Silas Ramsbottom Novels & Stories

In the perilous terrain of their world, Silas was a chameleon, a man who played both sides, and a survivor, as Vlad had always known. However, this... this implied something much deeper. Silas wanted to carry on Don Romano's legacy, but he was more than just a traditionalist. He was actively working with the Mercanti, the Romano family's sworn enemies and the group largely to blame for the mayhem that had engulfed their world. His goals were not only to bring about Aurora's downfall but also to bring about a significant change in power that appeared to favor the Mercanti family over the Romano family and even the old regime loyalists.

It was a man in tattered charcoal robes, his face hidden by an ivory raven mask that was cracked down the middle. Silas. He had escaped the North. He had survived the collapse of the Spire, and he had followed us through the Forbidden Forest. But he didn’t look like the confident architect of agony I remembered. He looked like a man who had seen the end of the world and realized he was on the wrong side of it.

His eyes held Ramirez’s in cold battle. “Seems like you are taking from experience, Ramirez,” Silas said with the same mocking tone. “Instincts, Anderson. And who is this? Your date?” Ramirez instantly sensed my presence or he purposely did that to spike Silas. He extended his hand in mock courtesy. “Sheikh Ramirez,” I hesitated but tried to not look intimidated by him and shook his hand. Silas’s hand around my waist instantly turned stone as he glared at the man in front. “Sadie Quintin,” I was so stunned by Silas’s touch that my voice sounded unstable.

a voice crackled through the intercom on the lift. I looked down. Silas was standing on the secondary platform twenty feet below me, looking like a man who had finally found his natural habitat. He wasn't the "Wall Street Wraith" in a three-piece charcoal suit today. He was wearing dark denim, heavy work boots, and a black thermal shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was holding a digital tablet, but he wasn't looking at stock tickers. He was looking at the architectural light-mapping of my mural.

Silas smiled softly and dismissed her with his request. “If the GMD is not busy, I would like to see him.” Suddenly, the intercom buzzed and Brent picked. “What does Silas want?” Evans inquired. “He wished to see you, Sir.” “Let him in.” Silas walked in with his moody face and the GMD offered him a seat and inquired, “What troubles you, Silas?” He heaved before he narrated what he witnessed at Bruno's house and concluded with, “I don't believe that he is such an irresponsible man.”

Everything organized like a craftsman’s workspace. Silas stood behind me, his presence overwhelming. He was tall, broad-shouldered, late thirties, with quiet, terrifying stillness. Short dark hair, sharp jaw, and eyes so black they seemed to absorb light. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His silence was enough. “Strip,” he said simply. My hands shook as I reached for the thin straps of the dress. “Please… I didn’t see anything important. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.”