Chapter 30
SILAS
T he zip ties bit into my wrists, tight but not too tight, the plastic deliberately weakened by my mother’s blade before we’d left the condo. Mom had cut most of the way through, a silent promise I could snap them when the moment came.
I played the part—captive, head bowed as two of her operatives, faces hard and eyes cold, gripped my arms. The night was thick, the air heavy with moss and menace, the estate looming ahead like a decayed cathedral, its columns crumbling, its windows dark.
Portia was back in the rental car, her black-on-black outfit absurd but her resolve unbreakable, and I hated that she was here, hated that I’d let her come, but her hand in mine had anchored me, and now I was walking into the lion’s den.
The security team at the gate was all business, their rifles slung low, their eyes scanning me like I was a prize catch.
“Silas Dane,” one of them muttered into a comm, his voice clipped, relaying word to the head snake himself—my grandfather, the man who’d built 77 and broken my family.
They patted me down, their smirks telling me they thought I was beaten.
I kept my face blank, my muscles loose, counting their numbers—four at the gate, two more by the side entrance, all with full vantage points of the access routes.
This was a fortress, and it was going to be a fight.
I hoped to hell mom had something else up her sleeve.
They pushed me through the house, its halls reeking of old money, portraits of dead men glaring from the walls. Guards stood at strategic points—corners, stairwells, doorways—their eyes sharp, their weapons ready. I counted six, maybe more, their positions covering every exit, every choke point.
My heart pounded, but I kept my breathing steady, my wrists flexing against the weakened zip ties, waiting for the signal.
Caroline was somewhere in this maze, her plan to use me as bait hinging on her men playing their parts, but the air felt wrong, too heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.
They shoved me into a receiving room, opulent and grotesque, its canopied bed draped in silk, the air thick with the antiseptic sting of a hospital and the burn of expensive bourbon. I was pushed to my knees, the marble cold under me, my eyes scanning the shadows.
A guard moved to the bed’s side, his hand brushing the curtain, and I strained to see who was inside, but the angle was wrong, the light too dim.
He pressed a button on the wall, and a mechanical hum filled the room, the bed rising, then shifting forward with a whine.
The curtains parted, revealing a withered man, oxygen tubes snaking into his nose, his skin stretched tight over a skull-like face.
He looked half-dead, his eyes sunken but sharp, a predator in a dying shell.
I wondered what was killing him—cancer, maybe, or just time—but his voice cut through the silence, clear as a drill sergeant’s.
“You’re Silas,” he said, his tone flat, assessing.
I didn’t answer, my jaw tight, my eyes locked on his. I searched for myself in him, for my mother, but saw only a husk, a man who’d traded his soul for power.
“You’re Silas,” he said again, louder, his voice a whip.
I met his gaze, my voice steady. “I’m Silas Dane.”
He let out a booming laugh, the sound jarring, too big for his frail frame. “Just as proud as your father. Do you know who I am?”
I smirked, my voice dripping with disdain. “The reincarnation of some dead guy who looks like a mummy?”
His eyes narrowed, no humor in them, his lips curling into a sneer.
“I’m your grandfather, boy. The man who built everything you think you’re fighting.”
I didn’t speak, my focus on the zip ties, my muscles coiled, ready to snap them and grab the nearest guard’s weapon. I wanted to empty it into this bastard, this poison who’d corrupted 77, broken my family.
Fuck him.
But he kept talking, his voice sharp, taunting. “Your mother never told you about me, did she?”
I stayed silent, my blood boiling, my hands flexing. He didn’t know I’d seen her, didn’t know she was here, and I kept my face blank, giving nothing away.
He leaned forward, the oxygen tubes shifting, his voice low, cruel. “Your father was a waste, Silas. A self-righteous bastard who thought he could walk away from me. He stole money, power, thought he could build a life without paying for it. But it’s time to pay it back.”
I broke my silence, my voice cold. “Why does a dying man need money? You’re rotting, old man. What’s it for?”
His eyes gleamed, his grin skeletal. “Control. America. You wouldn’t understand, boy. You’re too busy chasing your daddy’s ghost, thinking he was some knight in shining armor.”
I clenched my jaw, my fingers itching to snap the ties.
“You’re a poison,” I said, my voice low, deadly. “You don’t know what this country is.”
He laughed again, that booming sound, and flipped the script, his grin widening.
“Let’s end it, water under the bridge. I want you to know your father’s dirty secrets, Silas. Trust me, there are plenty. He wasn’t the saint you boys think.”
He turned to a guard, his voice sharp. “Get Caroline.”
I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs. I played shocked, my eyes widening, my breath catching, and it worked, his laugh echoing again, smug and cruel.
“Ready to see your mother, boy?”
The guard returned, and my mother strode in, her posture regal, her storm-gray eyes cool. She nodded at her father, then looked at me, her voice calm, simple.
“Hello, Silas.”
I leaned into the act, my face a mask of shock, my eyes wide, my mouth open.
My grandfather laughed again, oblivious, his voice mocking. “Just like old times, the Danes back together. Though Caroline hasn’t called herself a Dane in years, have you, sweetheart?”
She played along, her smile tight, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the guards, the bed, the exits.
I watched her, my mind racing, wondering what her move was.
Two bodyguards flanked my grandfather, their rifles ready, their eyes sharp.
I flexed my wrists, the zip ties straining, ready to snap.
Then a gunshot cracked from somewhere in the house, sharp and distant.
The bodyguards moved—one toward the bed, one toward the door, their focus shifting.
Caroline’s hand moved, swift, pulling a suppressed pistol from her jacket, and fired three rounds into the guard at the door, his body dropping before he could react.
I snapped the zip ties, lunging for the guard by the bed, my hands grappling for his rifle. We scuffled, his elbow catching my jaw, pain flaring, but I held on, my fingers clawing for the weapon.
More gunshots echoed, closer now, and the door burst open, a bloodied guard—my grandfather’s—stumbling in, his eyes wild.
Caroline turned, her pistol steady, and took him down with a single shot to the head.
I wrestled the rifle from my guard, my muscles straining, and in a smooth move, I spun behind him, my arms wrapping around his head. I snapped his neck, the crack loud in the chaos, his body slumping to the floor.
“You!” my grandfather roared, pointing at Caroline, his voice a thunderclap despite his frail frame.
She smiled, grim and cold. “No, Dad. This time it’s you.”
Her pistol barked, unloading the entire magazine into his chest, blood blooming across his gown, his oxygen tubes dangling uselessly. He slumped back, his eyes wide, lifeless, the skeleton of a man finally silenced.
The room was a war zone now, gunshots echoing through the house, shouts and crashes filling the air. I dove for the discarded rifle, my hands steady, and crouched behind the bed as another bodyguard rushed in, his weapon blazing, bullets tearing into the wall above my head.
I rolled, took aim, and fired, dropping him with three clean shots to the chest, his body hitting the marble with a thud.
The side door—the one my mother had entered through—flew open, and my heart stopped. Another bodyguard, rifle raised, stormed in, my mother yelling clipped orders to him, telling him to go back the way he’d come, to watch the back of the house.
But then Portia burst in, her black outfit stark against the chaos, her eyes wide with fear and fire.
“Silas!” she screamed, and the bodyguard spun, his rifle swinging toward her.
My mother moved faster, throwing herself between the enemy and Portia.
The gunshot was deafening, my mother’s frame jerking as the bullet tore through her back, blood spraying. She stumbled but didn’t fall, her pistol dropping.
I rose from behind the bed and fired—two rounds to the guard’s head, his body collapsing before he could shoot again.
My mother slipped to the ground, blood pooling beneath her, and I ran to her, Portia right behind, her scream choked with horror. I cradled my mother’s head, my hands pressing against the gut wound, blood hot and slick under my fingers.
“Mom,” I said, my voice breaking, my eyes on the door, my weapon ready for more threats.
One of Caroline’s men appeared (who thankfully I recognized), bloody and limping, his voice hoarse. “House is clear.”
I looked down at her, her face peaceful, like those mornings on Sullivan’s Island, her beauty untouched by the years, the blood.
“My Silas,” she whispered, her voice fading, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice rough, pressing harder on the wound, though I’d seen enough gunshots to know it was bad, too bad. “We’ll get you to a doctor.”
She shook her head, her hand gripping my arm, weak but insistent. “No. I need to tell you something.”
Her voice was a thread, quieter with each word, and I leaned down, my ear to her lips, her breath warm and faint. What she whispered took a moment to register in my head.
Her body relaxed, her eyes closing, and I checked her pulse, my fingers trembling. Nothing. She was gone.
Portia stifled a cry, her hand on my arm, her voice soft. “I’m sorry.”
I stared at my mother, her words a bomb in my chest. My father, not the hero I’d thought, but a man with secrets, a life I’d never known.
It didn’t make sense, couldn’t be true, but her voice, her dying breath, carried a truth I couldn’t deny. I sat there, covered in blood and grief, Portia beside me, her touch grounding me, Caroline’s man standing guard, his eyes wary.
A commotion broke the silence, footsteps pounding, and the guard tensed, his weapon training on the door.
“Are we good?” he asked, his voice low, strange.
I nodded, confused, my mind a haze. He lowered his rifle, setting it on the ground, and sat beside me, his face grim.
A second later, my brothers swept in—Ryker, Marcus, Elias, Noah, Charlie, Atlas—weapons raised, scanning the room, each in whatever they’d been wearing when they got the call.
Ryker’s eyes locked on my mother when he came close, his voice a whisper. “Is that Mom?”
Portia answered, her voice steady despite her tears. “I called Ryker. Told him where we were.”
I nodded, gratitude flooding me, my brothers’ presence a lifeline. I looked at them, their faces a mix of shock and grief, and spoke, my voice raw.
“She said Dad had another family. She said we need to find them.”
The room went silent, the weight of her words sinking in, the war over, Department 77 dead, our family fractured yet bigger than we’d known.
Portia’s hand tightened on mine, and I held it, my mother’s body still in my arms, my brothers around me, the ribbon’s promise fulfilled in blood and secrets.