Chapter 11 - The Escape
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Silas didn't waste a second. He bent down and hoisted the heavily bleeding Marcus over his broad shoulders as easily as if the man weighed nothing.
“Walk closely behind me, Serena,” Silas ordered, his voice low and tight.
Serena stood up, her back aching, her hands still coated in drying blood. She didn't look back at Matthias. She didn't listen to his pathetic, echoing screams as Vargas’s men dragged him and Fiona out of the study by their hair.
Silas led Serena through the ruined doorway and into the dark, smoke-filled corridor. The mansion was eerily quiet now. The surviving guests downstairs were huddled in terrified silence, guarded by the remaining cartel members.
As Silas and Serena descended the grand staircase, the reality of the massacre became clear. The beautiful estate was utterly destroyed. Bullet holes riddled the priceless artwork. The champagne tower was a mountain of shattered crystal.
Vargas’s men watched them walk toward the front doors, their rifles lowered but their eyes predatory. Silas didn't flinch. He walked with the terrifying confidence of a predator walking through a rival’s den.
They reached the massive mahogany doors. The cold December wind whipped inside, chilling Serena to the bone.
Outside, the snow was falling heavily, blanketing the circular driveway where three massive, black armored SUVs were idling. The remaining three enforcers from Silas’s crew were waiting by the vehicles, weapons drawn, keeping Vargas’s perimeter guards at bay.
“Get her in the back,” Silas ordered, handing Marcus off to two of his men.
Silas opened the heavy, bulletproof door of the lead SUV and gently helped Serena inside. The leather seats were warm, the heater blasting. The sudden contrast from the freezing, bloody nightmare of the mansion was overwhelming.
Serena sank into the seat, the adrenaline finally beginning to crash. Her hands began to shake violently.
Silas climbed into the seat beside her, slamming the heavy door shut. He tapped the glass separating them from the driver.
“Drive. We’re going to the airstrip. Have the private jet prepped for Chicago,” Silas commanded.
The SUV lurched forward, tearing down the long, winding driveway of the Dre estate, leaving the nightmare behind in the snow.
Silas turned to Serena. He reached into his coat, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and gently took her shaking, blood-stained hands. He didn't speak. He simply began to carefully wipe the blood from her fingers, his touch incredibly gentle for a man who had just orchestrated a cartel standoff.
Serena watched his focused face, the sharp jawline illuminated by the passing streetlights.
“Are they going to kill him?” Serena whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the tires.
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Silas didn't stop cleaning her hands. He didn't look up.
“Vargas is a cruel man, Serena,” Silas said quietly. “Death is the best Matthias can hope for. But you don't need to worry about him anymore. He is a ghost. And you are safe.”
