The apartment was silent, but the hum of the city outside bled in through the cracked window. The South End never slept. Neither did he.
Silas Vance leaned against the steel workbench, staring at the ashes of the peony. Smoke had vanished, but the memory of her touch lingered, more stubborn than pain. His knuckles ached. His ribs still throbbed faintly. And yet none of that mattered.
Ten million dollars. That was the number chaining Ivy Sterling to her father. That was the number tethering him to Killian’s iron grip.
He would pay it.
But not in instalments. Not on Arthur Sterling’s terms.
He would break the contract.
Silas walked to the metal drawer beneath the workbench, pulling out a small notebook. He flipped to a blank page. A plan formed, jagged and desperate, but workable.
“St
