Chapter 7
Seven
Silas
T he cool night air bites at my skin, but it's nothing compared to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I'm a shadow among shadows in this derelict warehouse district where even the rats know better than to squeak.
I inch closer to the dilapidated building; its walls are pocked with the scars of past skirmishes. Inside, my target conducts his final symphony of crime—a cacophony of urgent whispers and the rustle of dirty money. His name is a blight on the lips of those who fear him: Viktor Drago, a kingpin whose hands are stained with more blood than the abattoir floors.
Through my earpiece, Cain’s instructions echo, cold and precise. “Ensure it's gruesome. It needs to scream louder than the silence we need for the Senator's cover-up.”
“Understood,” I reply, my voice a mere breath against the mic. A grin tugs the corners of my lips. Gruesome is something I excel at. Something I so rarely get to indulge in.
I move forward.
Infiltration is child's play; guards are predictable, eyes easy to blindside. Darkness is my ally, and within it, I’m untouchable. I slip inside, senses heightened, every sound and shadow etched into my awareness.
Drago’s voice filters down from the upper floor, guttural and dripping with arrogance. He gloats over a shipment of contraband arms, blissfully unaware of the grim fate looming over him like a guillotine's blade. It's not just the weapons, or the drugs, or the lives he trades like currency—it's the power he wields, the fear he inspires. That's the real threat.
I ascend the metal staircase. My fingers tighten around my gun. I’ll use my knife for the job, but the gun is to ensure I get there. Footsteps approach. A guard rounds the corner, weapon drawn, eyes wide with surprise. Too late. I strike, swift and silent as a viper. A shot between the eyes, silenced by my suppressor. He slumps to the ground, a puppet with cut strings.
Reaching the top, I find Drago, back turned, engrossed in his dirty empire. The air reeks of sweat and greed. I step forward, undetected, my presence a secret only the dead could whisper.
“Viktor Drago,” I announce, allowing my voice to break his bubble of security. He spins, reaching for the gun at his hip, but I'm faster. My fist connects with his jaw, a blow that sings of shattered bone and spilled secrets.
“Who sent you?” he snarls, spitting blood.
“An old friend,” I say, almost kindly. The knife dances in my hand, eager for its performance. Drago's eyes widen with the realization that his reign ends in a pool of his own corruption.
I deliver the coup de grace with the elegance of a dancer and the precision of a surgeon. I slide the blade into his gut, twisting it to ensure his blood spills fast and messy.
Some of it splatters onto my cargo pants and I lick my lips in satisfaction. Drago collapses, his life force ebbing away into the filth-streaked floorboards. His demise is a message written in blood and violence—a warning to those who dare cross The Syndicate.
“Target down,” I say into my comms. Jet and Blake are downstairs, taking out the rest of Drago’s crew, leaving me time to look for intel. We might be here on a job, but we’d be stupid to leave without collecting information on one of the biggest criminal enterprises in the city.
Blood still warm on my blade, I turn to Drago's desk—a chaos of papers and digital screens flickering with the pulse of illicit deals. But it's not the numbers that catch my eye; it's the faces. One in particular freezes the blood in my veins.
Hallie.
My Hallie.
Her image, innocent and smiling and so fucking beautiful, framed by the glow of a computer monitor.
“What the fuck,” I mutter under my breath. The cursor blinks back at me, taunting.
“You good, Si?” I hear Cain ask.
“Yeah, I just saw something. Give me a minute.”
How the hell is Hallie’s life entwined with the fucking vipers I hunt? She’s all innocence and sunshine. She’s a goddamn school teacher who talks to her houseplants.
Her photo on Drago's screen is a puzzle piece out of place, but there’s no way I’m leaving any of this to chance.
Without hesitation, I explore his files, each click revealing more than I care to know but not enough to satisfy the hunger for answers. Sifting through the digital maze, I find nothing but dead ends and questions. Protecting Hallie has become my new mission—a self-appointed oath that cuts deeper than any knife I wield.
“Si, we got company soon.”
I hear the distant howl of a siren.
“Copy.”
I pull the hard drive out of the computer and get the fuck out of there.
Back in the sanctuary of my penthouse, the city sprawls below me, oblivious to the predators that walk among them. I handed the hard drive off to Cain to do what he does best.
I've got work of my own to do. My fingers dance over the keyboard as I scour social media, public records, anything that can tell me where she goes, who she sees, what risks she unknowingly takes. Hallie St. James: teacher, daughter, a soul unblemished by the darkness I know too well.
I’d already done a lot of this back when my obsession with her first took hold of me. But that was for personal reasons. This is for her safety.
My mind drifts back to the other night. I’ve barely let myself think of it because now that I’ve been inside her, not being inside her is enough to drive me fucking crazy. But I had to focus on the Drago operation, so I spent two days trying to push thoughts of Hallie to the back of my mind. I barely survived it.
If a fucking predator like Drago had her in his sights, there’s something I missed back when I first looked into her. I mentally kick myself for it, but all I can do now is move forward and make sure I don’t miss anything else.
I note her routines: the school, the coffee shop where she starts her day, the gym where she unwinds. All pieces of a life soon to intersect with mine in a very real way. I watch, analyze, predict. Stealth is my ally, and I will use it to slip into her world unnoticed.
As I delve deeper into Hallie's life, a soft knock at the door breaks my concentration. I tense, hand instinctively reaching for the gun holstered at my side, but relax when a familiar voice calls out, “Silas, I brought you some dinner.”
Irma. The only person who can enter my space without triggering every defensive instinct ingrained in me.
I rise from my chair, joints cracking from hours of immobility, and open the door. Irma stands there, a warm smile on her weathered face, holding a tray laden with a steaming plate of her famous arroz con pollo and a side of crisp green beans.
“Thought you might be hungry after your . . . work,” she says, her eyes flickering to the screens behind me, a knowing glint in their depths.
I step aside, allowing her to enter.
The aroma of the home-cooked meal wafts through the air, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still lingers in my nostrils. Irma sets the tray down on the coffee table, her movements precise and efficient, honed by years of tending to my needs.
“Thank you, Irma,” I say, my voice gruff with gratitude. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”
She chuckles softly, a sound that fills the cold, empty spaces of my penthouse with a fleeting warmth. “Probably starve or live off those awful protein bars you insist on keeping around.”
I can't help but smile at that. Irma has been more than just a housekeeper to me; she's the closest thing I have to family. She's seen me at my worst, cleaned up the blood and the broken glass, and never once flinched. Her unwavering loyalty is a lifeline in a world where trust is a rare commodity.
“Anything else you need, mijo?” she asks, her gaze softening with maternal concern.
I shake my head. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.”
Irma watches me take a bite of food, and I know she wants to say more.
“Yes?” I ask.
“You know you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t gawk.”
She huffs, but can’t hide the smile on her face. I look at the clock and feel like an asshole.
“Irma, it’s almost 1 a.m. What are you still doing up?”
“Someone’s gotta feed you.”
“I would have been okay.” I feel guilty, but she shakes her head.
“I know, but I worry. Couldn’t sleep anyway.” I notice she’s wearing one of those old fashioned matching sweatsuits. It’s what she wears around the apartment when she’s working after hours. I’ve told her a million times she doesn’t need to wear a uniform, but she likes to. Says it gives her a sense of purpose to put it on and get to work.
“Bad dreams again?”
“Eh, they come and go.”
Irma lost her family a decade ago. When I hired her, I renovated the penthouse to include a completely separate apartment for her to use. It connects to mine, but gives her more privacy and space than the original servants quarters did.
She doesn’t like to talk about her family much, but I know it still haunts her. I’ve heard her cries in the night. I’ve heard her scream out from the nightmares.
“You don’t have to wait up. I’ll eat and work a little more, then get to bed. I promise,” I add when she raises an eyebrow.
With a nod, Irma takes her leave, the door closing softly behind her. I turn my attention back to the screens, the images of Hallie still flickering before me.
I need to get closer, to understand the connection between her and Drago. But more than that, I need to ensure her safety. The thought of any harm coming to her sends a cold fury coursing through my veins.
I pull up the blueprints of her apartment building, studying the layout, the entry points, the potential vulnerabilities. It's not enough to watch from afar; I need to be in her space.
“Gotcha,” I say to no one as I find the opening I need. A vacancy in her building—that apartment next to hers is finally up for rent. Serendipity or fate, it doesn't matter. I'll be the new neighbor, the friendly face in the hallway.
My jaw sets firm as I plot the path ahead. For Hallie, I'll play the long game, move the pieces with care. She'll never know the danger that lurks, the silent guardian at her door, or the storm that rages within me—the tempest of desire and duty that her very existence has awakened.