CHAPTER 7 THE GLASS TOWER POV SYBIL
Waking up is not a slow, gentle return to consciousness. It is a violent, breathless collision with reality.
My eyes snap open, my chest heaving as if I’ve just run a mile, my fingers immediately clutching the thick, heavy gray duvet.
I stare blindly at the ceiling, my heart executing a frantic, bruised rhythm against my ribs.
For three terrifying seconds, I don't know where I am.
The air smells wrong. The light is wrong.
Then, the scent hits me. Cedarwood. Amber. The dark, heavy musk of danger and impending doom.
The memories of the last twenty-four hours crash into my brain like shattered glass.
The cathedral. The suffocating corset. The cold, mechanical click of the armored SUV doors locking.
The brutal, bone-crushing sound of Thayer nearly snapping a man’s neck just for looking at me.
And then, the ultimate, soul-destroying revelation.
Arthur Vance gave a hit order on his own daughter.
A sharp, agonizing physical pain slices through my chest, so intense I have to curl onto my side, bringing my knees up to my stomach.
My father didn't just sell me into this nightmare.
He threw me to the wolves and painted a target on my back to buy his own freedom.
The profound, hollow ache of betrayal radiates straight down into my marrow.
I am entirely alone in the world. I am a ghost, haunting a life I was never supposed to survive.
I force myself to take a breath. It shudders through my teeth, jagged and thin.
I push the heavy duvet off my body and swing my legs over the edge of the massive California King bed.
My bare feet hit the plush, dark carpet.
My muscles ache, a deep, lethargic soreness radiating through my limbs.
I am wearing the oversized charcoal cashmere sweater Thayer gave me.
It swallows my small frame completely, the hem falling halfway down my thighs.
It smells intensely of him, a constant, suffocating reminder of the man who now holds the absolute deed to my existence.
I stand up slowly, the room swaying slightly before my vision stabilizes.
The master suite of the compound is entirely silent. It is a heavy, unnatural quiet, thick with the kind of insulation that millions of dollars of security buy. I walk toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire southern wall of the room.
The view outside completely steals whatever breath I had managed to gather.
There is no city skyline. There are no streets, no cars, no people.
Just a sprawling, endless sea of ancient, towering pine trees shrouded in a thick, gray morning mist. The rain continues to beat against the reinforced glass in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
I step closer, pressing my palm flat against the cold, bulletproof pane. I look down.
The drop is at least forty feet to a stone terrace below, which is completely surrounded by a twelve-foot electrified steel fence. In the distance, through the mist, I can see the faint, rhythmic movement of heavily armed patrols and the dark silhouettes of attack dogs pacing the perimeter.
This isn't just a house. It is a military installation. And I am locked right in the center of it.
I turn away from the glass, my stomach twisting into tight, nauseating knots.
The instinct to flee—the primal, frantic need to find an exit—surges through my veins.
I cross the cavernous bedroom, passing the dark slate bathroom and the walk-in closets, until I reach the heavy, double-vaulted mahogany doors that lead out into the main hallway of the wing.
I wrap my trembling fingers around the heavy brass handles and pull.
They don't budge.
A cold sweat breaks out across the nape of my neck. I pull harder, bracing my weight against the wood, my boots slipping slightly on the carpet. Nothing. There isn't even the slightest give in the hinges.
The doors are locked from the outside.
"No," I whisper, the sound fragile and broken. I jiggle the handles frantically, the metallic rattling echoing loudly in the quiet suite. "No, no, no."
The claustrophobia hits me with the force of a physical blow.
The walls of the massive room suddenly feel like they are closing in, shrinking by the second.
My lungs seize, the oxygen turning to concrete in my chest. The trauma of my childhood—my father locking me in dark, windowless rooms for hours whenever I displeased him—rises up like bile in the back of my throat.
“You are completely safe, Sybil. No one can touch you here.”
Thayer’s voice echoes in my head, a dark, velvet promise made just hours ago in the steam of the shower.
He had washed my hair with such terrifying, agonizing reverence.
He had handled me like I was made of spun glass.
But it was a lie. It is all a lie. He didn't bring me here to protect me.
He brought me here to lock me in a vault.
I stumble backward, my hands flying up to grip the roots of my hair. I force myself to breathe, inhaling through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, fighting the blinding static threatening to overtake my vision.
You have to survive this, I tell myself, digging my fingernails into my palms until the sharp pain grounds me. Panic will only get you killed. Think.
I turn and pace the length of the room, my mind spinning. If I am locked in, it means Thayer is no longer playing the role of the gentle caretaker. The mob boss has returned. Something happened after he left me here. Something shifted the dynamic.
Suddenly, the heavy, metallic thud of a deadbolt sliding out of place reverberates through the heavy mahogany doors.
I freeze in the center of the room, my muscles instantly locking with tension.
The right door swings open slowly.
Two massive Syndicate soldiers are standing in the hallway.
They are dressed in tactical gear, heavy assault rifles strapped across their chests.
But neither of them looks into the room.
They are standing with their backs to the doorway, their heads bowed, staring fixedly at the opposite wall of the corridor.
Look at her and bleed. The absolute law of the compound.
A small, silver service cart is pushed over the threshold. Following the cart is Maria, the older Italian housekeeper I briefly saw in the foyer last night. Her face is pale, drawn tight with a mixture of profound stress and deep-seated fear.
She pulls the cart into the room, and the door immediately shuts behind her. The deadbolt engages with another loud, terrifying click.
I stare at Maria, my heart hammering against my collarbone. She does not look at me. Her dark eyes are glued to the floorboards, her posture incredibly stiff. She pushes the cart toward the small dining table near the windows.
"Good morning, Donna," Maria says, her voice trembling slightly, lacking the stern authority she possessed in the foyer. "I have brought you breakfast. And tea."
"Maria," I breathe, taking a cautious step toward her. The sound of another human voice, another woman, feels like a lifeline in this suffocating ocean of testosterone and violence. "Please, call me Sybil. You don't have to—"
"I must call you Donna," Maria interrupts sharply, though her eyes never leave the silver cloches on the cart. Her hands are shaking as she arranges the silverware. "To call you anything else would be a severe disrespect to the Don. And disrespect is not tolerated in this house."
I stop moving. The absolute, unadulterated fear rolling off the older woman is palpable. It saturates the air.
"Why is the door locked from the outside?" I ask, my voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Why am I trapped in here?"
Maria pauses, her hands hovering over a delicate porcelain teacup.
She swallows hard, the muscles in her neck straining.
"The compound is on full lockdown, Donna.
The Don has ordered the master wing entirely sealed.
No one is permitted on this floor without his explicit, verbal clearance.
I was searched twice just to bring you this tray. "
"Searched?" I echo, confusion battling with the rising panic in my chest. "Why? What is going on out there?"
"It is not my place to discuss Syndicate business," Maria recites, sounding exactly like a woman reading a script with a gun pointed at her head. "Please, eat. You are too thin. The Don was very specific about your caloric intake."
The absurdity of the situation almost makes me laugh—a hysterical, broken sound that I quickly swallow down. My father put a hit on my head, my husband is a ruthless mafia boss who nearly killed a man for looking at my shoulder, and this terrified woman is worried about my caloric intake.
"Maria, look at me," I plead, taking another step closer to her. "Please. I just need someone to look at me like I am a human being. I am so scared."
Maria flinches violently as if I had struck her. She takes a rapid step backward, distancing herself from me, her eyes widening as they stay firmly locked on the hem of my oversized sweater.
"I cannot look at you, Donna," she whispers, her voice breaking, tears shining in her dark eyes.
"Please, do not ask me to. If the cameras catch me making eye contact with you.
.. he will kill me. He made it entirely clear last night.
You belong to him. You are his obsession.
No one else is allowed to perceive you."
The horror of her words wraps around my throat, choking the breath right out of me.
His obsession.
It isn't just protection. It is a pathological, all-consuming possessiveness that dictates the very air I am allowed to breathe.
Thayer hasn't just isolated me physically; he is systematically erasing my ability to connect with another human soul.
He is making it so that he is the only person I can look at, the only person I can speak to, the only person who can touch me.