The silence of the Thorne estate was usually a comfort, a testament to the thick stone walls and the absolute security Roman had bought and paid for. But at 2:00 AM, the silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt like a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of Roman's lungs.
Skye should have been home two hours ago. Her set at The Gilded Lily ended at midnight. She always came straight to his office, still smelling of stage lights and expensive perfume, her silver dress shimmering as she climbed into his lap to tell him about the crowd. It was their ritual- the bridge between her world of song and his world of iron.
Roman stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his study, his phone gripped so hard in his hand that the casing groaned. He had called Vance and Kael five times. Straight to voicemail.
He didn't wait for a sixth. He tapped a direct line to Silas, the owner of the club and a man who owed Roman more than just money.
"Silas," Roman's voice was a low, terrifying vibration. He didn't offer a greeting. "Where is she?"
"Roman? I-I thought she was with your men," Silas stammered, his voice thin with immediate panic. "She finished her set an hour and a half ago. She went backstage to change. My floor manager said he saw her security detail waiting by the stage door, but then... they just disappeared."
"The footage, Silas. Send it. Now. If I don't have it in thirty seconds, I'm coming down there to burn the building down with you inside it."
Roman hung up and moved to his desk, his heart hammering a violent, rhythmic war drum against his ribs. A chime echoed through the room- an encrypted file transfer. He opened it with a jagged motion of his mouse.
The footage was grainy, the black-and-white feed of the backstage corridor. He watched Skye, radiant in that silver dress, walk toward her dressing room. She looked tired but happy. She looked safe.
Then, the shadow moved.
A man, dressed head-to-toe in tactical black, a balaclava obscuring his face, stepped out from behind a utility door. The movement was fluid, practiced. Most people would see a nameless thug, but Roman's eyes narrowed until they were slivers of ice. He watched the way the man shifted his weight, the slight tilt of his shoulders, the arrogant, cat-like grace of his stride.
Roman had spent years studying his enemies. He knew the gait of every rival in the sector.
"Vane," he hissed, the name sounding like a death rattle.
It was Ryder. The arrogance in the posture was unmistakable, even through the disguise. On screen, the man clamped a cloth over Skye's face. Roman watched her struggle- watched the silver chainmail shimmer as she fought for her life, until her body went limp.
The next clip showed the back alley. A black sedan was idling. Ryder, no longer bothered with the mask, shoved Skye's unconscious form into the backseat with a rough, careless shove that made Roman let out a guttural, primal growl of fury. The car sped off, the license plate obscured by mud, but the destination was irrelevant. Roman knew where the Vane family hid their sins.
The door to the office opened. Tyson, his lead assistant and a man who acted as the administrative backbone of Thorne Tech, stepped in with a tablet in hand.
"Sir, the European merger call is ready. The board is waiting on the line. They say if you don't join in the next five minutes, the deal-"
Roman stood up, his chair flying backward and crashing against the wall. He didn't look at Tyson. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sleek, matte-black handgun, checking the chamber with a lethal, metallic clack.
"Tyson," Roman said, his voice eerily calm- the kind of calm that preceded a hurricane. "The merger doesn't exist. The board doesn't exist. My business, my stocks, and my standing in the market do not exist until she is back in this house."
Tyson blinked, looking at the gun, then at the frozen image of the black sedan on the monitors. "Sir, the financial fallout will be-"
"Take my chair," Roman commanded, grabbing a heavy tactical jacket from the coat rack. "Lie to them. Tell them I've had a medical emergency. Tell them the building is on fire. I don't care. If I lose this deal, I lose money. If I lose her, I burn the world down anyway, so the money won't matter. You're in charge until I call you from the car."
"Understood, sir," Tyson said, his voice dropping into a somber, respectful tone. He had been with Roman long enough to know when the businessman had died and the Dragon had taken over.
Roman strode out of the office, his boots thudding against the marble floors like a death knell. He reached the top of the grand staircase and saw Sarah coming out of the kitchen, her face etched with worry.
"Mr. Thorne? Is everything alright? I haven't seen Miss Skye-"
"Sarah," Roman interrupted, stopping at the landing. He looked down at her, his eyes glowing with a terrifying intensity. "You are to go into Adam's room right now. You lock the door. You do not open it for anyone but me or Tyson. You stay with him tonight. If he wakes up and asks for Skye, you tell him she's... she's working late."
Sarah's eyes went wide. "Is she... is she hurt?"
"She's coming home," Roman promised, and the weight of the vow seemed to vibrate through the entire estate. "I am going to bring her home."
He didn't wait for a response. He descended the stairs and walked into the cool night air of the driveway. A black SUV sat idling, the headlights cutting through the mist like the eyes of a predator. One of his loyalists, a man named Marcus who hadn't been bribed, stood by the driver's side door.
"We tracked the car to the northern ridge, sir," Marcus said, handing Roman a tablet with a blinking red dot. "It's the Vane hunting lodge. It's a fortress, shielded from satellite thermal imaging. We have a team mobilising, ten minutes out."
"Cancel the team," Roman said, stepping into the driver's seat. "I don't want a siege. I want him to see me coming. I want him to know it was me who ended him."
"Sir, there are at least twelve armed guards on that perimeter-"
"Then tell the morgue to clear twelve spots," Roman snapped, slamming the door.
He threw the SUV into gear, the tires screaming against the gravel as he roared out of the gates. His mind was a cold, calculated map of violence. He thought of Skye in that silver dress, thought of her being touched by a man like Ryder, and felt a level of rage that transcended emotion. It was a physical weight, a heat that threatened to melt the steering wheel in his hands.
Patricia had been the distraction. The break-in, the legal threats- it was all designed to keep Roman's eyes on the estate while Ryder moved in on the club. They had worked together to peel his protection away, layer by layer, until the Songbird was vulnerable.
"You should have stayed in the shadows, Ryder," Roman whispered to the dark road, his foot pressing the accelerator to the floor. "You should have taken the money and run."
He reached for the radio and keyed into a private frequency. "Tyson. Track my GPS. If I'm not back by dawn, trigger the contingency 'Ember.' Strip the Vane accounts. Every cent. I want them bankrupt by breakfast. But leave the lodge to me."
"Copy that, sir. Godspeed."
Roman threw the phone onto the passenger seat. He could see the dark silhouette of the northern ridge rising up against the starlit sky. Somewhere up there, in a room of velvet and stone, his world was being held captive.
He didn't feel fear. He didn't feel doubt. He only felt the singular, driving purpose of a man who had finally found the thing worth killing for.
The Dragon was no longer in the cave. He was on the wing, and he was bringing fire.