Chapter 2
SILAS
I leaned against the war room’s doorframe, arms crossed, watching the circus unfold. My brothers—six oversized bastards who’d faced down death with me in deserts and jungles—sat around that polished oak table, pretending to give a shit about wedding plans.
Marcus had his feet up, smirking like he was humoring Claire.
Noah looked half-asleep, probably dreaming of blowing someone’s brains out.
Ryker stared out the window, likely plotting how to swim to the other side of the harbor.
Elias, and Charlie weren’t much better, tossing out dumb ideas like parachutes and raider crafts. Fucking clowns, all of them.
I wanted to laugh, but my chest was too tight. They were happy. That was the problem. Happy men let their guard down, and I’d spent my life making sure the Dane brothers didn’t die for stupid reasons. Like love. Like marriage. Like believing in forever when the world was built on blood and lies.
Portia Lane stood at the head of the table, all sleek lines and cool control, her tablet glowing like a weapon.
She was tall, lean, with skin like caramel under the chandelier’s light, her curls pinned up like she’d planned every strand.
Her voice was smooth, professional, cutting through my brothers’ bullshit with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
She was good. Too good. The kind of good that screamed she’d clawed her way up from nothing and wasn’t about to let anyone see the cracks.
I saw them anyway.
She said Atlanta, but her accent had a faint drawl, the kind you pick up in a nowhere town with dirt roads and dollar stores.
Podunk, USA. Not Peachtree Street. The way she held herself—shoulders back, chin high—screamed overcompensation.
Like she’d spent years practicing how to walk into rooms like this, where wealth and power hung thicker than gunpowder.
I’d bet my left nut she’d grown up with hand-me-downs and a chip on her shoulder, not silver spoons and debutante balls. She was a liar, but a damn pretty one.
Not that I cared.
She could be Helen of Troy, and I wouldn’t give a shit. My dick moved when she’d snapped back at me about fairy tales, her eyes flashing like she wanted to slap me or fuck me. Maybe both.
Didn’t matter.
I didn’t have time for tangling sheets with a woman who looked like she’d demand breakfast and a conversation after. I had bodies to drop and shadows to chase. They called me The Ghost for a reason—bad guys never saw me coming, and I didn’t stick around for the cleanup.
The war room smelled of coffee and tension, the kind that builds when too many alphas are in one place being forced to do something they don’t want to do. Portia was trying to wrangle them, talking logistics and timelines like she was briefing a battalion.
My brothers humored her, but I caught the glances they shot each other. They’d already decided this was women’s work. Let the fiancées pick flowers and cakes. They’d show up, say the words, and get back to running our empire.
I didn’t blame them. Weddings were a distraction, a soft target for enemies to exploit. And we had enemies. Always had.
Department 77 was out there, or what was left of it. The shadow organization that’d tried to burn us to the ground. We’d gutted them—thought we had. But Charlie swore he’d seen her at the end of our last op.
Our mother.
Alive. Her figure gliding along the treeline, older but unmistakable, before she vanished like smoke.
My brothers thought Charlie was cracking. I didn’t. I felt her in my gut, like a blade that never stopped twisting.
She wasn’t dead. She’d been part of 77, part of the machine that tried to break us, and now she was back.
I should’ve been out there, tracking her, tearing through every rat hole from Charleston to Kabul until I found her. Not standing here, watching Portia Lane pretend she could tame a room full of killers.
“Large-scale entrances,” Portia said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Possible maritime permits. Sky coordination. This is doable, but I need commitment?—”
“I don’t commit,” I said, cutting her off. The words came out harder than I meant, but I didn’t care. Every eye in the room snapped to me, and the air went still. Good. Let them remember who I was.
Portia turned, her gaze locking onto mine. Those eyes—dark, sharp, like she could cut through bullshit with a glance—hit me harder than they should’ve. She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.
“Not a fan of weddings?” she asked, her tone light, like she was tossing a grenade and waiting for the boom.
I almost smirked. Almost.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. And I don’t dress up for traditions that don’t mean anything.”
Her lips parted, just a fraction, and I caught the flicker of something—anger, maybe, or curiosity.
“Good news,” she said, flipping to a blank page on her tablet. “You can keep your armor. I don’t plan fairy tales. I plan events. Logistics. Schedules.”
Fuck, she was quick. I liked that. Too much. I pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room, letting her feel the weight of me.
“That’s cute,” I said, low enough that only she’d hear. “But you’re selling stories. Just dressed up in white.”
She froze, just for a second, and I knew I’d hit a nerve.
She didn’t believe in this shit either—marriage, love, the whole goddamn charade.
Interesting. I could smell it on her, like gunpowder after a shot.
She was playing a part, same as me. Difference was, I didn’t pretend to be anything I wasn’t.
I wanted to push her, see how far she’d bend before she snapped. Wanted to back her against that table, feel her pulse under my fingers, taste the lie on her lips.
But that was a rookie move, and I wasn’t a rookie. I had a job to do—find 77, find my mother, end this before it ended us. Portia Lane was a complication I didn’t need, no matter how good she’d look under me.
“I’m here for the coffee,” I said, brushing past her to the sideboard. Her scent hit me—something clean, like citrus and steel—and I clenched my jaw.
I poured a cup, black, no sugar, and felt her eyes on my back. Let her look. Let her wonder. I didn’t owe her shit.
My brothers were watching, too, their fiancées whispering now, probably about me. The Ghost. The one who didn’t play nice, didn’t smile, didn’t speak, didn’t fucking care.
Truth was, I wanted them happy—Marcus with his smartass grin, Atlas with his quiet strength, all of them. I’d bleed for them, kill for them, die for them.
But marriage?
That was a trap, a promise you couldn’t keep when the world was always one bullet away from breaking you. I’d seen what it did to our parents. To Mom. I wasn’t signing up for that shit.
I took a sip, the coffee burning my throat, and glanced at Portia. She was back to her tablet, talking about timelines, but her posture was tighter now, like she was bracing for a fight.
She’d survive this job. She was tough, tougher than she looked.
But she didn’t know what she’d walked into.
Dominion Hall wasn’t just a house. It was a fortress, built on secrets and bodies.
My brothers might’ve found women to share it with, but me?
I was the shadow in the corner, the one who made sure the monsters stayed dead.
And right now, the only monster I cared about was out there, wearing my mother’s face. I’d find her. I’d finish this. And no wedding planner, no matter how sharp her tongue or tight her ass, was going to slow me down.