To Love a monster

Chapter Two: The man in the shadows

The warehouse stank of iron and gasoline

Silas Deane didn’t blink as the man’s screams dissolved into wet, gurgling pleas. The ropes—Manila hemp, same as the ones Elena sorted that afternoon—cut into the victim’s wrists, his blood soaking the fibers dark crimson.

“Please,” the man sobbed. “I didn’t know she was your—”

Silas drove the knife in deeper. A twist. A jerk. The scream died mid-air.

He wiped the blade on his sleeve, methodical as a surgeon. No rage, no thrill—just the cold calculus of a man balancing ledgers written in flesh. His men shifted nervously. Even monsters feared a void.

“Clean this up,” Silas said. His voice was flat, polished steel. “The docks pay protection by sunrise. No exceptions.”

As his underlings dragged the body away, Silas paused by a crate of rope coils. He ran a gloved finger along the fibers, his mind snagging on an irrelevant detail: Twine & Nail’s shipment arrived early.

A flicker of annoyance. Captain Eli’s shop was the only one in the city that refused his “insurance.” The old sailor’s defiance was a pebble in his shoe—trivial, but persistent.

Outside, rain hissed against the pavement. Silas lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating eyes like black ice. He exhaled smoke into the night, watching it dissolve into the neon haze.

Somewhere across the city, Elena slept, her jar of coins tucked beneath a dream.

Somewhere, a rope tightened.

The penthouse smelled of expensive bourbon and gun oil.

Silas dismissed his bodyguards with a flick of his wrist. The woman on the bed Tisha, or was it Mira? knew better than to speak unless spoken to. She was one of the few who’d lasted more than a month, which meant nothing to him beyond efficiency.

He unbuckled his watch, the platinum glinting under low light. Her eyes tracked his movements, a rabbit sensing the wolf. When he gripped her jaw, his thumb pressed into the pulse point of her throat, feeling the jump of her fear.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, voice devoid of mockery or concern. A fact, nothing more.

She forced a smile. “Cold, sir.”

Silas didn’t humor lies. He pushed her down, his hands clinical, his touch designed to remind her of the hierarchy: You are here because I allow it. The silk sheets slithered like snakes as he took what he’d paid for, his mind already elsewhere—shipments, debts, the old sailor’s defiance at the rope shop.

Afterward, he tossed a stack of bills onto the nightstand. The shower ran scalding hot, steam fogging the mirrors until his reflection vanished.