CHAPTER 17
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE
POV: IVY
The silence of the Estate is different when he is gone.
When Silas is here, the silence is heavy, charged with his presence like the air before a lightning strike. It’s a predatory silence, waiting to pounce. But now that the armored SUVs have disappeared down the winding driveway, swallowing the gravel crunch in their wake, the silence feels... hollow.
It feels like abandonment.
I stand at the window of the master bedroom, watching the dust settle on the road. The iron gates have swung shut, locking with a mechanical finality that vibrates through the ground.
I am alone.
Well, not entirely. There are guards patrolling the perimeter—faceless men in tactical gear holding rifles that look like insects from this height. And there is Marta, somewhere in the bowels of the house, probably polishing silver or sharpening knives.
But effectively, I am the only living thing in this glass and stone fortress.
I look down at my left ankle. The platinum band glints innocently in the afternoon sun. It looks like jewelry. It feels like a shackle.
110 beats per minute.
That’s what he said earlier. My heart was racing then.
I place a hand over my chest. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s slower now. Maybe 80. Is he watching? Is he sitting in the back of that war machine, staring at a screen, monitoring the rhythm of my life while he goes to end someone else’s?
"Check it," I whisper to the empty room. "Watch me."
I begin to pace.
The house feels too big. The ceilings are too high. Without Silas’s dark gravity to anchor the space, I feel like I might float away, untethered.
I walk out of the bedroom. The hallway stretches out before me, a tunnel of shadows and portraits. I walk past the guest rooms, past the linen closet. I stop at the top of the stairs.
Down there, to the left, is the library. To the right, the dining room.
And down the east corridor... his office.
The War Room, he called the basement. But he has a study on the ground floor. I’ve seen him retreat there in the evenings. It’s where he keeps the scotch. It’s where he keeps the secrets he doesn't take underground.
Curiosity itches under my skin, a maddening rash.
Go to your room, he ordered. Lock the door.
Disobedience thrills me. It’s the only power I have left. If he’s going to track me like a dog, I might as well dig up the yard.
I descend the stairs. My bare feet make no sound on the marble. I am a ghost haunting my own prison.
I check the corners. No Marta. I can hear the faint hum of a vacuum cleaner coming from the west wing. She’s occupied.
I slip down the east corridor. The air here is cooler, smelling of old paper and cedar.
The office door is tall, dark oak.
I reach for the handle, expecting it to be locked. Silas is paranoid. Silas is thorough.
But Silas left in a hurry. He left because of a threat level one. He left to save my father.
I turn the knob.
It resists. Locked.
Of course.
I lean my forehead against the wood, frustration bubbling up. I don't know why I thought it would be open. I don't even know what I’m looking for. A phone? A weapon? A way out?
No. I’m looking for answers.
I turn to leave, but my gaze catches something on the small console table next to the door. A silver bowl, usually empty. Today, there’s a small, brass key sitting in it.
It looks forgotten. Or...
I left the key for you, he had said about the penthouse office. I wanted to see if you were brave enough.
Is this another test? Is he watching me right now, seeing if I’ll take the bait?
I look up at the ceiling corners. No cameras here. The hallway is blind, designed for privacy.
I snatch the key.
My heart rate spikes. I can feel it. Thump-thump-thump.
Are you seeing this, Silas? Are you wondering why my pulse just jumped to 120?
I jam the key into the lock. It turns with a heavy, satisfying clunk.
I push the door open and slip inside, closing it softly behind me.
The office is masculine, imposing. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk that looks like it was carved from the hull of a ship. The curtains are drawn, casting the room in a perpetual twilight.
It smells like him. Sandalwood, tobacco, and that underlying scent of cold winter air. It makes my knees weak.
I walk to the desk. It’s cluttered with papers—unusual for him. He must have been working when the call came.
I scan the documents. Shipping manifests. Port authority bribes. Bank transfers to shell companies in the Caymans. Evidence of a criminal empire so vast it makes my head spin.
But I don't care about the money.
I open the top drawer. Pens. A spare magazine for his Glock. A lighter.
I open the bottom drawer. It’s locked.
I try the brass key. It doesn't fit.
I look around. Think, Ivy. Where would he hide the things that matter?
My eyes land on a filing cabinet in the corner. It’s old-fashioned, steel disguised with wood veneer.
I walk over to it. Unlocked.
I pull open the top drawer. Files. Hundreds of them. Organized alphabetically.
A... B... C...
I flip through them, my fingers trembling.
R.
Ross.
There are two files labeled Ross.
One says ROSS, MARCUS. The other says ROSS, IVY.
I pull them both out. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop them. I sit down on the Persian rug, spreading the files out in a pool of light from the desk lamp.
I open my father’s file first.
It’s a catalog of failures. Gambling debts dating back twenty years. Loan shark agreements. Medical records showing liver damage. Police reports for drunk driving that were mysteriously expunged.
And then, a section labeled LIQUIDATION ATTEMPTS.
I frown. Liquidation?
I read the first entry.
Date: May 12, 2022. Creditor: The Albanian Cartel. Debt: $45,000. Proposed Payment: One female dependent. Age 18.
My stomach drops. The date... that was my senior prom. I remember my dad was acting strange that week. He bought me a dress. He told me to look pretty.
I read the resolution.
Intervention: S.V. Action: Debt paid in full via shell corp. Warning issued to Albanians. Asset remains with father.
I blink, re-reading the line. Intervention: S.V.
Silas Vane.
He paid forty-five thousand dollars to stop the Albanians from taking me. Four years ago.
I turn the page.
Date: August 4, 2023. Creditor: Local Bookie (Gambino ties). Debt: $12,000. Proposed Payment: Asset transfer (Ivy Ross). Intervention: S.V. Debt cleared. Bookie hospitalized.
There are five entries. Five times my father tried to sell me. Five times Silas stepped in, paid the debt, and kept me safe.
I didn't know him then. I was just a student, worrying about grades and painting, oblivious to the fact that I was being traded like cattle in the underworld.
And oblivious to the fact that a shadow was watching over me.
Why?
Why would he pay thousands of dollars for a girl he didn't know?
I open the second file. ROSS, IVY.
The first page isn't a debt record. It’s a photo.
It’s old. Grainy.
It’s me at sixteen. I’m sitting on the steps of the Met museum, sketching. I’m wearing a ragged coat and eating a pretzel. I look young. Sad.
There’s a note clipped to the photo in Silas’s sharp handwriting.
Subject shows potential. Raw talent. Unprotected. Father is a liability. Monitor.
He’s been watching me since I was sixteen.
I flip the pages. It’s a timeline of my life.
Report cards. Art competition entries. A copy of my acceptance letter to Parsons.
(How did he get this? I never showed anyone).
Receipts for art supplies that "mysteriously" showed up at my door when I was broke.
I always thought it was a shipping error.
It was him.
He bought my paints. He paid my debts. He kept the wolves away for four years.
I feel a tear slide down my cheek.
He isn't just my captor. He’s my patron. My guardian.
But why wait? Why let me struggle? Why kidnap me now?
I find a memo dated six months ago.
Status Update: Marcus Ross escalating. Debts exceeding manageable levels. Contact with Sokolov Bratva confirmed. Risk of asset loss: CRITICAL. Decision: Extraction imminent. The father cannot be trusted. The asset must be secured.
He tried to save me.
He didn't kidnap me to hurt me. He kidnapped me because my father finally made a deal Silas couldn't just pay off anonymously. The Sokolovs don't want money; they want flesh.
Silas took me to keep Nikolai from getting me.
I sit back on my heels, the papers scattering around me.
Everything shifts. The anger, the fear, the hatred... it all twists into something confusing and painful.
He’s a monster, yes. He killed people. He chained me to a bed.
But he’s my monster.
He’s been protecting me from the darkness since before I even knew the darkness existed.
You realized you need the wolf to keep the other beasts away.
He was right.
I touch the platinum anklet. It doesn't feel like a shackle anymore. It feels like a promise.
Suddenly, the lights in the office flicker.
I freeze.
The hum of the computer on the desk dies. The lamp goes out. The room plunges into gray gloom, lit only by the sliver of light coming from the hallway.
A power cut?
No. The backup generators should kick in instantly. Silas said so.
I wait.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
Silence.
The generator doesn't start.
My heart rate spikes again. I can feel the tracker pulsing against my skin, sending the frantic data to a man who isn't here.
Then, I hear it.
A sound that doesn't belong in this house.
Crunch. Crunch.
Glass breaking.
It’s coming from the west wing. From the conservatory.
Marta?
No. Marta has keys. Marta doesn't break glass.
Someone is here.
I scramble to my feet, clutching the file to my chest.
Nikolai.
He didn't just want my father. He wanted the asset. And he knew Silas left. The drone... it wasn't just scouting. It was waiting for the King to leave the castle.
I run to the door. I need to hide. I need to get back to the bedroom, to the safe room, to anywhere with a lock.
I step into the hallway.
It’s dark. The emergency lights haven't triggered. The electronic locks might be dead.
I hear footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Multiple people.
They are moving across the marble foyer, heading toward the stairs.
"Check the rooms," a voice growls. It’s deep, accented. Russian. "Find the girl. Leave the old woman."
They are here.
I back up, retreating into the office. I lock the door with the brass key, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it.
It’s a flimsy lock. It won't hold them.
I need a weapon.
I run to the desk. I open the drawer.
The Glock.
I grab it. It’s heavy, cold. Just like the Sig Sauer Silas made me hold yesterday.
Squeeze, don't pull.
I check the chamber. Loaded.
I crouch behind the massive wooden desk, clutching the gun with both hands, pointing it at the door.
My heart is thundering in my ears. 150 bpm. 160.
Silas, please. Please look at your phone. Please see my heart trying to escape my chest.
I hear the footsteps in the hallway. They are getting closer. They are checking the doors.
Kick. Crash. (Dining room). Kick. Crash. (Library).
They are methodically clearing the floor.
They stop outside the office.
The doorknob rattles.
Locked.
"This one," the voice says. "Kick it."
I brace myself. I widen my stance, just like he taught me. I aim at the center of the door.
I am not the deer, I tell myself. I am the wolf’s wife.
CRACK.
The wood splinters around the lock.
CRACK.
The door flies open.
A silhouette fills the frame. Massive. Holding an assault rifle.
I don't hesitate.
I squeeze.