Chapter 20
SILAS
P ortia was gone. Vanished like smoke after that ribbon slipped from her hand at Magnolia Plantation, her eyes wide with fear, her fancy burgundy dress a blur as she fled into the crowd.
I’d called her, texted her, left voicemails that echoed in the void.
Nothing.
Silence.
My gut churned, a mix of panic and rage, my mind spiraling. Was it me? The ribbon? The ghost of my mother reaching out, a blade aimed at my heart?
If someone—her, Department 77, whoever—could slip that into my pocket in a sea of revelers, past my instincts honed by years of blood and war, what else were they capable of? What was she capable of?
I wanted to storm The Palmetto Rose, bang on Portia’s door, demand answers.
But I didn’t.
She needed space, I told myself, though it felt like a lie. Truth was, I was scared—scared she’d look at me like I was the danger, like I’d brought this shadow into her life.
I paced my room at Dominion Hall, the red ribbon burning a hole in my pocket, its metal tassel heavy as a grenade.
My Silas. Soon .
Was it really her? My mother, alive, taunting me? Or 77, playing their game, using her to unravel me?
I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe. I needed space, needed clarity, needed something other than this fucking ache.
The smart move was to call my brothers, lay it all bare—the phone, the ribbon, the message. Marcus would curse and strategize, Elias would dig into the tech, Noah would steady me with his quiet strength. They’d have my back, like always.
But my stubbornness was a raging beast, clawing at my chest. This was mine— My Silas —a wound too personal to share.
And more than anything, I needed to know about her. My mother. The woman who’d called me hers, then vanished into 77’s shadows, leaving a hole in my heart I’d spent years pretending wasn’t there.
I grabbed my keys, and drove to the old Dane home on Sullivan’s Island.
It was past 2 a.m., the world dark and still.
The house stood quiet, a weathered Lowcountry relic with peeling paint and a sagging porch, the place we’d grown up before Dominion Hall’s steel and stone.
No one lived here now, just memories—my brothers’ laughter, my father’s gruff voice, my mother’s stories that made us giggle and spook.
I parked, killed the engine, and stepped out, the ocean’s hum a low pulse in the distance. The silence was a balm, wrapping around me, slowing my racing mind. I sat on the porch steps, the wood creaking under me, and closed my eyes, letting the quiet take me.
That’s when I heard her.
“Silas.”
My eyes snapped open, my heart stopping.
She stood there, in the moonlight, like an angel carved from shadow.
My mother. Caroline Dane. Her hair was grayer, her face lined with years I hadn’t seen, but it was her—those storm-gray eyes, that soft smile, the voice that’d tucked me in as a kid.
She wore a simple black sweater, jeans, her posture calm but cautious, like she’d carried the weight of the world too long.
“Are you real?” I asked, my voice rough, barely a whisper, my body frozen.
She nodded, her eyes soft, and held out her arms. “I wish I could’ve come sooner, My Silas.”
My chest cracked open, a flood of memories—her laugh, her stories, her hand on my forehead when I was sick.
I stood, slow, like moving might shatter the dream, and walked to her. My hands trembled as I reached out, half-expecting her to vanish, but she was solid, warm, real.
“Mom,” I said, the word foreign, a child’s plea.
She pulled me into her arms, and the world shrank, everything coalescing into that moment—her scent, like lavender and salt, her heartbeat against mine. I wasn’t The Ghost, wasn’t a killer, just her son, her Silas, and I held her like I could keep her this time.
I don’t know how long we stood there, seconds or hours, before I pulled back, holding her at arm’s length, my hands on her shoulders. Her face was older, etched with pain and secrets, but still beautiful, still hers.
“I have questions,” I said, my voice hoarse. “So many fucking questions.”
She nodded, her smile sad, like she knew. “I owe you the answers. Let’s sit.”
We settled on the porch steps, the wood cool under my hands, the moonlight casting her in silver. Her voice was the same, soft but sure, the one that’d spun tales of pirates when I was a kid.
“Are you with Department 77?” I asked, the question sharp, urgent.
She sighed, her eyes distant. “I am. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I pressed, my voice hard. “You left us. You were gone, and now you’re back, leaving messages, fucking with my head. I need to know.”
She looked at me, her gaze steady but heavy. “It started with your grandfather. My father. A man you boys never knew existed.”
I blinked, my mind reeling. “Grandfather?”
She nodded, her voice low, weaving a story like she used to, but this one wasn’t for giggles.
“He was a shadow in the intelligence world, a visionary, or so he thought. Department 77 was his creation—a tool for the government to handle problems outside official channels. Black ops, deniable missions, the kind of work that kept the world spinning without anyone knowing. I was young, a budding spy, trained by him, but I refused to join 77. I wanted my own path.”
She paused, her eyes softening, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.
“Then I met your father. Byron Dane. He was your grandfather’s protégé, ripped from the pages of some American hero novel—charming, skilled, fearless.
We fell in love instantly, Silas. It was like lightning.
He convinced me to join 77, said we could change the world together.
And for a while, we did. Those were the best days of my life—missions that mattered, saving lives, and then having you boys. Oh, how I loved you all.”
Her voice cracked, and my chest tightened, memories flooding back—her tucking me in, calling me My Silas , her laugh in the kitchen.
“I missed you,” she said, her eyes wet. “I kept tabs on you, always. From the shadows.”
“Then why didn’t you come back?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Why did Dad never talk about you after you left? Why did you leave us?”
Something passed across her face—sadness, regret, a shadow I couldn’t read.
“It’s complicated,” she said, her voice soft, heavy.
“I’m not ready to tell the whole story, not until I can see all my boys together.
But I’ll tell you this: your father was right to leave 77.
The missions changed. They stopped being about America’s safety and became a weapon for the most secretive, powerful people in the world.
Your grandfather called it a necessary evil, but I saw the truth—he’d been corrupted, seduced by power.
Your father saw it, too, and he left to protect you boys.
I stayed because of my father, because I thought I could fix it, and to keep 77’s eyes off you. ”
I stared at her, my mind spinning, trying to piece it together.
“Protect us? By disappearing? By letting us think you were dead?”
“There’s more,” she said, her voice tired, her eyes distant. “Some that matters, some that doesn’t. But I’m not ready. Not yet.”
I wanted to push, to demand the rest, but her face stopped me—worn, haunted, but still my mother. She reached for my hand, her fingers cool, and I let her, the contact grounding me.
“I’m tired,” she said, her voice soft. “I just want to be with you now, to sit with my boy.”
My throat tightened, and I nodded, the questions burning but held back.
We sat in silence, the ocean’s hum a quiet backdrop, her presence real and unreal all at once. I couldn’t believe it—my mother, here, after years of lies.
My mind spun on her story—Department 77, her father, my grandfather, a man I’d never known, pulling strings from the shadows.
My father, leaving to save us, her staying to shield us, both caught in a war that changed them.
It was too much, too big, and yet all I could feel was her hand in mine, her voice in my ears.
Then she looked at me, her eyes sharp, like she could see through me. “Tell me about Portia,” she said, her voice gentle but probing.
I froze, my heart thudding, her question a new kind of blade.
Portia. Her fire, her absence, her fear when she saw that ribbon.
I didn’t know how to answer, didn’t know what Portia was to me—a lover, a war, a dream I couldn’t keep.
And as I sat there, my mother’s gaze on me, the night heavy with secrets, I felt the weight of it all—her return, Portia’s silence, the battle I couldn’t escape.