Chapter 18
18
ATLAS
T hey put me in a holding room that looked more like a dentist’s office than an interrogation chamber. A muted beige palette, a fake ficus in the corner, and chairs that tried too hard to be comfortable.
I sat in the far one, my back straight, my arms folded across my chest, and I didn’t move.
Five hours.
I could’ve gone through a dozen workouts. I could’ve had a bourbon, smoked a cigar, run recon on three different people.
Instead, I waited.
Which was fine.
I was good at waiting. My silence as a boy had trained me for this. While my brothers had filled our house with shouting and wrestling and laughter, I’d been the one tucked in the corners, watching, collecting. My dad used to say I was born with the soul of a wolf—quiet, calculating, always observing. Back then, I thought it was a compliment. Now, I knew better. It was a warning.
My father.
Byron Dane.
Even now, the name still curled like a fist in my chest.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The silence pressed in, but I didn’t break it. I welcomed it. Let it fill the gaps and force the truth to the surface.
We’d always known Byron was a force. Hard man. Loved his family. Smart. Obsessed with legacy. But it hadn’t been until recently—until Dominion’s walls were breached, until we started pulling threads—that we found the rot.
Byron hadn’t just built a dynasty. He’d buried one secret at a time until Department 77 had roots under our roof.
We still didn’t know the whole story.
But I did know this—he’d seen something coming. A threat larger than pride or politics. Something he wanted to control. And like every man who gets too close to the flame, he’d been burned. I wondered if he’d made a deal with the devil.
The family attorney, Holt Bishop, finally called around the third hour. I could hear the echo of the courthouse in the background—paper shuffling, heels clicking on tile, hushed urgency laced with legal teeth.
“They’re not charging you,” Holt said, voice clipped but smug. “I told the judge if they so much as issued a parking ticket with your name on it, I’d tie this place in knots until I was buried beside Scalia. I’ll have the judge’s signature on dismissal in an hour.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You’ll walk out clean,” he said. “But don’t get too comfortable. They wanted you in there. They wanted the optics. Someone’s pulling strings, and it smells like a man who plays piano with other people’s reputations.”
Eugene.
That worm wasn’t working alone. He couldn’t have orchestrated the headlines, the photo drops, the anonymous leaks. He was a coward, not a strategist.
No. Someone else had lined up those dominos.
And I planned to break their fucking hand.
The deputy came in an hour later, gave me the kind of look men reserve for lions behind bars. Respect and distance, stitched with fear.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Dane.”
Of course, I was.
* * *
By the time I got back to Dominion Hall, I had a plan.
One: Find Eugene. Break him open until the truth spilled out.
Two: Find out who whispered in his ear. And then silence them. Permanently.
The car pulled up through the wrought iron gates, winding past the live oaks and the freshly cut grass. Dominion Hall loomed like a sleeping beast—tall, stately, indifferent. And yet, waiting.
The driver didn’t speak. I didn’t expect him to.
I stepped out into the Charleston afternoon, humidity clinging to my skin like guilt, and started up the stone steps.
Noah was waiting at the door.
He leaned against the frame with that lazy slouch that only came after years of training your body to move like a man who didn’t care—until he did. And when Noah Dane cared, the world tilted.
His mouth was set in a grim line, and there was something tight in his eyes I hadn’t seen since our last op overseas.
“Someone inside?” I asked.
He nodded. “Guests.”
I arched a brow. “Guest?”
His mouth twitched. “No. Guests. Plural.”
He stepped aside, and I moved past him, boots silent on the marble.
The private family room was tucked at the back of the house. It wasn’t flashy—just dark wood, soft leather, and heavy curtains that soaked up secrets. It was where we did our real talking. The kind of conversations that never made it into public record.
And that’s where I found her.
Anna.
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands folded, back straight. Her green eyes were puffy, but sharp. Alert. And on either side of her sat two people who could only be her parents.
The mother—tall, elegant, in a navy cardigan that made her look like she belonged on a diplomatic dais. And the father—stoic, hawkish eyes, the quiet fury of a man who’d once burned his own path out of a broken system.
All three looked up when I entered.
Anna didn’t run to me. She didn’t even smile. Her eyes searched mine, cautious. Wary.
And it hit me like a gut punch.
Maybe she wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe the headlines, the arrest, the weight of my world had finally caught up to hers.
I stopped just inside the door, nodding once. “I’m okay.”
Her voice was small, controlled. “Are you?”
I let out a slow breath, then crossed the room and crouched in front of her—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that I could see every emotion flicker across her face.
“The lawyer called the judge,” I said. “There’s nothing moving forward. No charges. The whole thing’s being tossed.”
Anna’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. “Because I’m not pressing anything?”
I nodded. “They made that clear.”
“I won’t,” she said. No hesitation.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uneasy.
I looked at her mother. She gave a polite nod, but her fingers tapped once against her leg. The kind of woman who let nothing slip unless she wanted it to.
Then I turned to her father. He was watching me like I was a thesis he’d been assigned to dismantle.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Russian-accented. Measured.
“You’re the man who touched my daughter in a hallway before he knew her name.”
I didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“You’re also the man who let her walk away.”
Another nod. “Yes.”
“And now, you’re the man standing in the center of a storm she didn’t ask for.”
“That’s right.”
He stared for a long moment, as if weighing whether I’d earned my silence or just weaponized it. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes boring into mine.
“I don’t care how many companies you own. I don’t care how big your house is. I don’t care if the President himself salutes you every time you pass a flag.”
His tone darkened. “If you lie to her, if you hide from her, if you turn your shadows into hers, I will burn your entire kingdom down and salt the earth where it stood.”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t speak.
I just looked him in the eye and said the only thing that mattered.
“Understood.”
Another silence.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
I liked him instantly for saying it.
Anna’s hand slipped into mine.
Not a grip. Not a claim.
Just a touch.
But it was enough.