"Leaving?" I echo, my voice a fragile, raspy whisper. "To where?"
"The penthouse is a fortress, but it is entirely too exposed now that war has been declared," Thayer states methodically. He stands up from the bed, his massive, imposing frame completely dominating the room. "We are moving to the Syndicate's secure compound outside the city limits. You will be entirely untouchable there."
He walks to the walk-in closet and disappears inside for a brief moment. He returns holding a pair of heavy, black leggings and a thick, oversized charcoal cashmere sweater. He tosses them onto the bed beside me.
"Dress yourself. You have exactly three minutes before we are in the elevator. Leave the pajamas."
He turns his back to me, walking over to the credenza to retrieve his trousers and dress shirt. He doesn't watch me dress, but the heavy, floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall reflects everything. As I strip off the silk pajama top with shaking hands, I catch his eyes in the glass. He is watching my reflection, his gaze dropping to the pale, exposed skin of my back, lingering onthe subtle curve of my spine before I pull the heavy cashmere sweater over my head.
He misses absolutely nothing. The surveillance is constant. Absolute.
I pull on the leggings and step into a pair of simple black boots he had placed by the door. I am entirely covered, completely swallowed by the dark, heavy fabrics of his world, yet I have never felt more naked.
"I'm ready," I whisper.
Thayer turns. He is fully dressed now, a bespoke black suit jacket perfectly tailored over his broad shoulders, a dark tie knotted at his throat. He looks like the Devil dressed for a funeral. My father's funeral.
He crosses the room, bypassing the space between us in two long strides. He doesn't offer me his hand. He simply wraps his large fingers securely around my wrist, his grip an iron manacle, and pulls me out of the bedroom.
The descent down the private elevator is silent and suffocating. The transition from the penthouse to the subterranean garage is jarring. The heavy metal doors slide open, revealing a small army of heavily armed men.
There are at least twenty Syndicate soldiers forming a perimeter around a fleet of armored, matte-black SUVs. They are all wearing tactical vests over their suits, holding automatic rifles with a terrifying, casual ease.
As Thayer steps out of the elevator, dragging me slightly behind him, the entire garage goes dead silent.
Every single man lowers his head, their eyes fixing firmly on the concrete floor. Not a single soldier dares to look up. Nota single gaze grazes my boots, let alone my face. The threat Thayer whispered to Matteo wasn't an isolated incident. It is the absolute law of the land.
Touch her and die. Look at her and bleed.
I am suddenly acutely aware of my new status. I am not just a captive. I am the Queen of the Underworld, elevated to a terrifying pedestal where I am entirely isolated by the sheer, lethal possessiveness of the man holding my wrist.
Dante Vitiello, the underboss, is waiting by the open door of the lead vehicle. His dark eyes flick to Thayer, entirely bypassing me.
"The perimeter is secure, Boss," Dante says, his voice tight. "The compound is on lockdown. We are ready to move."
Thayer nods once. He guides me to the open door and practically lifts me into the dark, cavernous interior of the SUV. He climbs in immediately after me, pulling the heavy door shut. The mechanicalclunkof the locks engaging is a sound I am beginning to associate with the loss of my free will.
The motorcade moves out flawlessly, ascending the concrete ramp and merging into the heavy, rain-slicked traffic of the Chicago morning.
I press my back against the dark leather of the seat, pulling my knees up slightly, seeking the warmth of the cashmere sweater. The heavy tint of the windows turns the world outside into a muted, gray blur. We are leaving the city. We are leaving everything I have ever known.
Thayer sits perfectly still beside me, his long legs spread comfortably, completely at ease in the center of the chaos he commands. His gray eyes are fixed on the partition, his mindlikely calculating the exact methods he will use to dismantle my father's remaining loyalists.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken terrors.
I slowly turn my head to look at him. "Thayer?"
He doesn't look at me, but a muscle feathers in his sharp jawline. "Speak, Sybil."
"What... what happens to me now?" I ask, the vulnerability in my voice completely exposing the fractured state of my soul. "At the compound. Am I just... a prisoner?"
Thayer slowly turns his head. His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second, before meeting my gaze. The absolute, ruinous fire is back in his depths, burning away the cold, detached mob boss and leaving only the deeply obsessed predator.
He reaches across the center console. I don't flinch this time. I am too exhausted, too fundamentally broken to fight his gravity.
He slides his hand around the back of my neck, his long fingers threading into the hair at the base of my skull. He pulls me toward him, leaning in until his mouth is a breath away from mine. The scent of danger and dark, twisted promises entirely envelopes me.
"You are not a prisoner, little bird," he whispers, his thumb tracing a heavy, possessive path across my bottom lip, making my breath hitch violently in my chest. "You are the only thing in this miserable, bloody world that I will never let go of. Your father left you to the wolves. But he forgot one very important detail."
