I am a murderer. I am a sociopath. I am the devil of Chicago.
And as I pull the sheets over my family, completely insulating them from the world, I realize I have absolutely no regrets.
The ashes were entirely worth the crown.
CHAPTER 35 THE VELVET CAGE POV: SYBIL
The Caribbean sun is a heavy, golden weight that presses against the pristine white stone of the terrace, entirely blinding in its absolute perfection.
Four years.
It has been exactly four years, two months, and eleven days since the federal government officially declared Thayer Thorne a casualty of a catastrophic domestic terror event, closing the book on the most violent, untouchable mafia kingpin in modern American history. Four years since Hayes Vance was black-bagged by his own agency and buried alive in the subterranean concrete bowels of ADX Florence, completely neutralized by the very files he sought to expose.
Four years since the world entirely forgot that I existed.
I lean back against the plush, white linen cushions of the outdoor sofa, my legs crossed beneath the sheer, flowing fabric of my dark silk sundress. The gentle, salt-laced trade winds blow off the turquoise expanse of the Exumas, catching the loose, heavy waves of my dark hair.
I raise my espresso cup to my lips, the bitter, dark liquid entirely grounding me in the reality of my absolute, unrivaled peace.
"Julian," I call out, my voice a soft, completely steady hum that easily cuts through the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves against the private cove. "Do not step past the tree line."
A few yards away, playing near the edge of the sprawling teakwood deck, a small, dark-haired boy pauses. He is three years old, dressed in a soft white linen shirt and dark shorts. He turns slowly to look at me.
My heart executes a heavy, profound, utterly terrifying thud against my ribs every single time I look at his face.
Julian Thorne is a flawless, miniaturized reflection of his father. He possesses the exact same sharp, aristocratic jawline, the same thick, dark waves of hair, and most terrifyingly, the exact same pale, glacial gray eyes. Even at three years old, he does not throw tantrums. He does not cry loudly. He observes the world with a quiet, calculating, incredibly intense focus that completely unnerves the ghost staff of heavily armed security contractors who patrol the perimeter of the island.
He is the heir to a completely invisible empire. The prince of the ashes.
Julian stares at me for a long second, processing the command. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he steps away from the edge of the jungle and returns to the shaded section of the terrace, completely obedient only to the two gods who rule his universe.
"He was calculating the drop," a dark, impossibly deep voice murmurs from the shadows behind me.
A violent, involuntary electrical shiver completely cascades down my spine, pooling heavily in the center of my core. Four years, and the sheer, physical reaction my body has to the sound of his voice has not diluted a single fraction of a percent.
I do not turn around. I simply tilt my head back against the cushion, entirely exposing the long, sensitive column of my throat.
Thayer steps out of the cool, air-conditioned shade of the massive glass villa.
He moves with the silent, lethal, fluid grace of an apex predator perfectly adapted to his environment. He is wearing a simple pair of dark, tailored linen trousers, entirely bare-chested. The brutal, jagged pink scar tearing across his left shoulder and the sprawling, mottled white canvas of burn tissue covering his right ribs are completely exposed to the morning light. They are the permanent, violent tapestry of our survival, and to me, they are the most beautiful things in the world.
He steps behind the sofa. He doesn't ask for permission. He leans down, his large, calloused hands resting heavily on my bare shoulders. His thumbs press deeply into the tight muscles at the base of my neck, entirely forcing a breathless, ragged sigh from my lips.
He presses an open-mouthed, scalding kiss directly to the frantic pulse beating at my throat.
"He was entirely calculating if he could make the jump to the sand before the perimeter guards intercepted him," Thayer whispers against my skin, his pale gray eyes entirely locked onto our son. "He has your stubbornness, Sybil. And my absolute refusal to be contained."
"He is three," I breathe, entirely melting backward into the immense, burning furnace of his massive chest. "He isn't planning a tactical breach, Thayer. He was looking at a lizard."
A dark, low vibration of amusement rumbles deep in Thayer’s chest. He slides his hands down the front of my silk dress,his rough palms splaying wide across my stomach, completely pulling me flush against the back of the sofa.
"My blood does not look at lizards," Thayer growls softly, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear, entirely sending a catastrophic surge of dark heat straight to my groin. "My blood looks for weaknesses in the fence."
I reach up, my fingers tangling in the thick, dark waves of his hair at the nape of his neck. I pull his face around until our mouths align.
The kiss is slow, deep, and profoundly possessive. It is the kiss of a man who has completely devoured my soul and found it entirely to his liking. He tastes of dark coffee and absolute, unyielding devotion. My tongue sweeps against his, entirely answering the dark demand of his mouth, completely anchoring myself to the monster who built my paradise.
We break apart slowly, his chest heaving slightly against my back.
