Ch 3: Silas Vane

Usually, the thick and heavy glass insulation drowned out the world, leaving me in the peaceful vacuum of my own thoughts. But today, the silence was jagged. It was occupied by the frantic, shallow breathing of the boy sitting three feet away from me. 

I didn’t need to look at Luca De Santis to know he was falling apart. I could smell it on him; the sharp, bitter scent of fear mixed with the floral notes of too much expensive wine and the chemical sweetness of whatever he’d popped before walking down the aisle. 

I sat perfectly still, my legs crossed at the knee, watching the blurred grey of Chicago suburbs turn into the sharp, steel lines of the North Side. I felt the weight of my wedding ring, a brand-new band of heavy platinum. I felt like a shackle, though I was the one holding the key. 

Fifteen years ago, when I sat in a car like this with Clara, the air had been filled with the scent of lilies and her soft laughter. She had been a prize of tradition. Luca? Luca was a prize of war. He was a sacrificial lamb dressed in white silk, sent to my altar to stop me from erasing his bloodline from the map. 

I glance at him. He was slumped against the door, his head resting against the window. He was still wearing those ridiculous dark glasses. He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes, hiding behind plastic lenses as if they could protect him from the reality of who I was. 

“You can take the glasses off, Luca,” I said. My voice was calm, cutting through the hum of the engine. “The sun isn’t out, and I’ve already seen how much you hate me. There’s no point in hiding it now.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. He just stayed there, a little pile of discarded South Side trash, trying to pretend to be invisible.  

“I like the view better this way,” he slurred. His voice was thick, his tongue clumsy from the drugs. “It filters out the parts of this wedding I didn’t sign up for, which is… well, all of it. Everything.”

I felt a spark of something not quite amusement, but close. Most people in this city spoke to me in whispers or with a stammer. This boy, even when he was half-comatose, had a tongue like a razor. It was the only part of him that seemed to have any spine. 

“You signed the papers. You walked the aisle. You belong to the Vane name now,” I reminded him. I turned my head, fixing my gaze on the side of his face. I wanted to see him crumble. I wanted to see the exact moment he realized that his father’s protection was a shadow. “And in my house, we don’t hide behind the plastic.”

He finally moved. It was a slow, shaky motion. He reached up and pulled the glasses off, tossing them onto the floor mat as if they were trash. When he looked at me, I saw the storm I’d noticed at the altar. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils blown wide from the chemicals, but the hate was still there; vivid and burning. 

“Happy now, King?” he snapped. He tried to pull himself upright, attempting a swagger that failed miserably because he was vibrating with nerves. “You’ve got the prize. The unwanted son of the South. Sold for the price of a ceasefire.”

I let the silence hang for a moment, letting the weight of it press against him. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t offer a hand. “Don’t flatter yourself, Luca,” I said, my voice dropping. I wanted him to feel the coldness of the North in his bones. “You weren’t a prize. You were a debt. And I always collect what I’m owed.” 

He looked away, his jaw tightening. I could see the pulse jumping in his neck. He was terrified, but he was fighting it with sarcasm. It was a pathetic defense, but it was all he had. 

“My father thinks I’m his spy,” he whispered. 

I stayed silent. I already knew this. I knew Don Santis wouldn’t send his son into my home without a leash. 

“He put a wire on me,” Luca continued, the honesty spilling out of him. It was the drugs, I suspected. They made him loose-lipped. “He wants to know where you keep the bodies buried.”

I finally shifted my position. I leaned in, invading the small space he had claimed for himself. I watched his eyes go wild, his body tensing as he tried to pull back further into the leather. He looked like he expected a blow. His father must have used his hands often; the boy had the reflexes of a beaten dog. 

“Stay away from me,” he hissed. 

“Sit still,” I commanded. 

I didn’t hurt him. I wasn’t a brute like his father. Brutes were messy; I was surgical. I reached out and gripped the lapel of his beige jacket. I pulled him toward me until I could smell the terror on his skin. I reached inside the silk lining of his suit, my knuckles grazing the warm skin of his chest. He gasped, his breath hitching, his heart hammering against my hand like a trapped bird. 

I felt it immediately. A small, hard bump near his collarbone. 

With one sharp tug, I ripped the transmitter free. I didn’t care about the suit. I didn’t care that I’d probably left a faint red mark on his skin. I held the tiny device between my thumb and forefinger, looking at it with the same disgust I felt for his entire family. 

“The South is so predictable,” I muttered. I lowered the window just enough to feel the bite of the winter air, then flicked the wire into the street. “Your father is a man of low imagination, Luca. He thinks a piece of plastic can bridge the gap between his gutter and my throne.”

I let go of him, and he slumped back, breathing hard. He looked smaller now, if that was even possible. 

“What are you going to do to me?” he asked. His voice was small, cracking under the pressure. “Kill me? Throw me out? My father said if I mess this up, I’ll wish I was never born.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the bruises under his eyes that no amount of makeup could hide. I saw the way he gripped his own arms as if he were trying to hold himself together. 

“You already wish you were never born, little prince,” I said. It wasn’t an insult; it was an observation. “I could see it in the way you swallow those pills and the way you looked at my gun at the altar. You weren’t afraid of the bullet. You were waiting for it.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was too heavy for a boy like him to carry. 

We fell back into silence as the car slowed. We were entering my territory now. The Lake Shore Drive estate. It was a monument of glass and black stone, standing against the crashing waves of Lake Michigan. It was a house built for a man who wanted to see everything and be seen by no one. 

The driver pulled the car to a stop in front of the grand entrance. The silent valet opened the door, and the Chicago wind roared inside, bringing with it the scent of salt and ice. 

I stepped out first, the cold air felt like a homecoming. I stood by the door and watched Luca. He didn’t want to get out. He looked at the house like it was a prison. 

I offered him my hand. Not because I cared if he fell, but because I wanted him to acknowledge the shift in power. He looked at my palm, his eyes narrowing, then he deliberately ignored it. He climbed out on his own, his legs shaking, trying to walk with a ‘dancey’ strut that was entirely faked. 

I followed him up the steps. He stopped at the massive iron door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. He turned to look at me, the rain starting to dampen his dark hair, making him look even younger. 

“This isn’t a home, Silas,” he said, trying to find his sarcasm again. “It’s a museum. And I’m just the latest exhibit, right? ‘The Broken Prince of the South’?”

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I reached past him, pushed the heavy door open, and ushered him into the dark, marble foyer. The moment the door slammed shut, the world outside disappeared. 

I turned to him. The house was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the high ceilings. “The bedroom is upstairs,” I said, pointing to the grand staircase. “One bed. One room. I suggest you get comfortable, Luca.”

He looked at the stairs, his breath catching in his throat. He looked like he was staring at the gallows. 

“What if I don’t want to go up?” he challenged. 

 I stepped into his space one more time, pinning him against the wall with my presence alone. I leaned down until my lips were brushing his ear. “Then I’ll carry you,” I said. “But one way or another, you’re staying where I can see you.”

I felt him shiver. “And Luca? If I find another pill on you, you’ll learn exactly why they call me the King of the North.”

I stepped back, watching him. He didn’t say a word. He just turned and started climbing the stairs, his shoulders hunched, heading toward the room where he would spend his first night as my husband. 

I watched him go, my hand resting on the banister. The night was just beginning, and I had a feeling the South had sent me something much more dangerous than a spy. They had sent me a reason to feel again.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.