CHAPTER 18
THE BUTCHER OF LONG ISLAND
POV: SILAS
I am sitting across from a ghost.
Marcus Ross looks nothing like the man who used to grace the society pages of the New York Times.
He is zip-tied to a metal chair in an abandoned warehouse near the docks of Montauk, smelling of stale urine and cheap bourbon.
His face is a roadmap of bad decisions—broken capillaries, a split lip, eyes darting around the room like a trapped rat.
"Silas," he wheezes, spitting a glob of blood onto the concrete floor. "Please. I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know he would go after her."
I lean back against the rusted workbench, checking the time on my Rolex. The ticking of the second hand is the only sound in the cavernous space besides Marcus’s pathetic whimpering.
"You sold her, Marcus," I say, my voice devoid of emotion. "You didn't just sell her once. You’ve been trying to sell her since she was eighteen. The Albanians. The bookie in Queens. And now the Sokolovs."
"I was desperate!" he cries. "They were going to kill me!"
"And now I’m going to kill you," I state calmly. "So tell me, was it worth it? Did the extra three months of life you bought with your daughter’s safety taste sweet?"
I pick up a pair of pliers from the table. Marcus shrinks back, his eyes bulging.
I’m not enjoying this. There was a time when torture gave me a grim sense of satisfaction, a balancing of the scales. But today, all I feel is impatience. I want to be back at the Estate. I want to be back in the conservatory, watching Ivy paint her angry, beautiful monsters.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
I ignore it. Luca knows not to interrupt an interrogation unless the building is on fire.
It vibrates again. And again. A frantic, continuous buzzing that drills into my bone.
I frown. I pull the phone from my pocket.
The screen is flashing red.
ALERT: BIOMETRIC SPIKE. SUBJECT: WIFE. HEART RATE: 165 BPM.
My blood freezes. 165. That’s not anxiety. That’s not the heart rate of someone painting or sleeping. That is the heart rate of someone running for their life.
I tap the screen to open the GPS feed.
SIGNAL LOST. LAST KNOWN LOCATION: THE ESTATE - MAIN OFFICE. SYSTEM STATUS: OFFLINE. PERIMETER: brEACHED.
The world stops. The warehouse, the smell of the ocean, the pathetic man in the chair—it all vanishes.
"Luca!" I roar.
Luca steps out of the shadows, his face pale. He’s looking at his own tablet. "Boss, the grid is down. We lost the cameras at the Estate. The backup generator didn't kick in. Someone cut the hardline."
"Nikolai," I whisper.
I look at Marcus. He is staring at me, confused by the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere.
"Is... is she okay?" Marcus asks tentatively.
I walk over to him. I don't speak. I don't hesitate. I draw my Glock 19 from its holster.
"Silas, wait—"
BANG.
I put a bullet between his eyes.
Marcus slumps back in the chair, silenced forever. I don't feel a thing. He was a loose end. A distraction. And right now, I have no time for distractions.
"Clean this up," I order Luca, holstering the weapon. "Send the cleanup crew. You come with me."
"We taking the SUV?" Luca asks, already running toward the exit.
"We’re taking the chopper," I snarl. "And pray to whatever god you believe in that we get there in time. Because if she is gone... I will burn this entire island to the waterline."
The flight takes twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes of hell.
I sit in the back of the Eurocopter, staring out at the darkening coastline. My hands are clenched into fists on my knees, knuckles white. The vibration of the rotors rattles my teeth, but inside my head, there is only silence.
165 BPM.
Is she screaming? Is she fighting?
Or is the signal lost because the heart has stopped beating?
The thought is a physical agony, a knife twisting in my gut.
I have built an empire on violence. I have killed men, ruined families, and dismantled organizations without losing a minute of sleep.
But the thought of Ivy—my Ivy, with her paint-stained fingers and her defiance—being touched by Nikolai’s animals makes me want to vomit.
I check the phone again.
SIGNAL LOST.
"Faster," I yell into the headset.
"We’re redlining, Boss," the pilot responds, his voice tense. "ETA two minutes."
Two minutes is a lifetime. A bullet takes a fraction of a second to travel. A knife takes seconds to cut. A life can be extinguished in the space of a breath.
I see the Estate rising from the cliffs. It looks dark. Lifeless.
Usually, the perimeter lights blaze like a beacon. Tonight, it is a black void against the gray ocean.
"Put us down on the lawn," I command. "Front entrance."
"Sir, if the perimeter is breached, it might be a hot zone. We should—"
"PUT IT DOWN!"
The chopper banks hard, descending rapidly. The downdraft flattens the grass. I unclip my harness before the skids even touch the ground. I grab the HK416 rifle from the rack.
As soon as we touch down, I kick the door open and jump.
The silence of the Estate hits me instantly. It’s wrong. It’s the silence of a graveyard.
I scan the driveway.
The gate is twisted off its hinges. A heavy truck has rammed it. Two bodies lie near the guard shack. My men. They are unmoving.
"Luca, take the west wing," I order, my voice a low growl. "Kill anything that isn't Ivy."
"Copy."
I move toward the front doors. They are open. One of the massive oak panels is splintered, hanging by a single hinge.
I step into the foyer.
It is pitch black inside, save for the tactical light mounted on my rifle. I sweep the beam across the marble floor.
Blood.
A trail of it leading toward the stairs.
My heart hammers a rhythm of pure terror against my ribs. Please let it be theirs. Please let it be theirs.
I step over the body of another guard. His throat has been slit.
I move up the stairs. Silent. Deadly. I am not a husband right now. I am the Wolf. I am the thing that nightmares are afraid of.
I reach the landing.
CRACK.
A gunshot.
It echoes from the east corridor. From my office.
It wasn't a rifle shot. It was the sharp, distinct crack of a handgun. A 9mm.
My Glock.
Ivy.
I break into a run. I don't care about noise discipline anymore. I sprint down the hallway, my boots thudding against the carpet.
I see a shadow in the hallway outside the office door. A man. Big. Russian. He’s shouting something, kicking at the door.
He hears me coming. He spins around, raising an AK-47.
He is too slow.
I don't stop running. I fire three rounds into his chest without breaking stride.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The suppressor hisses. The bullets impact with a wet thud. The man drops backward, dead before he hits the floor.
I hurdle his body and reach the office door.
It’s shattered. The lock has been kicked in.
I swing the rifle into the room, scanning for targets.
"IVY!" I scream.
The beam of my flashlight cuts through the gloom.
It lands on a body in the doorway. Another Russian. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. A single bullet hole in the center of his throat. A lucky shot. Or a desperate one.
I step over him.
I sweep the light to the corner of the room, behind the desk.
There.
Ivy is crouched in the tight space between the heavy oak desk and the wall. She is shaking violently. She is holding the Glock with both hands, pointing it at the door—pointing it at me.
Her face is pale, streaked with tears and dust. Her eyes are wide, dilated, unseeing. She is in shock.
"Ivy," I say, lowering my rifle instantly. "It’s me."
She doesn't lower the gun. Her finger is white on the trigger.
"Stay back," she whispers. Her voice is a broken rasp. "I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll shoot."
She doesn't recognize me. She is stuck in the moment of the kill.
"Ivy, look at me," I say, my voice dropping to a soothing rumble. I take a slow step forward, raising my empty hands, letting the rifle hang by its sling. "Look at the scar, little bird. Look at the eyes."
She blinks. Her gaze flicks to my eyebrow. To the jagged white line.
Recognition floods her face, followed immediately by a collapse.
The gun slips from her fingers and clatters onto the floor. A sob rips from her throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"Silas," she chokes out.
I cross the room in two strides.
I drop to my knees and pull her into me. I crush her against my chest, burying my face in her hair. She smells of gunpowder and fear.
"I’ve got you," I murmur, rocking her back and forth. My own hands are shaking now. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind a cold, nauseating relief. "I’m here. I’ve got you."
She clings to me, her fingers digging into my tactical vest. She is sobbing hysterically, her whole body convulsing.
"I killed him," she cries. "He came in... he had a gun... and I squeezed... I just squeezed..."
"Shh," I soothe, stroking her hair. "You did good. You did exactly what I told you. You survived."
"There was so much blood," she whispers. "It sprayed on the books. It’s on the rug."
"It doesn't matter," I say fierce. "Let it burn. Let the whole house burn. You are alive."
I pull back slightly to look at her. I need to see her. I need to check for injuries.
I cup her face with my hands. My thumbs wipe away the tears.
"Did they touch you?" I demand. "Ivy, look at me. Did they put their hands on you?"
She shakes her head. "No. I... I hid. In the office. I found the gun."
"Good girl," I breathe. "My brave, vicious girl."
My eyes drop to the floor around us.
I see the papers.
Files scattered everywhere. The contents of the filing cabinet I kept locked.
I see the file labeled ROSS, MARCUS. I see the file labeled ROSS, IVY.
The photo of her at sixteen, sitting on the museum steps, is lying face up near her knee.
I freeze.
I look back at her face.
She isn't just crying from fear. She is looking at me with a new expression. It’s raw. Open. Confused.
"You knew," she whispers, her voice trembling. "You’ve always known."
I don't deny it. There is no point. The evidence is literally surrounding us.
"Yes," I say.
"You paid them," she says, picking up a piece of paper—the receipt from the Albanian cartel. Her hand is shaking. "Four years ago. You paid forty-five thousand dollars for me."
"You were worth more," I say hoarsely. "I got a bargain."
She stares at me. The fear of the attack is receding, replaced by the enormity of this revelation.
"Why?" she asks. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me hate you?"
"Because I am hateful," I say. "Paying a debt doesn't make me a saint, Ivy. I still took you. I still chained you to a bed."
"You took me to save me," she corrects me. She gestures to the memo about the extraction. "It says right here. Risk of asset loss: CRITICAL. You knew Nikolai was coming for me."
"I couldn't let him have you."
"So you became the villain to protect me from the monster," she whispers.
She reaches out. Her hand—still trembling, stained with gun oil—touches my cheek. Her thumb traces the scar.
"You’re not the wolf," she says softly. "You’re the wall."
The words hit me harder than a bullet.
The wall.
The thing that stands between the innocent and the dark. The thing that takes the blows so she doesn't have to.
I close my eyes, leaning into her touch. I feel a crack in my chest, a fissure in the armor I have worn since I was twelve years old.
"I tried to stay away," I admit, my voice rough. "For four years, I stayed in the shadows. I watched you grow. I watched you paint. I told myself it was enough just to keep you safe from a distance."
I open my eyes. The blue fire is dim now, replaced by a burning need.
"But then Marcus got desperate. And I knew... I knew if I touched you, just once, I would never be able to let you go."
"You were right," she says.
"Yes."
I stand up, pulling her with me. She is unsteady on her feet.
"We have to go," I say. "The house isn't safe. The perimeter is compromised."
"Where?" she asks.
"The safe room. In the bunker. It’s the only place I can guarantee."
I look at the dead man in the doorway. I look at the blood on the antique rug.
"Don't look," I command, shielding her eyes with my hand as I guide her toward the door.
"Silas," she says, stopping me.
I look down at her.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For saving me. Then. And now."
She leans up and kisses me.
It’s not a kiss of passion. It’s not the frantic, drug-induced kiss of the handcuffs. It is a soft, deliberate press of her lips against mine. A seal. An acceptance.
She tastes of tears and survival.
I kiss her back, gentle for once.
"I will always save you," I vow against her mouth. "Even from myself."
I scoop her up into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist, burying her face in my neck. She feels heavy, solid, alive.
I carry her out of the office, stepping over the corpses of the men who tried to take her.
I walk through the dark hallway, my boots crunching on broken glass.
The Estate is ruined. My security is shattered. Nikolai Sokolov has declared open war.
But as I descend into the darkness of the bunker, holding my wife against my chest, I feel a strange, terrifying peace.
She knows.
The secret is out.
And she didn't run.
She squeezed the trigger.
The girl I watched from the shadows is gone. The woman in my arms is something new. Something forged in violence and tempered by truth.
She is finally, truly, Mrs. Vane.
And God help anyone who tries to take her from me now.