1:17 AM. Ashbourne.
The world outside was silent, but in the master bedroom of
the Oculus, the air was thick with unspoken threats.
Silas's eyes snapped open at the buzz of his encrypted
phone. In the dim glow of the nightlight, he carefully extracted his arm from
under Elara, who slept soundly beside him, her form a soft curve under the
duvet. He didn't breathe until the bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
"Report," he commanded, his voice a low rasp in the empty
hallway.
The voice on the line was grim. "Sir, Steven Cohen is in
Oakhaven. He made contact with Young Master Julian at a dive bar in the south
quarter. They drank together for over an hour. My team lost his tail five
minutes after they parted ways. His men are… proficient."
Silas's grip tightened on the phone. His gaze was fixed on
the inky blackness beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he was seeing a
ghost from his past. "Julian's state?"
"Drunk. Bitter. The perfect target. Cohen approached him the
moment he walked in. They spoke at length. Julian left with our driver, too
inebriated for coherent conversation. No overt actions were taken."
"Double the detail on Julian," Silas ordered, his tone
leaving no room for argument. "If Cohen gets within a hundred yards of him
again, you extract Julian immediately. Understood?"
"Understood, sir." A pause. "Should we initiate a full-scale
search for Cohen?"
"Don't waste your energy." A cold, mirthless smile touched
Silas's lips. "He didn't come all this way to hide. He wants to be seen. He'll
come to me."
After ending the call, he lit a cigarette, the flame a
sudden, angry star in the darkness. He stood there for a long moment, the smoke
wreathing his sharp, ruthless features. The face of Steven Cohen, pale and
cunning, flashed in his mind, and his eyes hardened to chips of black ice.
When he finally slid back into bed, the chill of the night
clung to him.
Elara stirred, mumbling into her pillow as his scent—clean
linen and faint tobacco—wrapped around her. "You smoked," she accused, her
voice thick with sleep.
"I did. Go back to sleep, baby," he murmured, smoothing her
hair.
"Mmm… cut it out. You need to take care of yourself," she
sighed, the words a sleepy, wifely admonition before she drifted off again.
The residual coldness in Silas's expression melted away,
replaced by a look of tender amusement. At thirty-seven, was he already being
scolded about his health?
He pulled her gently back into the fortress of his arms, his
large, warm hand coming to rest possessively on the gentle swell of her belly.
A primal, ferocious thought solidified in his mind.
Everything in his arms was his. His to protect. His to
cherish. His.
Anyone who threatened them would learn what true
ruthlessness meant.
The Thorne private jet touched down at Oakhaven
International Airport, trading Ashbourne's grey chill for a blanket of
brilliant, golden sunshine.
Elara stretched, feeling the warmth seep into her bones.
"It's heavenly," she breathed, a contented smile on her face.
"Welcome home," Silas said, his voice laced with a pride she
hadn't heard before. "Let's get you settled. I'll show you everything later."
But as they exited the terminal, Elara's smile faltered. Her
steps slowed.
A convoy of six identical black Maybachs idled ominously by
the curb. Flanking each vehicle were three imposing men in stark black suits
and dark sunglasses, their postures rigid, their faces unreadable. They weren't
just bodyguards; they looked like a private army.
As they approached, a young man with a deceptively boyish
face stepped forward. In perfect, terrifying unison, the entire contingent
bowed deeply.
"Welcome home, Mr. Thorne. Mrs. Thorne." The greeting boomed
across the tarmac, too loud, too synchronised.
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. She glanced at
Silas. This was normal for him. His expression was one of utter command, his
aura of power expanding to fill the space around them. He was a king returned
to his domain.
He merely acknowledged them with a slight nod and guided
her, his hand firm on the small of her back, toward the central car.
Elara could feel the weight of a dozen hidden stares. The
pressure was immense, suffocating. She forced her spine straight, her chin up,
refusing to show her unease.
Once inside the plush, soundproofed interior of the car, the
world outside muted. As the convoy pulled away, she noticed the precise,
military-like coordination of the other vehicles, creating an impenetrable
moving shield around them.
She finally found her voice, her tone laced with disbelief.
"Is this… standard procedure for a trip to the grocery store?"
Silas looked up from his tablet, a faint smile playing on
his lips. "More or less. You'll acclimatise."
"Acclimatise to this?" She took a deep breath, her mind
racing through every gangster movie she'd ever seen. She leaned in closer, her
voice dropping to a whisper he had to strain to hear. "Silas… your car. It's armoured,
isn't it?"
The air in the car grew still. The driver's shoulders
tightened almost imperceptibly. The bodyguard in the passenger seat, Ben,
didn't even twitch.
Silas's low "Mmm" of confirmation was all she needed. Her
blood ran cold.
She swallowed, her joke from days ago suddenly feeling
horrifically prescient. She leaned in even closer, her voice a bare whisper
against his ear. "Silas Thorne… tell me the truth. You're not involved with the
mafia, are you?"
For a long moment, he just looked at her, at the genuine
fear flickering in her wide, clear eyes. Then, a slow, devastatingly handsome
smile spread across his face. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin.
"Put those dramatic ideas out of your head, my love," he
said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I am a simple, legitimate
businessman."
He held her gaze, his own steady and unwavering. "But a tree
that grows too tall inevitably catches the wind. I have made… powerful enemies.
This is simply caution."
She searched his eyes, finding only calm assurance and that
faint, teasing amusement he reserved only for her. The knot of anxiety in her
chest began to loosen. She let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been
holding.
"Okay. Good."
"Good," he echoed, pulling her into his side. "And remember,
if you have questions, you come to me. Always. Don't let your imagination run
wild."
She nodded, nestling into the solid comfort of his shoulder,
soothed by his heartbeat.
In the front seat, Ben kept his face a carefully neutral
mask.
A simple, legitimate businessman. Right. And lions were
harmless house cats.
Just then, the roar of a powerful engine shattered the calm.
A flash of blood-red shot past the convoy's flank—a low-slung convertible.
It swerved, pulling dangerously alongside their armoured
car. A man stood up in the passenger seat, his white shirt blinding in the sun.
He waved, a picture of manic, cheerful audacity.
Ben's reaction was instantaneous. In a movement too fast to
follow, a sleek, black pistol was in his hand, aimed with lethal precision
through the slightly open window.
Elara's heart leaped into her throat.
A voice, laced with a mocking laughter that Silas hadn't
heard in twenty-two years, cut through the hum of the engine. "Silas
Thorne!" Steven Cohen sang out, his tone a venomous melody from the past.
The man from the bar stood in the convertible, a spectre of old nightmares.
"Did you miss me? Daddy's home!"
Silas's body moved on instinct, shifting to block Elara
completely from view. His expression, once tender, was now carved from stone.
He pressed the button, the window gliding down just enough.
His voice, when it came, was not loud. It was a soft, deadly
whisper that carried the weight of an executioner's axe. It was the coldest
thing Elara had ever heard.
"I see you, Cohen."
He didn't even look at Ben, but the gun's aim never wavered
from Steven's smiling face.
"Did you come back just to die?"