45. Silas
Chapter 45
Silas
S ome people need to learn the hard way. I don’t trust that Dom will slink off with his tail between his legs, not after everything he’s pulled. And Heather? She’s even worse—more venom than brains. The kind of woman who would set the house on fire just because she wasn’t the one who got to live in it.
I know their type. I've fought against people like them enough times to spot the pattern a mile away. And I’m not the kind of guy who waits around for problems to land on my doorstep.
So, I dig.
Not just surface-level social media stalking or public records. I dig deep. Offshore accounts, sealed court records, NDAs buried under layers of shell companies.
By the time I'm finished, I know more about Dom and Heather than they probably know about themselves.
Dom’s financials are a fucking mess. He’s been bleeding money for years—gambling debts he couldn’t cover, personal loans from less-than-legitimate sources. Worse, he’s been siphoning money from his family’s business to cover his lifestyle.
Sloppy. Greedy. Desperate. The holy trinity of bad decisions.
And Heather? She’s been busy too. Cozying up to investors, flipping shady real estate deals under fake LLCs, getting herself tangled in fraud allegations that are one stiff breeze away from blowing her whole fake empire to pieces.
Perfect.
I set up the meeting the same way men like Dom prefer—public enough to keep him from pulling anything stupid, private enough that no one will notice when I gut him with words alone.
He shows up at the bar right on time, dressed the part in a too-expensive suit meant to project success instead of desperation. I’m already at the back corner table, nursing a whiskey, waiting.
His eyes flick around the room as he approaches, nerves telegraphed in the way he rolls his shoulders back too hard. He’s trying to convince himself he’s still in control.
He’s not.
"Silas," he says smoothly, sliding into the seat across from me like this is just another business meeting.
I smile. Slow. Easy. A warning hidden under the charm.
"Dom."
I let him squirm for a minute, pretending to scroll on my phone. Then I set it down, pull out the slim leather folder I brought with me, and slide it across the table.
"Go ahead," I say lightly. "Take a look."
He hesitates. That alone is telling. A guilty man always knows when the trap is baited for him.
Finally, he flips it open. Page after page of his own sins are laid out in black and white—bank statements, wire transfers, property records, screenshots of off-the-books deals.
I watch the color drain from his face. Watch the way his throat bobs on a hard swallow.
"You’re fucked," I say casually, tipping my glass toward him. "And that’s the polite version."
Dom tries for a recovery, setting his jaw. "You can’t prove half of that."
"Maybe," I admit, flashing a grin. "But do you really want to bet your freedom on whether a jury believes you?"
I lean in, dropping the smile, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
"You have two options," I say, each word sharp enough to cut. "Option one: you walk away from Sebastian. From Genevieve. From all of us. You disappear. You stay the fuck out of our lives. Option two..." I sit back, letting it hang there for a second. "I bury you. Publicly. Professionally. Personally. I will rip your life apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but your fucking skeleton."
His hands tremble slightly as he flips another page, confirming everything he already knows is true.
I let the silence stretch between us. Let him start to drown in it.
Finally, Dom clears his throat, trying and failing to hide the shake in his voice. "I see your point."
"Good talk," I say breezily, standing up to leave. "Let’s not have another one."
I walk out without looking back.
* * *
I’m sure Dom won’t bother us again.
The fear of prison time. The realization that nothing he does will change how we feel about Genevieve. Either way, he’s done with this chapter.
Heather’s harder to deal with.
She’s a cockroach. But even cockroaches scatter when you shine the right light.
I make sure that light finds her.
It’s not hard once you know where to look. I leak just enough of her dirty dealings—strategic partnerships, backroom property flips, bribes masked as “consulting fees”—to a journalist I know won’t bury it. The kind who sees blood in the water and goes straight for the kill.
Within forty-eight hours, the first story breaks.
By the end of the week, it’s an avalanche.
Suddenly, Heather’s face is all over the news. She tries to spin it, of course. Tries to cry foul. Claims victimhood. No one buys it. Her social circle turns on her faster than a pack of wolves. Investors pull out. Clients vanish.
By the time the dust settles, she’s a pariah.
Genevieve doesn’t even know the half of what I did. And I’m not telling her. She doesn’t need the stress. All she needs to know is that the people trying to hurt her are finished.
And yeah, I sleep better at night because of it.
Especially now.
Because by the time the leaves start turning and the air shifts into something crisp and golden, everything else in our lives is shifting too.
Genevieve’s twenty-eight weeks along now.
The difference is staggering.
The once tiny bump is unmistakable now. Her body has changed, reshaped itself around the life growing inside her, and Jesus, if it doesn’t wreck me every time I look at her.
She moves through the loft with this gentle grace. Max jokes that she’s nesting. Sebastian acts like he’s above it all, but I catch him looking at her all the damn time and the look on his face is one I’ve never seen before.
We’re all a little wrecked over her.
It’s evening and Genevieve is curled up on the couch, her hair pulled into a messy knot, a blanket draped over her legs. Max is sprawled on the floor beside her, building some complicated baby contraption that requires an engineering degree to assemble.
Sebastian's in the kitchen, whipping up some dinner for us all.
I sit at the far end of the couch, nursing a beer, watching all of it. Watching her.
She catches me staring and smiles.
It guts me, how easy she makes it look. How easy she makes all of this feel. I didn’t think I’d ever find something permanent, someone who matched my energy. But I did and she’s it. The one…
Genevieve shifts, trying to reach the glass of water on the coffee table. Before she can struggle too much, I’m there, handing it to her. She gives me a look.
“I’m pregnant, not incapacitated," she teases softly.
I grin, dropping down beside her. “Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop spoiling you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
Max looks up from his battlefield of plastic parts. “You mean enabling her?"
"Same thing," I shoot back, stealing a sip of her water just to make her huff.
I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with these three people.