Chapter Seven: The Price Of Silence

ELARA

The city smelled different at night. Not of life, not of markets or bread or flowers wilting in vases outside shop windows but of oil, metal, rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

I told Damien that I wanted no harm to come to Sofia, not really. I just wanted to use her to get him agree to be the mole inside Ethan and Sienna's home. I wanted to know every detail of their lives before I came back and struck.

So who best to hire than the person they were considering to employ as a chef?

I pressed deeper into the shadow of the alley, my breath shallow beneath the wool scarf Damien—as he was outside these walls—had wrapped around me. My voice had never recovered enough for speech, but I was learning silence could be sharper than words.

We stopped before a narrow restaurant front with ivy curling along brick. No neon, no advertisement. Just a quiet name stenciled across glass and a faint light spilling through the curtains.

Rhys didn’t knock.

He pushed the door open like it belonged to him, like everything belonged to him if he decided it should. His shoulders brushed mine as I followed inside, and I wondered—not for the first time—if my heart beat harder in his presence because of fear or because of something I didn’t dare name.

The smell of butter and garlic met me instantly. Knives clinked faintly from the kitchen.

The chef was there. Broad, barrel-chested, apron smeared with red. His hands froze on the cutting board when he saw us. His name, according to the file, was Carlo DeLuca. A man with debts he didn’t deserve, a daughter who needed him alive, and chains that Ethan had wrapped neatly around his neck.

“We’re closed,” Carlo said quickly, too quickly. His voice had that edge people got when they were used to shouting over ovens and boiling pans, but underneath I heard the tremor. The kind men tried to hide and women always noticed.

Damien didn’t move. He leaned against the counter, the image of careless ease. That stillness of his was dangerous—it wasn’t calm. It was control. Even silence bent to him.

“We’re not here for food,” Damien said at last.

Carlo’s jaw flexed. “Then you should leave.”

My throat itched. Not with words—I still hadn’t learned how to force them past the gravel—but with the desire to see. To watch what would happen when the truth pressed down too hard.

Rhys tilted his head, dark hair falling across his temple. “You catered Ethan and Sienna’s engagement.”

Carlo blinked. For a fraction of a second. Just enough to tell me Rhys was right.

“You’ve got the wrong man.” His hands closed around the counter’s edge, white-knuckled.

Rhys let the pause stretch, let the lie rot in the air. Then he said, softly, almost kindly, “How is Sofia?”

The name landed like a knife.

Carlo flinched. His shoulders stiffened, chest locked like he’d taken a blow.

“I heard she’s ten now,” Rhys continued, voice measured, unhurried. “Leukemia is a cruel disease. Hospitals take more than blood. They take money. And Ethan… he made sure you could afford it.”

“Stop,” Carlo hissed. His face reddened, eyes darting to me, then back to Rhys. “Don’t talk about her.”

Rhys stepped forward, his boots whispering against tile. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “I’ll only say her name once. The rest depends on you.”

The chef’s chest rose and fell too quickly. He glanced at me again, maybe expecting pity, maybe looking for mercy in the ruined lines of my face. I gave him neither.

I only watched. Silent. Waiting.

“Yes,” Carlo said at last, the word breaking from his mouth like it hurt. “I cooked for them.”

“And?” Damien prompted.

“They asked me to come back.” His voice was low now, almost pleading. “Private events. Maybe… permanent. They wanted discretion. Only me. No staff. They paid… too much.”

Of course they had. Ethan’s brand of power was gilded chains.

Damien's eyes narrowed, but his tone stayed even. “Then you’re already halfway in.”

Carlo shook his head hard, sweat glistening on his temple. “No. I can’t—this is dangerous. They’ll know. They’ll kill me. My daughter—”

“She’ll keep breathing because of us,” Rhys cut in. No softness now. “Not Ethan. Us. You’ll keep your job. You’ll get paid twice. And all you’ll do is keep your ears open.”

Carlo stared, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

I shifted just slightly, enough for the light to catch the scars across my cheek. His gaze snapped to me again. He faltered. Maybe he saw the cost of silence in my eyes. Maybe he realized some debts are written in blood, not numbers.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But I let the weight of my stare tell him what my throat never could: there is no choice here.

His shoulders sagged. He let out a breath that sounded like surrender.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing extraordinary,” Rhys said smoothly. “Cook. Serve. Listen. Bring me whispers. Names. Anything that doesn’t taste like the food. And you’ll be compensated. Handsomely.”

Carlo’s lips parted like he might argue. He closed them again.

“I’ll—try,” he said at last.

“No.” Damien leaned in, his shadow swallowing the man whole. “Not try. You’ll succeed. You’ll be hired. You’ll play the loyal chef. And you’ll survive.”

The finality in his tone left no air for protest.

Carlo nodded, defeated.

Damien straightened, dusting invisible ash from his jacket. “Good.”

I watched the chef’s hands tremble against the counter, the way his chest still rose too fast. I wondered if he thought about running. About telling Ethan.

But he wouldn’t. Not now. Not after hearing his daughter’s name spill from a stranger’s lips like a curse.

We left without another word.

The night air bit colder after the kitchen’s heat. I tightened the scarf around my throat.

Damien lit a cigarette, though he didn’t smoke it. Just let the ember glow faintly between his fingers as we walked.

“You see how easy it is?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded once.

“People always fold where it hurts most.”

My hand brushed against the scar tissue along my ribs. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he knew where my thoughts had gone.

Pain doesn’t just fold you. It remakes you.

And I was done folding.

I was going to burn.