"Boss," Dante says, his voice completely tight, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw. "We just intercepted a secure transmission on the Commission's frequency."
"And?"
"Arthur Vance isn't in Europe," Dante reports, the words landing like heavy stones in the quiet room. "He never boarded the plane. He is here, in Chicago. He is hiding with the Commission's elite guard."
Sybil freezes completely against my side. The blood drains entirely from her face.
"And," Dante finishes, swallowing hard, "he just sent a formal request for a parley. He wants to meet."
"A parley?" I sneer, a dark, murderous laugh vibrating in my chest. "He ordered a hit on my wife. There is no parley. Tell our men to find his location and burn the building down with him inside."
"Thayer," Dante interrupts, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes, a clear sign of absolute desperation. "He says he has leverage. He says if we don't meet him at neutral ground by midnight... he is going to release the heavily encrypted files regarding the true nature of your father's death to the federal authorities."
My blood turns completely to ice.
Sybil looks up at me, her blue eyes wide, completely registering the catastrophic shift in the room's gravity.
Arthur Vance doesn't just have a target on his back. He has the one secret that could completely annihilate the Thorne Syndicate from existence.
CHAPTER 15 THE GHOSTS OF OUR SINS POV: SYBIL
The name hangs in the harsh, sterile air of the medical suite, a toxic, heavy cloud of poison that instantly suffocates the oxygen from my lungs.
Arthur Vance.
My father. The man who sold me to a monster to settle a ledger. The man who ordered a hit on his own daughter, leaving me to be butchered in my wedding dress while he supposedly boarded a private jet to Europe.
Except he didn't run. He is here. In Chicago. Hiding behind the heavily armed shields of the Commission, dangling the ultimate, catastrophic secret over the head of the Thorne Syndicate.
I am completely frozen against Thayer’s uninjured side. The heavy, intoxicating heat that had just consumed my body—the blinding, desperately beautiful climax he just ripped from my core—evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread that seeps directly into my marrow. My fingers, still tangled in the dark, damp hair at the nape of Thayer’s neck, turn to ice.
Dante stands near the sliding reinforced doors, his eyes firmly locked onto the pristine white tiles of the floor. He does not darelook at the bed. He does not dare look at my bare shoulders or the discarded medical scrub top lying on the ground.
"Federal authorities," Thayer repeats. His voice is a low, demonic whisper, entirely stripped of the velvet warmth it held just moments ago. It is the sound of a guillotine blade being slowly raised into position.
"Yes, Boss," Dante replies, a muscle feathering violently along his bruised jawline. "He claims to have physical evidence. Documents. Recordings. If we don't meet him by midnight, he triggers a dead man’s switch. The files go directly to the FBI task force investigating organized crime in the Midwest."
The tension radiating from Thayer’s massive frame is absolute. His body, previously languid and completely focused on my pleasure, turns to rigid, impenetrable steel beneath my hands. The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor connected to his chest spikes, a rapid, frantic staccato that betrays the lethal surge of adrenaline flooding his system.
"Where is the parley?" Thayer asks, his pale gray eyes completely devoid of light, staring straight through the walls of the bunker.
"The old railyard on the south side," Dante answers. "Neutral ground. But it's a fortress of rusted metal and blind spots, Thayer. It’s a tactical nightmare. If the Commission brings their elite guard, it’s a suicide mission."
"Prep the men," Thayer commands, the absolute, uncompromising authority of the Don fully resurrected. "I want snipers on every rusted gantry. I want the perimeter completely locked down an hour before we arrive. We are not negotiating, Dante. We are going to execute him, and we are going to burn the evidence with his corpse."
"Understood," Dante murmurs, dipping his chin in a sharp nod. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his loyalty warring with his tactical logic. "Boss... your shoulder."
"My shoulder is fine," Thayer snarls, the feral warning in his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Get the cars ready. We leave in twenty minutes."
Dante turns on his heel and exits the suite, the heavy doors hissing shut behind him, sealing us inside the stark, white room once again.
The silence that crashes down over us is deafening.
I slowly pull my hands out of his hair. I slide off his waist, my bare knees hitting the cold mattress as I scramble backward. I snatch my discarded scrub top from the floor and pull it rapidly over my head, my shaking fingers struggling to straighten the fabric over my bare chest.
Thayer doesn't stop me. He watches me with dark, unreadable eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath the thick white bandages.
"What did he mean?" I whisper, my voice trembling so violently it barely sounds like my own. I wrap my arms tightly around my waist, creating a pathetic physical barrier between us. "Thayer... what did my father mean about the true nature of your father's death?"
