, beautiful curve of his lips.
We walk to the SUV, entirely leaving the ruins of my family in the shadows, stepping perfectly together into the absolute darkness of our future.
CHAPTER 32 THE CORONATION OF ASHES POV: THAYER
The mirror does not reflect a man. It reflects a brutal, heavily textured map of extreme violence and absolute survival.
I stand shirtless in the center of the sprawling, sun-drenched master bathroom of our secondary Bahamian sanctuary. The original Caribbean cage was reduced to a smoking crater to eradicate the federal task force, but my paranoia has always demanded contingencies. I had this identical twin estate built in the Exumas four years ago, waiting for the day the world burned. I stare at the physical toll the last three months have extracted from my flesh.
The thick, jagged pink scar slicing across my left deltoid has finally healed closed, the black sutures long since removed, leaving behind a permanent, raised trench in the muscle. The entire right side of my torso, from the lower curve of my ribs down to the sharp jut of my hip bone, is a sprawling canvas of mottled, pale burn tissue—the permanent signature of the C4 blast that brought the federal government to its knees.
I trace the edge of the burn scar with my right thumb. The skin is tight, hypersensitive, and entirely numb in certain patches.
I do not hate the scars. I view them with a dark, profound sense of primal satisfaction. They are not marks of defeat. They are the currency I paid to buy my wife's freedom. They are the absolute, undeniable physical proof that the Don of the Thorne Syndicate bled out on a concrete floor, burned in his own fire, and survived a federal black site solely to keep his prize.
I turn away from the glass, grabbing a heavy, dark linen towel from the marble vanity to wipe the remnants of shaving cream from my jaw.
