Chapter 4 #3
He stroked faster now, his breathing growing ragged. He thought about what it would feel like to fuck her so thoroughly, so completely, that she'd be full of his cum—marked, claimed, satisfied. The fantasy consumed him, and the more he stroked his cock, the closer he felt his release approaching.
Leaning his head against the cool tile wall, he moaned her name—"Rebecca"—and seconds later, thick ropes of cum released, spattering against the shower wall before being washed away by the cascading water.
Satisfaction. It was what he wanted, but now it was what he needed—and only Rebecca could give it to him.
Silas stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, letting the water wash away the evidence of his desire. The steam continued to billow around him, but his mind was already racing ahead. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten under his skin like this—so quickly, so completely.
He finished washing, taking his time now, methodically soaping and rinsing every inch of his body.
When he finally stepped out of the shower, he grabbed one of the oversized charcoal-gray towels from the heated rack and dried himself off, running the soft fabric over his shoulders, chest, and down his legs.
Walking into his bedroom, still naked, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror.
At thirty-four, he kept himself in shape—had to, given his line of work.
Tactical operations didn't leave room for weakness.
His body was a map of old scars and hard-earned muscle; evidence of a life lived on the edge.
But right now, none of that mattered. All he could think about was when he'd see Becca again.
He pulled open his closet and selected a pair of black boxer briefs, dark jeans, and a fitted henley.
Casual but deliberate. He had a few hours before he needed to meet up with Jace for their mission, but his mind kept drifting back to the tattoo shop, to the way Becca had looked at him, the way her hands had felt on his skin.
Silas grabbed his phone from the nightstand and scrolled to her contact information—the shop's number she'd given him for follow-up appointments. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Too soon? he wondered. Fuck it.
He typed out a message: "Healing looks good. When can I book my next session?"
He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then tossed the phone onto the bed. Whether she responded tonight or tomorrow didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd planted the seed.
Silas ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled slowly. Tonight he had work to do—dangerous work that required his full focus. But after that? After that, he was going to make damn sure Rebecca knew exactly what kind of effect she had on him.
And he was going to enjoy every second of it.
4 days ago…
Jace and I are back on U.S. soil, the jet barely cooled before we’re back where we belong — the office. Steel, glass, low light. The kind of quiet that only exists after violence has been handled properly.
Another rescue successful. Another set of lives pulled from the dark.
But my mind isn’t settled.
It never is for long.
Jace queues up the surveillance footage tied to Manetto Lionetti — one of the last men standing at the top of an empire built on flesh and fear. Politicians. Judges. Law enforcement. All of them tangled in his pockets like loose change. We’ve been watching him for months. Waiting. Mapping patterns.
Jace fast-forwards.
Rewinds.
Pauses.
“There,” he says.
The screen freezes on Lionetti’s office. Heavy wood paneling. Gold accents. Power disguised as taste. He’s seated behind his desk when the door opens and Jenna Lionetti steps in.
His daughter.
She’s crying.
Real tears, not the performative kind she saves for cameras and charity galas. Mascara smudged. Hands shaking. The spoiled mob princess brought low — and that alone makes my shoulders tense.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
But then I hear it.
A name.
Izzy.
It shouldn’t mean anything. Coincidences exist. Names overlap. Cities are big. Lives intersect without touching all the time.
Still… something pulls me forward.
“Play it,” I say quietly.
Jace hits audio.
Jenna’s voice cracks as she talks — anger and desperation tangled together. She tells her father about a man who won’t obey. A man who embarrassed her. A man who refuses to leave his girlfriend.
And then she says her name.
Rebecca.
The room tilts.
Not physically — I don’t stumble, don’t react — but something inside my chest tightens hard enough to hurt. The name lands wrong. Too specific. Too familiar.
Rebecca Valentine.
My jaw locks.
Onscreen, Lionetti stands and pulls his daughter into his arms. He strokes her hair, murmuring reassurances in Italian. Calm. Controlled. Deadly.
“I’ll take care of it,” he tells her.
Jenna sniffles, nods. Gratitude softens her face as she steps back, wipes her tears, and leaves the office like she didn’t just sign someone’s death warrant.
The door closes.
I don’t realize my hands are clenched until Jace shifts beside me.
We keep watching.
Lionetti reaches for his phone.
Dials.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Cesario,” Lionetti says when the call connects. His voice is smooth. Casual. Like he’s ordering wine. “I need a favor.”
The screen cuts.
Minutes later, Cesario ‘Mad Dog’ Leavey walks into frame — broad shoulders, dead eyes, violence stitched into every step he takes. A man who doesn’t ask questions because he doesn’t need answers.
Lionetti leans in close.
The audio catches it.
“I need someone snatched,” Lionetti says. “A woman.”
Cesario doesn’t react.
Lionetti finishes the sentence.
“Rebecca Valentine.”
Something in me snaps into place.
Not panic. Not fear.
Purpose.
My knuckles go white. Heat spreads through my chest, sharp and controlled, the kind of anger that doesn’t scream — it calculates.
This isn’t random.
This isn’t collateral damage.
This is a targeted move.
And she doesn’t even know she’s been chosen.
I stare at the frozen frame on the screen — Lionetti’s face calm, confident, certain the world will bend the way it always has for him.
He has no idea.
No idea that the moment he said her name, he crossed a line he can’t uncross.
Because this is where it all begins.
And I will not be too late