Chapter 2
672 Words
The drive to the outskirts of the city felt like a descent into a different world. Silas watched the sleek, glass towers of his territory fade into the rearview mirror, replaced by the grey, salt-crusted bones of the suburbs. This was where the "forgotten" lived—men like Leo King, who spent their lives chasing a win that would never come.
Inside the custom-built SUV, the silence was thick. Jules was in the front, tapping a rhythmic, nervous beat against the window frame. Killian sat next to Silas, his eyes fixed on the street.
"Place is a dump," Jules muttered as they pulled up to a sagging Victorian house with peeling yellow paint. "Hard to believe the 'Queen of PIs'(Private investigator) grew up in a place that looks like it’s one sneeze away from collapsing."
"Roots don't define the tree, Jules," Silas said quietly, his eyes scanning the perimeter. He noted the flickering porch light and the beat-up sedan in the driveway. "They just explain the bitterness of the fruit."
Silas stepped out of the car. The evening air was damp, smelling of incoming rain and woodsmoke. He didn't wait for his men to flank him; he walked up the cracked concrete path with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who owned the ground he walked on.
He didn't knock. He signaled Killian, who kicked the door open with a single, deafening crack.
Inside, the house smelled of stale beer and old cigarettes. Leo King scrambled up from a frayed velvet sofa, his face pale and eyes bloodshot. He looked like a man who had already accepted his death.
"Silas... Mr. Vane," Leo stammered, his hands shaking so violently he had to tuck them into his armpits. "I—I told your men. Next week. I’m getting a loan, a big one, I swear—"
Silas didn't say a word. He walked into the center of the living room, pulling off his leather gloves finger by finger. He looked at a framed photo on the mantle. It was dusty, the glass cracked. Two girls. One with a bright, innocent smile, and the other—Roxanne—looking at the camera like she wanted to set it on fire.
"I’m not here for the five million, Leo," Silas said, his voice a low, terrifying hum.
Leo blinked, hope flickering in his eyes for a split second before it was crushed by Silas’s next words.
"I’m here for the interest. Where is she?"
"Mia? She’s—she’s at a study group, she doesn't know anything about this, please—"
"Not the saint," Silas interrupted, finally turning to look at Leo. The look in Silas’s eyes made the older man stumble back against the wall. "The hunter. Your eldest. Roxanne."
"She won't come," Leo sobbed, sliding down the wall until he was crumpled on the floor. "She hates me. She hasn't spoken to me in years. She’ll let you kill me, Silas. She won't care."
Silas walked over and crouched down in front of him, the fabric of his expensive trousers straining. He grabbed Leo by the chin, forcing him to look up.
"Oh, she’ll care," Silas whispered. "Because if she doesn't come to me, I’m going to send Jules to find the little one. And we both know Mia wouldn't survive a night in my world. But Roxanne? She was born for it."
Silas stood up, wiping his hand on a silk handkerchief as if Leo’s skin had left a stain. He looked at the house—the broken furniture, the stacks of unpaid bills—and felt a strange, cold pull of curiosity. How did a woman like the one in the photo come from a man like this?
"Killian," Silas commanded. "Leave the phone on the table. Call her. Tell her that if she isn't at the Vane estate by midnight, her father’s debt will be settled with her sister’s life."
- Writer
