The air in the tunnel grew thick, heavy with the rumble of
engines and unspoken threats. Steven Cohen was a razor's edge of calculated
madness. He spread his arms wide in a mocking, theatrical gesture, a shark's
grin slicing across his gaunt, handsome face.
"Go on then, big man," he called out, his voice cutting
through the noise, laced with a dare. "Right here. Aim for the chest. Make it
count."
"The second I hit the ground, your beloved boss gets a
personal escort to the station. I hear the detectives make a mean cup of
coffee. Very… cozy."
In the front passenger seat of the Maybach, Ben's expression
didn't flicker. The muzzle of his weapon remained steady, aimed unwaveringly
through the window. He wasn't a fool; this was a statement, not an
assassination.
Seeing his taunt fall on stoic ground, Steven shrugged, his
almond-shaped eyes crinkling with amusement as he turned his gaze back to
Silas. The look that passed between them was ancient, a silent war fought in
the span of a heartbeat.
"Silas, you lucky dog," Steven drawled, raising his voice to
be heard. "Always did have a knack for training the best ones. So fiercely
loyal."
He paused, a flicker of something that might have been
nostalgia crossing his sinister features. "Don't look so tense. I'm just paying
my respects to an old friend. It's been years. A part of me missed this."
Another beat of silence, his eyes glinting dangerously under
the tunnel's streaking lights. "Then again, a bigger part of me worried you'd
forgotten all about me. Or worse… forgotten that your son has an uncle."
The words hung in the air, a venomous challenge.
Inside the Maybach, Elara's blood ran cold. In the mottled
light, she saw the exact moment the words hit Silas. His stern, sculpted face,
usually a mask of impenetrable control, froze into a sculpture of pure, icy
contempt. His piercing gaze was locked on Steven, and for a terrifying second,
Elara saw the monster beneath the polished surface.
"An uncle?" Silas's voice was a low, gravelly whisper that
somehow carried the weight of a shout. It was devoid of all warmth, a sound
that promised violence. "You have no right to even speak those words."
As the final syllable left his lips, his hand moved—a sharp,
infinitesimal gesture.
Ben didn't hesitate.
The crack that echoed in the enclosed space was deafening.
Elara flinched hard, a gasp catching in her throat, her mind screaming that
this was it, this was murder, right in front of her.
But instead of hitting flesh, the shot struck true to its
real target. Something small and metallic flew from Ben's hand, and the sports
car's front tyre exploded with a violent whoosh. The Lamborghini swerved
violently, screeching against the tunnel wall in a shower of sparks before
lurching to a jerking, crippled halt.
Through the chaos, Elara saw Steven, one hand braced on his
dashboard, never losing that calm, unnerving smile. As the Maybach sped past,
he slowly raised his hand, fingers curled into the shape of a gun. He pointed
it directly at the backseat, right at Silas, and mimed the recoil.
The message was received.
A symphony of screeching brakes erupted from their convoy
behind them, narrowly avoiding a catastrophic pile-up. And then they were out,
bursting from the tunnel's mouth into the blinding afternoon sun, leaving the
threat and the darkness behind.
Inside the luxury car, a deafening silence descended, broken
only by the frantic hammering of Elara's heart against her ribs. She sat ramrod
straight, pressed into the buttery leather, unconsciously bringing her thumb to
her mouth and biting down on the nail. The scene replayed behind her eyes on a
nightmarish loop—the gun, the shot, the smirk, the mimed execution.
It felt like she'd been violently yanked into a parallel
universe. The man beside her smelled the same—that familiar, comforting scent
of sandalwood and clean linen that had come to mean safety. But in the span of
sixty seconds, that sense of security had shattered, revealing a terrifying
abyss beneath.
This wasn't a movie. This was her life.
"Elly…"
His voice, deep and laced with a rare strain of regret, cut
through her spiralling panic. Before she could process it, strong arms
enveloped her, pulling her back against the solid, warm wall of his chest.
His breath stirred her hair as he spoke into her crown. "I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry I frightened you."
One hand stroked soothing circles on her back while the
other cupped the nape of her neck, his thumb rubbing gentle, rhythmic patterns
on her skin as if calming a spooked animal. His lips pressed a fervent,
apologetic kiss to her head.
The tenderness, coming right after the brutality, was
disorienting.
"Silas…" Her voice was small, muffled against his shirt.
She pushed back slightly, creating a sliver of space between
them. The weight in her heart was a physical thing, crushing and cold. She
lifted her gaze to his, and the softness he was used to seeing was gone,
replaced by a chilling frost.
"How many words you've spoken to me were true?" The question
was flat, sharp, stripped bare of any affection.
Silas stilled. His jaw tightened, his Adam's apple bobbing
in a hard swallow. He slowly released his hold, turning her fully to face him,
his hands firm on her shoulders.
His pale eyes searched her icy ones, the face he adored now
pale and set with betrayal. "I have not lied to you, Elara. Everything I have
ever told you is true."
"Still lying!" she shot back, the scorn in her voice making
him flinch. "I asked you, point-blank, if you were involved with the mafia. You
looked me in the eye and told me you were a legitimate businessman."
She took a sharp, shaky breath, her composure cracking as
she pointed an accusatory finger toward the front seat. "Fine! Let's say I
believe that. Then you explain to me what that was! What is he holding? Don't
you dare tell me that was a toy gun!"
Silas's temple throbbed, a visible pulse of frustration and
anger. His gaze flicked—a swift, involuntary glance—toward Ben in the front
seat.
Ben, who had been doing his best impression of a statue,
felt the lethal weight of that glance like a physical blow and fought the urge
to shrink in his seat.
Elara saw the look, and it was all the confirmation she
needed. The fire of her fear morphed into the sharper burn of fury. "I've
changed my mind. I want to go back. Take me back to Ashbourne. Now."
This world of his was too alien, too dangerous. It was a
world she could never, would never, understand or accept.
"No." The word was absolute, final. It wasn't a negotiation.
He lowered his gaze, his dark eyes narrowing, and the unwavering resolve in his
deep voice pressed down on her like a weight. "You are my wife. When you marry
the man, you marry his life. His world. You will adapt. You will familiarise
yourself with this place, because this is your home now."
His forceful dominance was suffocating, crushing the air
from her lungs.
"…I can't," she whispered, her eyes falling to her lap, the
fight draining out of her, leaving only a hollow ache. "I'm just an ordinary
girl, Silas. All I ever wanted was a peaceful life. A normal one. To work for
my dreams and to raise my child in quiet stability. Not… not this."
Silas drew a sharp, deep breath, his lips pressing into a
thin, tight line. He said nothing. Instead, he simply pulled her back into his
arms, holding her tightly against the storm he had brought into her life, his
own heart a battlefield of love and grim necessity.
The Maybach convoy glided through imposing iron gates and up
a sweeping driveway, coming to a silent halt before a colossal three-story
villa that looked more like a fortress overlooking the city.
Ingrid Winslow and Annabelle had been waiting anxiously by
the grand entrance. Julian lounged on a stone bench in the sun-dappled garden
nearby, trying to look indifferent.
The moment the car stopped, Annabelle's face lit up and she
started forward. "Cousin Silas! You're finally—"
Her words died in her throat and her steps faltered as Silas
emerged from the car, not with his usual powerful stride, but with a stiff, icy
demeanour, cradling a clearly upset Elara in his arms. He didn't acknowledge
any of them, striding straight past and into the house, leaving a wake of
bewildered silence.
Julian's casual pose vanished. He watched the tall man
carrying the small, vulnerable form of the woman, and a dark, unreadable shadow
gathered in his eyes. His hand, resting on his knee, curled slowly into a
white-knuckled fist.
Ingrid's frown was deep with concern as she turned to Ben,
who was trailing behind looking appropriately grim. "Benjamin. What on earth
happened?"
Ben scratched the back of his neck, choosing his words with
extreme care. "There was… an incident on the road. A run-in with Steven Cohen.
The Boss… well, he upset the Young Mistress. She insisted on returning to
Ashbourne immediately. The Boss refused. Quite… emphatically. They're currently
in a bit of a cold war."
Ingrid's face softened for a moment before hardening into
maternal exasperation. She sighed, shaking her head. "That impossible man. He's
old enough to be her father and he has the patience of a gnat. The poor girl
hasn't even had time to feel wronged by the fact she's married to a relic like
him, and he's already throwing his weight around like a gangster. If he drives
that sweet wife away with his theatrics, he'll have no one to cry to but
himself."
"…"
Ben wisely kept his mouth shut, offering only a noncommittal hum. Some comments
were best left unanswered, especially when they were entirely too accurate. The
Boss would have his head on a platter if he ever repeated them.