HOMECOMING SHADOWS

The private jet touched down at Teterboro just before dawn, the New York skyline a jagged silhouette against bruised purple sky. Aiden stared out the window, collar still snug against his throat, the faint ache in his shoulder a reminder of Yokohama’s blood. Beside him, Silas slept or pretended to head tilted back, silver-streaked hair falling across his scarred lip. Kane and Mori were already en route to a black-site facility off the coast of Maine, courtesy of Silas’s network. Elena Voss sat cuffed in the rear cabin, guarded by Reyes and Marco, her elegant features set in cold silence. She hadn’t begged, hadn’t bargained. Just watched, as if waiting for the next move in a game only she fully understood.

Silas stirred as the engines wound down. His hand found Aiden’s thigh, squeezing once possessive, grounding. “We’re home.”

Home. The word felt foreign. The rundown apartment Aiden once shared with Marcus was gone foreclosed, emptied. Silas’s penthouse now waited, a glass-and-steel fortress high above Manhattan. Aiden had never truly lived there; he’d only visited, fucked, submitted. Now it was the only place left.

A black SUV waited on the tarmac. They transferred Elena to a separate vehicle headed straight to an interrogation suite in an unmarked warehouse in Brooklyn. Silas gave Reyes quiet instructions: “No permanent damage. Yet. I want everything she knows about the ‘real debt collector.’”

The drive into the city was silent except for the low hum of tires on wet asphalt. Aiden broke it first. “What if she’s telling the truth? What if there’s someone bigger than Mori pulling strings?”

Silas’s jaw flexed. “Then we burn it all down. Every connection, every account, every name. No one touches what’s mine.”

Aiden turned to him. “And Marcus?”

Silas exhaled slowly. “He’s in federal holding. Bail denied. The hit evidence is buried for now. But if this new player has more on him…”

Aiden nodded. “We protect him. He’s still my brother.”

Silas’s hand tightened on Aiden’s knee. “I know.”

They arrived at the penthouse as the first light gilded the Hudson. The elevator ride was quiet, intimate. Silas pressed Aiden against the mirrored wall the moment the doors closed, kissing him slow and deep—less desperation now, more certainty. Tongues slid lazily, hands roaming without urgency. When the doors opened, Silas lifted Aiden effortlessly, carrying him through the foyer like something precious.

Inside, the space felt different warmer, lived-in. Silas had added touches: a framed black-and-white photo of the two of them from Tokyo (taken by Elena, ironically), rescue dogs curled on the rug (two pit mixes Silas had adopted weeks earlier), even a small shelf of Aiden’s old books salvaged from the apartment raid.

Silas set Aiden down gently. “Shower first. Then we talk.”

The master bathroom was all marble and steam. Silas stripped them both without ceremony, guiding Aiden under the rainfall head. Hot water cascaded, washing away dried blood, gunpowder residue, fear. Silas soaped Aiden’s body with reverent hands tracing every bruise, every scar, kissing the graze on his shoulder until Aiden shivered.

Silas dropped to his knees on wet tile. He took Aiden into his mouth slowly worshipful, unhurried. Tongue tracing veins, lips sealing tight, throat relaxing to take him deeper. Aiden’s fingers threaded through wet silver-streaked hair, guiding without force. Silas hummed approval, vibrations shooting straight through Aiden’s core.

When Aiden’s thighs trembled, Silas stood, turned him to face the glass. He entered from behind slow, profound, every inch a vow. Hands pinned Aiden’s wrists to the tile above his head; hips rolled in deep, measured thrusts that hit prostate with devastating precision. Silas’s mouth found Aiden’s ear. “I love you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “Every brutal piece of you. Every soft one.”

Aiden arched, pushing back. “Love you too. Even the shadows.”

They came together quiet, intense, breaths mingling with steam. Silas stayed buried inside, softening slowly, kissing Aiden’s neck, shoulders, the collar. “No more running,” he whispered. “We’re building something real.”

They dried off, dressed in soft lounge clothes, and moved to the living room. Silas poured whiskey two glasses. They sat on the sectional, dogs curling at their feet.

Silas spoke first. “Mori’s interrogation starts tomorrow. But the message… ‘real debt collector in New York.’ That means someone local. Someone who knew Mori’s play and let him take the fall.”

Aiden sipped, thinking. “Elena?”

“Possible. She’s been with me five years. Knows every layer tech, mafia, personal.” Silas’s eyes darkened. “But she never asked for money. Never power grabs. It was personal. Revenge for her sister.”

Aiden frowned. “Then who?”

Silas set his glass down. “Someone who wants the entire network. Not just a piece. Someone who can move in the shadows without being seen.”

A phone buzzed Reyes. Silas answered on speaker.

“Boss. Elena cracked. Fast. She says the ‘collector’ is Marcus Blackwood.”

Aiden froze.

Reyes continued. “She claims Marcus didn’t just hire the hit on you ten years ago. He partnered with a silent backer Mori was the front, but Marcus was the one who kept feeding intel. When you started rising, Marcus panicked. Thought you’d expose the old embezzlement ties to underground lenders. So he sold your network’s structure routes, safe houses, crew names to this new player. Elena was the conduit. Marcus promised her a cut if she helped destabilize you.”

Silas’s face went blank dangerous calm. “Where is he now?”

“Federal lockup. But Elena says he has a meet set for tonight. Rikers visitor room. The collector’s coming in person.”

Aiden stood. “We have to go.”

Silas rose slowly. “We will. But not clean.”

He crossed to a hidden panel in the wall. It slid open revealing an arsenal: suppressed rifles, tactical vests, comms gear. Silas handed Aiden a compact pistol and vest. “You sure?”

Aiden strapped it on. “He’s my brother. If he’s selling you out… I need to hear it from him.”

Silas cupped Aiden’s face. “If he tries to hurt you—”

“I know.”

They geared up in silence. Silas’s crew assembled downstairs Reyes, Marco, four more men. Black SUVs rolled out into the night.

Rikers Island loomed across the East River concrete fortress, razor wire glinting under floodlights. Silas had contacts inside; a guard owed him. They entered through a service gate, badges flashed, no questions asked.

The visitor room was sterile Plexiglas partitions, metal stools bolted to the floor. Marcus waited on the inmate side, orange jumpsuit, blond hair lank, deceptive smile gone. He looked older, hollowed.

When Silas and Aiden sat, Marcus’s eyes widened. “You two. Together.”

Silas leaned forward. “Talk.”

Marcus glanced at the guard paid off, staring at the wall. “I didn’t have a choice. After the embezzlement blew up, the lenders came calling. Not banks real ones. The kind that break knees. They owned part of Blackwood Media’s debt. When you started Vane Industries, they saw opportunity. I gave them names, routes. Thought it would buy time.”

Aiden’s voice cracked. “You sold Silas’s people. For what?”

Marcus looked away. “Survival. And… revenge. He was always going to come for us. For what we did to him in school. I figured if I gave them enough, they’d take him out before he took us.”

Silas’s fists clenched. “And the collector?”

Marcus swallowed. “He’s here. Tonight. Said he’d handle the final payment himself.”

The door behind Marcus opened.

A man stepped in mid-fifties, impeccably tailored, silver hair, cold gray eyes. No tattoos, no flash. Just quiet menace.

Silas stiffened. “Lucien Moreau.”

Moreau smiled thinly. “Vane. Blackwood. You’ve been busy dismantling my investments.”

Aiden recognized the name whispered in underworld circles. Moreau ran a shadow syndicate that financed half the city’s dirty money. Old money, old grudges.

Moreau sat. “Marcus here promised me your empire. In exchange for clearing his debts. He delivered Elena as the inside woman. But you survived. Impressive.”

Silas’s voice was ice. “You want the network?”

“I want everything.” Moreau leaned forward. “Sign it over. Or I release everything hit contracts, embezzlement ledgers, your little mafia side hustle. The SEC, FBI, even the press. Your clean billions evaporate.”

Aiden’s hand found Silas’s under the table squeezing.

Silas met Moreau’s gaze. “Or?”

Moreau’s smile widened. “Or we do this the old way. Blood for blood.”

Silas stood slowly. “Then let’s do it the old way.”

He nodded once.

The guard Silas’s man moved. Gun drawn. Moreau’s eyes widened.

But from the shadows of the corridor, more figures emerged Moreau’s own security. Six men, armed.

Gunfire erupted in the sterile room.

Aiden dove, tackling Marcus through the partition slot crude, desperate. Glass shattered. Silas returned fire, dropping two of Moreau’s men.

Chaos swallowed the room shouts, muzzle flashes, the metallic tang of blood.

Silas hauled Aiden up, shoving Marcus toward the exit. “Go!”

They ran through corridors, alarms blaring. Silas’s crew met them at the gate SUVs waiting, engines roaring.

They peeled out, tires screaming.

In the back seat, Aiden held Marcus cuffed, shaking. Silas drove, knuckles white.

Marcus whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Aiden looked at Silas. “What now?”

Silas’s eyes met his in the rearview stormy, resolute.

“Now we end it. All of it.”

The city lights blurred past.

But Aiden felt the leash tighten not in fear, but in certainty.

Whatever came next, they faced it bound together.