She stares at me, entirely paralyzed by the sheer gravity of the instruction. "Thayer..."
"Say you understand me, Sybil!" I bark, the violent urgency in my tone echoing off the concrete walls.
"I understand," she gasps, nodding frantically.
"Good."
I press my thumb against the scanner. The heavy pneumatic doors hiss, the massive steel bolts sliding back. The elevator car awaits me.
I step inside. I look at her one last time. She looks so small, completely swallowed by the massive, sterile bunker, wearing my shirt, marked by my mouth, standing in the ruins of the life her father destroyed.
"Lock the door," I command the computer.
The heavy steel doors slide shut, cutting off the sight of her, plunging me into the claustrophobic darkness of the elevator shaft.
The ascent is rapid, pulling me away from the only thing I care about and launching me directly into a den of vipers. My pulse slows, my breathing completely evens out. The obsessive, desperate lover vanishes into the shadows, and the ruthless, untouchable Don takes the wheel.
I am going to burn Chicago to the ground. And anyone who stands in my way will be nothing but ash.
CHAPTER 11 THE WEIGHT OF IRON POV: SYBIL
The heavy pneumatic hiss of the steel doors sealing shut is the loudest sound in the world.
It reverberates through the cavernous underground bunker, bouncing off the polished concrete walls and settling deep into the marrow of my bones. Then, the mechanical locks engage with a series of final, undeniableclacks.
I am entirely alone.
I stand in the center of the vast, sterile room, my bare feet freezing against the cold floor. The silence that rushes in to fill the space left by Thayer’s absence is thick, heavy, and completely suffocating. Without the massive, gravitational pull of his physical presence, the air feels too thin to breathe. I wrap my arms tightly around my waist, my fingers digging into the soft dark cotton of his oversized t-shirt, pulling it closer to my skin in a desperate attempt to retain the fading warmth of his body.
My lips are throbbing. They burn with a bruised, feverish heat, entirely swollen from the violent, consuming pressure of his mouth. I bring a trembling hand up to my face, my fingertips lightly brushing against my bottom lip.
A ragged, fractured breath tears its way up my throat.
“You are the only person on this miserable fucking earth who is ever allowed to touch the monster.”
The words echo in the silent vault, a dark, terrifying vow that completely shatters the fragile remains of my sanity. I squeeze my eyes shut, a hot tear slipping past my lashes to cut a scalding path down my pale cheek. My body is still vibrating, completely rewired by the catastrophic surge of adrenaline and dark, twisted lust that he forcibly extracted from me. The aching, desperate heaviness between my legs is a cruel, undeniable biological betrayal.
I wanted him.
The man who orchestrated my captivity, the man who snapped an assassin’s neck mere feet away from me, the man who executed a weeping grandmother without a second thought—I wanted him to tear this shirt off my body and consume me entirely.
The shame is a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I am forced to bend forward, gasping for air. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until bursts of static color explode in the darkness.
What is wrong with me?My father’s cruel, acidic voice slithers into my mind, a toxic ghost haunting my thoughts.You are broken, Sybil. You are weak. You are nothing but a pathetic liability.For eighteen years, Arthur Vance conditioned me to believe that I was entirely powerless, a fragile porcelain doll meant to be locked in a room and traded to settle a ledger. He taught me to fear men, to fear control, to fear the very act of existing out loud.
But Arthur Vance didn't just sell me to a monster. He sold me to a king who burns cities to the ground just to ensure I have a safe place to sleep.
I open my eyes, dropping my hands to my sides. I force my spine to straighten.
The bunker is bathed in the sterile, blue-white glow of the emergency strip lighting. It is a sensory deprivation chamber, a fortress designed to withstand the end of the world. But the world is ending right now, right above my head. The Thorne Syndicate is fracturing. The Capos are rebelling. Blood is spilling on the streets of Chicago, and Thayer just walked straight into a den of vipers to protect the cage he built for me.
“There is a suppressed Glock in the top drawer of the nightstand next to the bed.”
Thayer’s parting command slices through the fog of my panic, sharp and absolute.
I turn my head, my midnight-blue eyes locking onto the dark steel platform bed at the far end of the vault. The shadows seem to cling to the heavy charcoal linens, masking the small, matte-black metal nightstand sitting silently beside the pillows.
My heart executes a violent, erratic leap against my ribs. A cold sweat breaks out across the nape of my neck, the tiny hairs standing at attention.
