Chapter 46 Silas Hunt
EMILY
The plastic handles of a heavy supermarket bag cut sharp, red lines into my raw fingers as I walk down the hot asphalt of Oak Street.
Inside the bag sits a massive tin of imported Danish butter cookies and three large boxes of high-grade vitamin supplements. Alongside the money in my bag, I had taken these from the pantry of the Wolfe estate before I left and I’m glad I did.
Yesterday, an older woman in this neighborhood risked her own skin to give me the tip that saved Alistair’s niece, Lily, from that freezing lakeside villa.
The wealthy Wolfe family elders are currently too busy brooding over Beatrice’s week-long confinement in the Meditation Room to think about actual gratitude. But I am different.
I know exactly what it feels like to be forgotten in a dark room. My years spent locked in the Vance estate and three days in the family storage room taught me that debts must be settled if you want to look yourself in the mirror.
I am changing now. I am no longer the helpless girl Thomas and Lydia Vance could sell to the highest bidder. My dream of getting my cardiology formula licensed by Dr. Aris is within reach, and learning to carry myself with authority is part of the survival game.
The small electronic chime above the door rings as I step inside the place. The air inside is a thick, delicious cloud of bubbling mozzarella, roasted garlic, and slightly charred dough. The warmth from the massive brick oven in the back hits my face, washing away the cool air conditioning of Alistair’s armored convoy outside.
I spot her immediately behind the counter. Aunt Cherry is a plump woman with kind, wrinkled eyes and silvering hair tied back in a messy bun. She wears a faded blue apron dusted with white flour.
"Aunt Cherry," I say, stepping up to the counter and setting the heavy supermarket bag down on the laminate surface. "I’m the woman from yesterday. The one looking for the little girl in the pink cardigan. I came to thank you properly."
The woman looks at the glossy tin and the expensive supplement boxes poking out of the plastic. She immediately waves her flour-covered hands in the air, shaking her head so fast a few loose strands of gray hair fall into her eyes. "Oh, no, dear. Put that away. I didn’t do it for a reward. I just couldn’t sit by and let those monsters hurt a child. Take it back."
"If you feel bad about taking a gift, then you should treat me to a slice of your best pizza," I reply, offering her a small smile as I push the bag a few inches closer to her cash register. "Consider it a trade."
Aunt Cherry pauses, her kind eyes softening as she looks at my raw thumbs, which are still red from my two-hour firearm practice session with Leo this morning. She lets out a soft sigh and pulls the bag behind the counter. "You’re a stubborn girl. Sit down at the corner booth by the window. I’ve got a fresh bacon and mushroom pie in the brick oven right now. Let me go check on the crust before it burns."
She disappears through the swing doors into the kitchen, the scent of melting cheese following her.
I walk over to the small vinyl booth near the front window. Leo slides his massive, stone-like frame into the seat opposite me. His dark security uniform is immaculate, and his close-cropped hair reflects the harsh fluorescent lights of the diner. His large hands rest flat on the table, his eyes constantly scanning the street outside where our three identical armored SUVs are idling.
The peace doesn’t last long.
The front glass door is kicked open with a violent crash that sends the electronic chime spinning against the wall. A tall, scrawny man barges into the shop, reeking of stale beer and cheap tobacco. He wears a grease-stained leather jacket despite the noon heat, and a jagged scar runs from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Silas Hunt. I recognize his face immediately.
Before I was dragged into the Wolfe estate, Silas was the ruthless rich man my parents wanted to sell me out to. He took my sister when he couldn’t have me and destroyed our house. My refusal to marry him was what pushed me to take Alistairs offer. He’s a truly evil man.
He has seven or eight burly thugs trailing behind him, their heavy boots thudding against the linoleum. I never expected to see someone like that here.
"Where is she, mother-in-law?" Silas roars, slamming his fist against the counter so hard the napkin dispenser rattles. "Tell your daughter to come out here right now. She belongs to me, and today is the day we make it official."
I pull the glossy, laminated menu up to my nose, completely obscuring my face. My breath fogs against the plastic surface. I lean across the table, keeping my voice a sharp, whispered command. "Leo. Keep quiet. Don’t move a muscle yet."
Leo’s jaw tightens, the large muscles in his shoulders straining against the fabric of his suit jacket as his fingers curl into fists. He doesn’t look at the thugs. He keeps his gaze fixed on my menu.
Aunt Cherry rushes out of the kitchen, her face turning a sickly shade of white as she stares at Silas. She grips the edges of her flour-dusted apron, her hands shaking.
"She isn’t your wife, Silas! She’s never going to marry a criminal like you! Get out of my shop before I call the police!"
Silas lets out a loud, mocking laugh that reveals a missing tooth. In a flash, his arm swings forward. A sharp, meaty crack echoes through the small restaurant as his open palm strikes Aunt Cherry across the face.
Aunt Cherry stumbles backward, her hip crashing into the metal prep table. She clutches her reddened cheek, a small drop of blood appearing at the corner of her mouth.
"You don’t talk to me like that, old woman," Silas sneers, leaning over the counter until his grease-stained jacket brushes the register. "Either you hand over your daughter by tomorrow morning, or this shop gets turned into a pile of ash. And everyone inside dies with it. Boys, start clearing the tables. Let’s show her what a real fire looks like."
The thugs let out a collective grunt and move into action. One man kicks a wooden chair, sending it crashing into the wall where it splinters into pieces. Another sweeps a row of glass oil bottles off a table, the liquid pooling across the floor amidst the sharp shards.
The five other customers in the diner let out terrified screams. They drop their forks and scramble toward the double doors, a frantic wave of bodies trying to escape the violence.
I stand up, sliding out of the vinyl booth and blending perfectly into the crowd of fleeing people. I keep my head low, my shoulder brushing against a panicked businessman as we move toward the front exit. Silas stands near the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the destruction with a smug, arrogant grin.
My right hand slips inside my open leather purse. My raw fingers wrap around the textured polymer grip of the Nightblade pistol. I pull the weapon out, keeping it pressed tightly against the fabric of my jacket as I take three step-and-glide movements through the crowd.
I stop directly behind him.
In one swift, continuous motion, I drive the freezing steel muzzle of the pistol straight into the soft skin at the base of Silas Hunt’s skull.
"Tell your men to freeze," I say, my voice dropping into a cold, steady rhythm that sounds exactly like Alistair’s during a boardroom execution. "If a single chair makes another sound, I’ll paint this counter with the back of your head."
Silas goes completely rigid. The smug grin vanishes from his face, replaced by a sudden, heavy layer of sweat that breaks out across his forehead. He swallows hard, his leather jacket rustling as his hands lift slowly into the air.
"Whoa, sister," Silas stammers, his voice shaking as the cold steel digs deeper into his neck. "Take it easy. Don’t pull the trigger."
The thugs stop in their tracks. One man stands in the center of the room with a metal stool raised over his head, his mouth wide open as he stares at the weapon in my hand. They don’t dare to move. They look at Leo, who has just stood up from the booth, his massive frame completely cutting off their only path to the kitchen.
I don’t look at them. I keep my eyes on the greasy hair at the back of Silas’s head. "Aunt Cherry do you have any heavy packing rope in the back?"
Aunt Cherry stares at me from behind the counter, her jaw open as she looks at the girl who was just smiling at her butter cookies. She nods quickly, her hands fumbling beneath the shelf before she pulls out a thick coil of brown nylon rope and sets it on the counter.
"Excellent," I say, tapping the muzzle against Silas’s skull to remind him who is in control. "Now, Silas, you’re going to tell your biggest man to take that rope and tie his friends up. If anyone gets creative, you’re the first one who goes down."
Silas lets out a loud, terrified roar that rattles the remaining glass bottles on the shelf. "Do what she says, you idiots! Grab the rope and tie each other up! Now!"