CHAPTER 22 THE GHOSTS WE FEED POV SYBIL
The creak of the floorboard from the foyer below is not loud. It is a subtle, agonizing groan of old wood, barely audible over the relentless roar of the wind and the crashing waves of Lake Michigan against the cliffs outside.
But in the heavy, suffocating silence of the ruined mansion, it sounds like a bomb detonating.
The heavy, intoxicating haze of my climax—the blinding, scalding heat that had completely liquefied my muscles just seconds prior—evaporates instantly. The adrenaline crashes back into my bloodstream, a violent injection of battery acid that turns the blood in my veins to ice.
Thayer’s entire body goes completely rigid against mine.
The feral, obsessive lover who was worshiping my ruin vanishes in a microsecond, entirely replaced by the apex predator. He doesn't gasp. He doesn't ask if I heard it. His pale gray eyes, previously blown black with lust, snap into absolute, hyper-vigilant focus.
He rolls off my hips with terrifying, silent speed, entirely ignoring the fresh surge of dark blood that immediately stains the white bandages on his left shoulder.
His right hand drops to the dusty floorboards, his long fingers wrapping securely around the textured grip of the suppressed 9mm Glock he had set beside the mattress.
"Get dressed," he commands.
His voice is a completely soundless vibration, a breath of air shaped into words meant only for my ears.
I don't freeze. The paralyzing terror that used to dictate my existence is entirely dead, buried in the mud of the railyard.
I scramble backward on the musty velvet bedspread.
I grab my discarded tactical pants from the floor and aggressively shove my trembling legs into them, pulling the heavy fabric up over my hips.
I snatch the heavy dark turtleneck sweater, dragging it over my head, completely covering the sheer, ruined lace of my bra.
Thayer is already on his feet. He doesn't bother looking for his ruined shirt.
He stands bare-chested in the freezing, drafty room, a massive, lethal monolith of muscle, dark ink, and fresh blood.
The heavy steel of the gun is an extension of his arm, aimed precisely at the heavy double doors of the master suite.
He reaches out with his left hand, his face paling as the torn muscle screams in protest, and grabs the spare Glock from the open tactical bag on the floor.
He turns to me, pressing the cold, heavy metal into my trembling hands.
"Safety is off. A round is chambered," Thayer murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine, burning with a dark, absolute certainty. "Do not step in front of me. If someone comes through that door and I drop, you empty the magazine into their face. You do not hesitate."
"I won't," I whisper, my fingers curling tightly around the grip, the heavy weight of the iron grounding me in the terrifying reality of our existence.
Thayer turns back to the door. He steps silently onto the landing, his bare feet making absolutely no sound against the thick layer of dust coating the floorboards.
I follow him, stepping perfectly into the massive shadow he casts.
The third-floor hallway is a long, cavernous tunnel of peeling wallpaper and oppressive darkness, illuminated only by the faint, gray morning light filtering through the cracked boards on the windows. The air smells heavily of rot, damp wood, and the metallic tang of impending violence.
We move toward the grand staircase.
Another floorboard groans below. It isn't the erratic, mindless movement of the wind shifting the house. It is the slow, calculated step of a predator trying to mask their approach.
Thayer reaches the top of the sweeping, curved staircase. He drops into a low crouch, using the thick, intricately carved mahogany balustrade for cover. He aims the suppressed Glock down into the cavernous shadows of the ground-floor foyer.
I kneel directly behind him, my heart hammering a frantic, bruised rhythm against my sternum. I raise my weapon, resting my forearms against the top stair, my eyes straining to pierce the gloom below.
"You always were paranoid, little brother."
The voice floats up from the darkness. It is a smooth, aristocratic drawl, dripping with dark amusement and a chilling, familiar cadence that makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
Thayer completely freezes. The muscles in his broad back lock into rigid, trembling knots of absolute shock.
For the first time since I met him, the untouchable Don of Chicago looks genuinely rattled.
"Show yourself," Thayer growls, his voice a demonic, vibrating roar that echoes off the vaulted ceilings of the mansion.
"With pleasure," the voice replies.
A tall, imposing silhouette steps out from the shadows of the drawing-room directly into the center of the foyer. The dim light catches his features, and a cold sweat breaks out across my brow.
He looks terrifyingly like Thayer. The same sharp, aristocratic jawline.
The same heavy, broad shoulders. But his hair is lighter, a dark, dirty blond, and his eyes are not glacial gray, but a pale, dead hazel.
He is wearing a long, expensive black trench coat, entirely dry, completely untouched by the storm raging outside.
He is flanked by two heavily armed men wearing generic tactical gear, their assault rifles raised and aimed at the top of the stairs.
"Bastian," Thayer spits the name out like a mouthful of venom.
"In the flesh," Bastian Thorne replies, a cruel, mocking smile curving his lips. "Though I admit, I expected a warmer welcome. It’s been six years, Thayer. You didn't even send me a wedding invitation."
My mind spins violently, desperately trying to piece the fractured puzzle together. A brother. Thayer never mentioned a brother.
"Lorenzo exiled you," Thayer snarls, his finger tightening on the trigger, the knuckles of his right hand turning bone-white. "I told you that if you ever crossed the state line into Illinois, I would put you in the ground next to him."
"You did," Bastian agrees, casually slipping his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, completely unbothered by the gun aimed at his head.
"And I stayed away. I let you play king.
But then Arthur Vance's dead man's switch triggered.
The entire federal government knows you slaughtered the old man.
The Capos are panicking. The Commission is circling like vultures.
The throne is empty, little brother. I just came back to claim my inheritance. "
"The throne is occupied," Thayer states, his voice dropping into a lethal, absolute hum.
"Not for long," Bastian counters, his dead hazel eyes slowly drifting up the staircase, entirely bypassing Thayer to lock directly onto me.
A dark, sickening hunger flashes in his gaze.
"I heard you burned the city to the ground for a girl.
I couldn't believe you inherited Lorenzo's weakness for strays.
But seeing her... I understand the appeal.
Once I put a bullet in your head, I think I'll keep the widow as a pet. A little trophy of my ascension."
The sheer, vile depravity of his words makes my stomach pitch violently.
A primal, feral roar tears entirely from Thayer’s chest. He doesn't wait for Bastian’s men to fire. He doesn't negotiate.
Thayer snaps out from behind the cover of the mahogany balustrade. The suppressed Glock in his hand spits twice—two dull, mechanical phuts that are completely deafening in the enclosed space.
The tactical soldier on Bastian’s left collapses instantly, a dark, spreading hole materializing dead center in his forehead. His body hits the marble floor of the foyer with a heavy, sickening thud.
The second soldier opens fire.
The deafening, chaotic roar of an automatic rifle completely shatters the heavy silence of the mansion. Bullets chew through the air, violently shredding the mahogany railing inches from Thayer’s face. Splinters of wood and plaster explode outward, raining down on us like shrapnel.
Thayer drops back into cover, his heavy frame completely shielding me from the barrage. He grunts, a sharp, agonizing sound of pain as the sudden, violent movement tears the freshly sutured muscle in his left shoulder entirely open. Fresh, hot blood splatters against my cheek.
"Thayer!" I scream over the deafening gunfire, my hands grabbing his waist.
"Stay down!" he barks, his chest heaving as he desperately tries to reacquire a target through the hail of bullets.
But he is pinned. The soldier is laying down a massive, suppressive field of fire, completely tearing the top of the staircase to shreds. Bastian is moving, slipping out of the direct line of sight, drawing a heavy, silver revolver from his coat.
They are going to flank us. They are going to walk up these stairs and execute him while he bleeds to death on the floorboards.
The terrified, paralyzed girl who lived in the shadow of violent men completely dies in that exact second.
I do not stay down.
I roll to my right, completely out from behind Thayer’s massive body, entirely exposing myself on the open landing.
"Sybil, no!" Thayer roars, absolute, unadulterated terror fracturing his voice.
I ignore him. The heavy Glock in my hands feels like an extension of my own bones. The adrenaline completely sharpens my vision, slowing the chaotic, violent world down to a microscopic, terrifying crawl.
I see the tactical soldier at the base of the stairs, tracking his rifle upward, his finger depressing the trigger.
I lock my elbows. I align the iron sights perfectly with the center of his heavy tactical vest.
I pull the trigger.
The recoil of the 9mm is a brutal, violent kick that jerks my shoulders backward, sending a sharp ache straight up my arms.