I arch a dark brow. "To whom?"
"The Commission," Dante says, the name hanging heavily in the cold air of the room. The Commission—the ruling body of the five ancient Mafia families in New York. The only power structure in the country that rivals the Thorne Syndicate.
"He offered them our routes in exchange for asylum in Europe," Dante continues, his jaw tight. "But that isn't the worst part, Thayer."
I open the folder, my eyes scanning the intercepted communications printed on the crisp white paper.
"The Commission knows you took the girl," Dante says, his voice dropping into a grim, dangerous register. "They view Sybil as a loose end. A liability. Vance couldn't guarantee she didn'tknow the access codes to his offshore accounts, so he gave them permission to eliminate her."
My hands stop moving. The air in the war room seems to freeze solid.
"Arthur Vance gave a hit order on his own daughter," I repeat, the words tasting like ash and pure, unadulterated violence.
"Yes," Dante confirms. "And the Commission accepted. Thayer... they have already mobilized. They aren't just coming for the territory. They are coming for your wife. And according to the chatter we intercepted an hour ago..."
Dante hesitates, a rare flash of genuine concern crossing his hardened features.
"According to the chatter," Dante finishes, "they already have a man inside this compound."
CHAPTER 7 THE GLASS TOWER POV: SYBIL
Waking up is not a slow, gentle return to consciousness. It is a violent, breathless collision with reality.
My eyes snap open, my chest heaving as if I’ve just run a mile, my fingers immediately clutching the thick, heavy gray duvet. I stare blindly at the ceiling, my heart executing a frantic, bruised rhythm against my ribs. For three terrifying seconds, I don't know where I am. The air smells wrong. The light is wrong.
Then, the scent hits me. Cedarwood. Amber. The dark, heavy musk of danger and impending doom.
The memories of the last twenty-four hours crash into my brain like shattered glass. The cathedral. The suffocating corset. The cold, mechanicalclickof the armored SUV doors locking. The brutal, bone-crushing sound of Thayer nearly snapping a man’s neck just for looking at me. And then, the ultimate, soul-destroying revelation.
Arthur Vance gave a hit order on his own daughter.
A sharp, agonizing physical pain slices through my chest, so intense I have to curl onto my side, bringing my knees up to my stomach. My father didn't just sell me into this nightmare. He threw me to the wolves and painted a target on my back to buyhis own freedom. The profound, hollow ache of betrayal radiates straight down into my marrow. I am entirely alone in the world. I am a ghost, haunting a life I was never supposed to survive.
I force myself to take a breath. It shudders through my teeth, jagged and thin.
I push the heavy duvet off my body and swing my legs over the edge of the massive California King bed. My bare feet hit the plush, dark carpet. My muscles ache, a deep, lethargic soreness radiating through my limbs. I am wearing the oversized charcoal cashmere sweater Thayer gave me. It swallows my small frame completely, the hem falling halfway down my thighs. It smells intensely of him, a constant, suffocating reminder of the man who now holds the absolute deed to my existence.
I stand up slowly, the room swaying slightly before my vision stabilizes.
The master suite of the compound is entirely silent. It is a heavy, unnatural quiet, thick with the kind of insulation that millions of dollars of security buy. I walk toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire southern wall of the room.
The view outside completely steals whatever breath I had managed to gather.
There is no city skyline. There are no streets, no cars, no people. Just a sprawling, endless sea of ancient, towering pine trees shrouded in a thick, gray morning mist. The rain continues to beat against the reinforced glass in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. I step closer, pressing my palm flat against the cold, bulletproof pane. I look down.
The drop is at least forty feet to a stone terrace below, which is completely surrounded by a twelve-foot electrified steel fence.In the distance, through the mist, I can see the faint, rhythmic movement of heavily armed patrols and the dark silhouettes of attack dogs pacing the perimeter.
This isn't just a house. It is a military installation. And I am locked right in the center of it.
I turn away from the glass, my stomach twisting into tight, nauseating knots. The instinct to flee—the primal, frantic need to find an exit—surges through my veins. I cross the cavernous bedroom, passing the dark slate bathroom and the walk-in closets, until I reach the heavy, double-vaulted mahogany doors that lead out into the main hallway of the wing.
I wrap my trembling fingers around the heavy brass handles and pull.
They don't budge.
A cold sweat breaks out across the nape of my neck. I pull harder, bracing my weight against the wood, my boots slipping slightly on the carpet. Nothing. There isn't even the slightest give in the hinges.
The doors are locked from the outside.
