The silence of the loft was shattered by the sound of a fist hitting the desk.
Elena jerked awake in the massive bed. The grey light of a London dawn was filtering through the high windows, casting long, pale shadows across the room. She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, her heart already racing.
Across the room, Silas was standing over the bank of monitors. His back was rigid, every muscle coiled tight. The blue light from the screens reflected off his bare shoulders, highlighting the tension that practically vibrated off him.
"Silas?" Elena whispered, sliding her legs out of bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet.
He didn't turn around. "Don't look," he warned. His voice was different now—hollow, stripped of the arrogance from the night before. It was the voice of a man staring into the abyss.
Elena ignored him. She walked across the room, wrapping her arms around herself. She stopped beside him and looked at the center screen.
It wasn't financial records. It wasn't just proof of the bodies in the foundation.
It was a database. Photos. Names. Prices.
"Oh god," Elena breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.
The screen was filled with profiles of women. Dozens of them. Some were politicians, some were actresses, some were nobody. Beside each photo was a list of leverage: blackmail material, debts, threats against family members. And at the bottom of each profile, a status: Owned, Discarded, or Eliminated.
"He's not just building skyscrapers," Silas said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "He's building a kingdom. He controls them. Judges, police chiefs... he has dirt on half of London."
He scrolled down. Elena's breath hitched.
There was her file.
Name: Elena Vance.
Status: Acquisition Complete.
Notes: Subject is docile. Emotional dependency established. Keep isolated.
"I was just... an acquisition," Elena whispered, tears stinging her eyes. The reality of her marriage, the coldness, the control—it all made sickening sense. She wasn't a wife; she was an asset he had purchased.
Silas turned to her then. The darkness in his eyes was swirling with a rage so potent it frightened her more than the screen. But when he reached out, his touch was surprisingly gentle. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from her cheek.
"You're not an asset," he growled. "You're a survivor. And I'm going to burn his kingdom to the ground for this."
Suddenly, a red light began to flash on the corner of the screen. A silent alarm.
Silas froze. His eyes snapped to the security feed of the hallway outside the loft.
"Damn it," he hissed.
On the black-and-white monitor, four men in tactical gear were moving up the stairs. They moved with professional precision, weapons drawn, silencers attached.
"How?" Elena gasped, backing away.
"The drive," Silas said, already moving. "It had a passive geolocator. As soon as I cracked the encryption, it pinged the server. They know exactly where we are."
He didn't panic. He switched into a mode that was pure, cold efficiency. He grabbed his shirt from the floor, pulling it on in one fluid motion, then reached under the desk and pulled out a matte black handgun. He checked the magazine and racked the slide.
"Elena, listen to me," he said, grabbing her shoulders. His grip was hard, grounding her. "In about thirty seconds, that door is going to blow. I need you to go to the bathroom. There's a window. It leads to the fire escape."
"I'm not leaving you!" she cried.
"You are," he commanded. "Go down the fire escape. Do not stop. Do not look back. I'll be right behind you."
Boom.
The steel door of the loft didn't just open; it disintegrated. A shaped charge blew the lock, sending metal shrapnel flying across the room.
Silas shoved Elena toward the bathroom. "Go!"
He dove behind the heavy leather couch just as the air filled with the thwip-thwip-thwip of suppressed gunfire. Bullets tore into the couch, fluff and leather exploding into the air.
Elena scrambled into the bathroom, but she didn't climb out the window. She couldn't. She peered through the crack in the door, terrified but unable to abandon him.
Silas was a blur of motion. He rolled out from behind the couch, firing two shots. The lead attacker dropped, a red mist spraying the concrete wall.
"Clear right!" one of the mercenaries shouted.
Silas didn't give them time to coordinate. He vaulted over the kitchen island, using it as cover. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and cornered. But Silas wasn't fighting like a soldier; he was fighting like a demon.
One mercenary rushed the island. Silas stood up, grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the counter, and swung it with bone-crushing force. It connected with the man's helmet, sending him crumbling to the floor. Silas shot him once in the chest to ensure he stayed down.
Two left.
They pinned him down with heavy fire. Bullets shattered the monitors, glass raining down on the floor. Silas was breathing hard, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead where a shard of glass had grazed him.
One of the men signaled to the other. They were flanking him. One was moving toward the bathroom—toward Elena.
Elena saw the man creeping along the wall. Silas couldn't see him; he was pinned by the other shooter.
Fear vanished. Instinct took over. Elena looked around the bathroom. Her eyes landed on a heavy ceramic vase on the shelf. She grabbed it.
She stepped out of the bathroom. "Hey!" she screamed.
The mercenary turned, surprised to see the target standing in the open. That split second of hesitation was all she needed. She hurled the vase. It smashed against his shoulder, staggering him.
"Silas!" she screamed.
Silas didn't hesitate. Hearing her voice, he knew the position was compromised. He stood up, fully exposing himself to the remaining shooter, and fired. Bang. Bang.
The man suppressing him fell.
Silas spun around, aiming at the man Elena had distracted. The mercenary was raising his rifle toward Elena.
Silas fired. A single shot, right between the eyes. The man collapsed backward.
Silence fell over the loft, heavy and ringing.
Silas stood there for a moment, chest heaving, the gun smoking in his hand. He looked at the bodies, then at Elena. He crossed the room, stepping over the shattered glass and blood.
He grabbed her face in his hands, scanning her frantically for injuries. "I told you to run," he said, his voice shaking with a mixture of fury and relief.
"I told you I wasn't leaving you," she countered, breathless, her eyes wide.
Silas stared at her. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, making his pupils dilated. He looked at the woman who had just risked her life for him—the woman who was supposed to be a spoiled trophy wife. He saw the fire in her eyes.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and pulled her into a crushing hug. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, grounding himself.
"You're an idiot," he muttered against her skin. "A brave, beautiful idiot."
He pulled back, his expression hardening again. "We have to move. Now. Marcus will send a second wave, and they won't be this sloppy."
He grabbed a duffel bag from the closet, stuffing cash, passports, and ammo into it. He threw a heavy leather jacket at her.
"Put this on. It's cold."
They ran for the fire escape, stepping out into the grey morning mist. The metal stairs clanged under their feet as they descended into the alleyway.
As they reached the bottom, Silas stopped. He looked at the Mustang parked nearby. "Too hot. We can't take the car."
" Then how do we leave?" Elena asked.
Silas pointed to a tarp covering a shape in the corner of the alley. He pulled it back to reveal a matte black Ducati motorcycle.
"Hold on tight," Silas said, swinging his leg over the bike. "And Elena?"
She climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her body against his back. "Yeah?"
"Don't let go."
The engine roared to life, screaming an echo against the brick walls. Silas gunned the throttle, and they shot out of the alley, merging into the morning traffic, disappearing into the city just as sirens began to wail in the distance.
The chase had officially begun.