บททั้งหมดของ Blood Ties And Silk Chains: บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

Morning crept in slow and gray, the kind of dawn that turned the compound’s stone walls into muted shapes and softened the razor wire crowning the perimeter. Liora sat at the edge of Wren’s bed, smoothing the quilt into careful folds. The girl was awake, hair tangled, eyes wide and watchful. Wren’s small voice broke the hush. “Mama… what does Daddy do?” The words fell into the room like stones dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward. Liora’s hands froze mid-motion. Her first instinct was to hush, to dodge, to redirect with the soft deflection parents used when bedtime questions turned too heavy. But there was something in Wren’s gaze—an insistence, a quiet courage—that made the usual comforts feel dishonest. Liora exhaled slowly. “Why do you ask?” Wren tugged at the edge of the blanket, her thin fingers worrying the stitches. “The men say things when they think I’m sleeping. About fighting. About… making people scared.” She glanced up, eyes bright with a child’s mixtur

The power returned in staggered pulses, humming through the penthouse like a creature dragging itself back from the grave. Liora felt it first in the faint buzz of the overhead fixtures, then in the steady glow of the hallway sconces. But even as the lights stabilized, the silence they left behind was brittle, stretched thin across the rooms. Wren’s breathing had gone ragged in the wake of the intrusion. She’d woken crying, hands clamped to her ears, whispering, “They’re in here, Mama.” Liora cradled her close on the bed, rocking gently, smoothing damp curls from her forehead. “No, baby. Not anymore. You’re safe.” But the words caught in her throat. Safe wasn’t the right word anymore. Not when voices had poured through their walls like smoke, not when even the most fortified place Varian had built had been split open by whispers. Varian didn’t linger. He was already downstairs in the command suite, sleeves rolled, eyes locked on a wall of blackened screens. Cables snaked across the

The city never fully slept. Even in the thick hours before dawn, lights shimmered across the skyline like half-closed eyes, and the hum of traffic carried beneath the storm’s dying breath. Varian stood at the window of the penthouse, shoulders squared, gaze pinned on the shadows between towers. Somewhere in that maze, Ciro Dane was moving—or already gone.Bram placed a fresh folder on the table behind him. “We swept every feed we could jack into. He hasn’t touched his accounts in thirty-six hours. No card swipes. No routine calls. If he’s still in the city, he’s burning a mask we haven’t seen before.”Varian didn’t turn. “He’s still here.”Bram exhaled. “How can you be so sure?”Because he had known Ciro better than he cared to admit. Because ghosts don’t vanish; they circle, waiting. Because once, years ago, Varian had been bleeding into the dirt of an unmarked street in Bucharest, and Ciro Dane had been the one to drag him out. He hadn’t needed to. He could have left Varian there to

The night was alive with fire. Bullets cracked off metal, concrete chips stung the air, and the acrid scent of burned fuel clung to every breath. The convoy had scattered under the ambush, black silhouettes against a skyline flashing with gunfire.Liora pressed her body against the steel bollard, her chest heaving. Beside her, Varian gripped his pistol, though his head sagged briefly against the concrete. The wound along his temple bled more freely now, a ribbon tracing down his jaw.“Stay with me,” she whispered fiercely, her palm pressing against his chest as though contact alone could hold him upright.Across the street, Bram crouched low behind his SUV, rifle braced on the doorframe. His muzzle spat light with each burst, deliberate and punishing. He moved with the efficiency of a man who had lived in battle too long to flinch.“Ines!” he roared over the chaos.A sharp crack of tires answered him. Ines had swung back into the driver’s seat of Bram’s SUV. Instead of retreating, she

The hours after surgery folded into one another, stitched together by the steady beep of machines and the slow drip of IVs. The storm outside had not lifted; the windows still trembled under the push of wind, gray light seeping through blinds into the recovery ward.Wren had been given a box of supplies by Ms Pei—crayons worn to nubs, a stack of recycled paper, a roll of medical tape that stuck to everything but its target. She’d taken to the project with fierce concentration, her tongue caught between her teeth as she bent over the table.Liora watched her from the chair beside Varian’s bed, exhausted yet unable to close her eyes. She had stayed through every minute of his stillness, every flicker of the monitors. Now she watched her daughter, trying not to think of the way her heart had nearly torn itself apart when the bullet struck him.“What are you making?” she asked softly, brushing Wren’s hair out of her face.“A card.” Wren held it up, proud despite the shaky crayon lines. Th