Silas's gaze was a blade of obsidian, honed on the figure below as it
clutched its chest and vanished into the shadows, phone pressed to an ear. His
own device vibrated, and Ethan's voice, strained and urgent, crackled through.
"Boss, Steven's men were already inside. They've deployed tear gas
in the main hall—it's chaos. Our teams have converged on Mrs. Thorne's
location."
A cold, silent storm broke behind Silas's eyes. He was moving before
Ethan finished speaking, striding for the door without a single glance toward
Julian. As he passed the wounded man in black, who was dragging his bloodied
leg in a pathetic attempt to flee, Silas didn't break stride. He raised his
pistol.
Crack.
The bullet tore through the man's other knee. A guttural scream ripped
through the room as the thug collapsed, his body convulsing in agony.
"Steven jumped from the third floor," Silas said into the phone, his
voice cold and flat. "He's heading for the rear courtyard." The line went dead
as Ethan absorbed the information.
In the corridor, Silas was a whirlwind of lethal intent. He shrugged off
his blood-spattered suit jacket, the white of his shirt beneath stained with
crimson Rorschach tests of violence. He ripped the loosened tie from his neck,
every cord of muscle taut, radiating a predator's focus as he ran.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with Charles Hudson emerging from
a doorway. Their eyes met—Silas's burning with cold fire, Charles's narrowing
in calculated surprise. Charles discreetly pushed the door shut behind him, but
not before Silas caught a glimpse of a slender, dark figure slipping past
inside.
"Silas?" Charles's voice was a mask of calm concern. "What in God's name
happened? You're covered in blood."
"No time," Silas bit out, not slowing his pace as he swept past. "The
chaos is downstairs. See for yourself."
A knot tightened in Charles's gut. Without another word, he fell into
step behind the retreating figure, his own mind racing.
Back in the room, the muffled, wet groans of the crippled man finally
pierced the fog of shock enveloping Julian. He blinked, his eyes focusing on
the gruesome scene: the man writhing on the floor, painting the exquisite
carpet with two long, smeared trails of red.
His gaze drifted to the black handgun lying not far away, the one Silas
had knocked from the thug's grasp.
Slowly, deliberately, Julian walked over. He bent down, his fingers
closing around the cold, hard metal of the grip.
The christening banquet had dissolved into a waking nightmare. Thick,
acrid white smoke billowed through the opulent hall, transforming laughter into
choked screams. Elara's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped
in a cage of bone.
Before the first scream fully faded, Brooke was in motion. She snatched
a tablecloth, drenched it in a water glass, and pressed the damp fabric into
Elara's hands. "Cover your nose and mouth. Now. Stay with me."
Through the stinging haze, Brooke's sharp eyes picked out the real
threat: tall, masked figures moving with purpose through the panicked crowd. Her
expression turned to granite. Covering her own face, she locked her hand around
Elara's wrist, pulling her low as they navigated the sea of chaos.
"Elly! Wait for me!" Vivian's shrill cry cut through the din. She
fumbled with a napkin, soaking it clumsily before pressing it to her face and
stumbling after them, a moth drawn to a flame of perceived safety.
The main entrance was a deathtrap—a seething, screaming mass of humanity
clawing to get out. Brooke changed course, pulling Elara toward a side exit,
but one of the masked men broke through the chaos, cutting them off.
Brooke's grip on Elara's wrist tightened to the point of pain. "Mrs.
Thorne, run! Find Mr. Thorne outside, now!"
She shoved her hand away, spun on her heel, and launched a flying kick
at their pursuer. The fight was on.
Tears streamed from Elara's stinging eyes, her breath coming in ragged
gasps despite the damp cloth. There was no time to think. She turned, crouched
low, and shoved the side door open, stumbling out into the cool night air.
Vivian scrambled out after her, slamming the door shut and leaning
against it, gasping. "Elly! What is happening? What do we do?"
"Shut up!" Elara hissed, moving away from her. She released the cloth,
gulping in the clean air, her eyes desperately scanning their surroundings.
They were in the villa's rear garden, a landscape of deep shadows and
pools of dim yellow light from ornate lamps. In the distance, she could see the
silhouettes of other escaped guests being corralled on the main lawn.
Figures—whether Silas's guards or Steven's thugs, she couldn't tell—were
fanning out, beginning a search.
Her heart in her throat, she ducked into a shadowy alcove, fumbling in
her handbag for her phone. Her trembling fingers dialled Silas's number.
Once. The call failed.
Twice. 'Out of service area.'
Her breath hitched. She was about to try a third time when a low,
chilling chuckle slid from the darkness.
"Don't waste your energy, little girl." The voice was like gravel, laced
with smug malice. "I'm wearing a signal jammer. That call won't be going
through."
Elara's blood ran cold. Her face paled. Slowly, she lowered the phone,
her fingers slipping back into her bag, brushing against the cold, comforting
steel of the pistol Silas had given her.
But Vivian, in her panic, lurched into her, jostling her arm and nearly
sending the handbag tumbling to the ground.
Fury, white-hot and sharp, surged through Elara. She wanted to slap the
stupidity off the other woman's face.
"Elly, what do we do?" Vivian whined, her voice trembling.
"Get away from me," Elara snarled, shoving her off.
From the deep shadows against the wall, Steven Cohen emerged. He was
leaning against the cold stone, shirt and trousers stained with mud and fresh
blood, his posture speaking of pain, but his eyes gleaming with triumph. A
cynical smirk twisted his lips.
Heh. The universe delivers.
He pushed himself upright, a sharp cough wracking his body. He limped
toward them, his gaze fixed on Elara.
"Well, well. I must admit, I'm impressed. You're holding up remarkably
well," he mused, his dark eyes appraising her pale but composed face. "No
wonder Silas is so utterly obsessed with you. It makes one wonder… what exactly
would he be willing to sacrifice to get you back?"
A cold dread coiled in Elara's stomach. She took an involuntary step
back. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stand very still, little girl," he purred, a pistol
appearing in his hand as if by magic, its barrel pointed squarely at her chest.
"This thing doesn't have the best manners."
Seeing the gun, Vivian scrambled backward so fast she nearly tripped,
putting a safe distance between herself and Elara without a second thought.
Steven's sneering gaze flicked to her. "The worthless son marries the
disposable woman. How fitting."
Vivian froze, petrified under his venomous stare.
Just then, a rusty screech echoed from the garden wall behind Steven—an
old iron gate being forced open from the outside. Three hulking figures slipped
through the darkness and materialised behind their boss.
"Mr. Cohen, the exit is clear. We must go. Now."
Steven's smile was a ghastly thing in the dim light. His eyes never left
Elara. "Take them both."
The words were a death sentence. The three men lunged forward.
"No! Please! Don't take me!" Vivian shrieked, her voice raw with terror.
She looked desperately at Steven. "I'm Julian's wife! I'm carrying his child!
Your grandchild!"
Instead of mercy, her plea seemed to amuse him. His hollow smile
widened. He raised his pistol, aiming it not at her, but directly at the life
growing in her womb. He tilted his head, his red-tinged lips forming a silent,
mocking word.
"Bang."
The real gunshot was deafening.
Elara's world narrowed to a single, horrifying point. Her breath seized
in her lungs. Her mind screamed, blanking out everything but the sight of
Vivian's body jerking violently, a bloom of crimson erupting on her dress as
she crumpled to the ground, her form convulsing in the grass.