Chapter 5
1026 Words
The front door to the King household didn't just open; it hit the interior wall with a violent thud that echoed through the hollow hallway.
Roxanne didn't stumble in. She marched. Her leather jacket was damp from the mist, her hair a wild halo of defiance, and her eyes—usually a sharp, calculating hazel—were burning with a cold, lethal light. She looked less like a victim and more like a storm that had finally made landfall.
"Where is she?" Roxanne roared, her voice cutting through the stale air of the house.
She stopped dead in the archway of the living room. The scene was surreal. Her father, Leo, was huddled in a kitchen chair in the corner, looking like a man who had aged twenty years in twenty minutes. Standing by the window was a man who looked like a mountain carved out of stone—Killian, presumably.
But it was the man in her father’s favorite armchair who held the room’s gravity.
Silas Vane didn't stand up. He was leaning back, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than the house he was sitting in—a deep charcoal wool that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. In his hand, he held a small, silver-framed photo of Mia.
He looked up as Roxanne entered, and for a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Roxanne felt a jolt of something she couldn't name. She had profiled the Vanes from a distance for years, but the photos didn't do him justice. They didn't capture the sheer, oppressive stillness of him. He wasn't twitchy like a common criminal; he was as calm as the center of a hurricane.
"You're late," Silas said. His voice was even more dangerous in person—a rich, resonant hum that made the floorboards vibrate beneath her boots. "Nine minutes and forty-two seconds. I was beginning to think you didn't love your sister as much as the rumors suggested."
"Put the photo down, Vane," Roxanne said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. She stepped further into the room, ignoring the two armed men at the door. She walked right up to him, stopping only when the tips of her boots touched the edge of his expensive shoes. "And get your hands off my family's things before I decide I don't care about your reputation."
Silas tilted his head, his grey eyes tracing the lines of her face with a terrifying intensity. He wasn't looking at her like a woman; he was looking at her like a blueprint. He was looking for the cracks.
"Sassy," Silas murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips—one that didn't reach his cold, winter-sea eyes. "Leo, you didn't mention she was so... spirited. It’s a refreshing change from the usual begging."
"Rox, please," Leo whined from the corner, his voice cracking. "Just listen to him. He’s going to kill us all!"
"Shut up, Leo," Roxanne snapped without looking back. Her focus was locked on Silas. "You want a hunter, Silas? Fine. You found one. Now tell me what you've done with Mia, or I swear to God, the next thing you'll be 'profiling' is the inside of an ambulance."
Silas finally stood up. He was taller than she expected—broad-shouldered and imposing. He moved with a predatory grace that made her every instinct scream danger. He set the photo of Mia carefully on the side table, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Mia is exactly where you left her, Roxanne. At her study group. My men are watching the building, but they haven't touched her. Yet." He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the faint, sophisticated scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco. "Whether they continue to watch her or start... interacting with her... is entirely up to you."
"The $5 million," Roxanne said, her jaw tight. "I don't have it. My father doesn't have it. You know that. So stop the theatrics and tell me what the real price is."
Silas reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of heavy vellum paper. He held it out to her.
"I have a mole, Roxanne. Someone in my inner circle is leaking shipments, names, and routes to the O'Shea syndicate. My own people can't find them because they’re too busy looking at each other. I need a ghost. Someone who knows how the underworld works but isn't part of it."
Roxanne looked at the paper but didn't take it. "And why would I help you? I hate people like you. You're the reason I left this life."
"You’ll help me because I’m offering you a trade," Silas said, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a caress against her skin. "Find my traitor in six months. During that time, you will move into the Vane estate. You will be my 'fiancée'—a cover to explain why a Private Investigator is suddenly deep in my business. You play the part. You find the rat."
"And in return?"
"In return," Silas leaned in, his eyes locking onto hers, "I wipe your father’s debt. I provide a permanent security detail for Mia—unobtrusive, of course—and I give you $10 million when the job is done. Enough to take your sister and disappear to a place where men like me can never find you again."
Roxanne stared at him, her mind spinning. A fake engagement. Moving into the lion's den. Being bound to the most dangerous man in the city.
"You want me to be your fiancée," she repeated, a bitter laugh bubbling up in her throat. "You really are delusional. I’d rather eat glass."
"Glass is hard to digest," Silas noted dryly. He took another step, his presence overwhelming. "But not as hard as the news that your sister went missing on her way home from school. Choose, Roxanne. The ring... or the funeral."
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