Page 76 of Scarred in Silence

I stare through the observation glass at Silas’s trembling form. The guilt inside of me gnaws to the surface, like rats. Astra’s cries. Her eyes. My hands.

I’m tearing the world apart to fix what I broke. To give her back the fire I stole.

If it means burning every club, every brother, every memory—so be it.

The lights buzz. Silas whimpers. Dante’s phone buzzes again—Evelyn.

“Answer her,” I mutter. “Tell her we’re coming home.”

He steps into the hall. I stay, watching the man in chains.

I change my focus to my phone, checking the cameras at my house. Astra sleeps in my bed—quiet, breathing, broken.

But tomorrow she’ll wake. And when she does, the world will be cleaner. Or redder.

Either way, she’s mine.

Mrs. Crowe.

30

Lucien

Dante kills the engine outside Club Muse’s back lot, headlights dead, city glow smoldering in the distance. A violent silence hangs between us—thick with the promise of ruin.

I drum my fingers on my thigh.

“Fifteen minutes, in and out.”

Dante smirks, “Twelve.”

We slip out of the Mercedes, moving like shadows. The guard Silas posted at the freight door in the back is new; wiry, twitchy, high on whatever powder they feed their rats. He never hears Dante’s steps. The butt of Dante’s pistol kisses the guard’s temple—softthunk, goodnight. I drag the body into a dumpster and close the lid with a whisper-soft clang.

Then I text Ronan. He will come to retrieve the body and take it to Dr. Marlowe.

Past the loading bay is a narrow service corridor that reeks of bleach and acrid citrus cleaner. Silas’s office sits at the end—No cameras here; he likes plausible deniability. Dante picks the lock with a slim bar. Two seconds—the door pops.

We enter.

Mahogany desk, velvet armchairs, a chrome bar cart loaded with top-shelf sin. The safe is exactly where Silas described: recessed behind a false panel, disguised with gold filigree. Dante pries the panel free and types the four-digit code—4-8-0-6. Click. Heavy steel creaks open wide.

Inside:

-Black bio-metric lock box, palm-print scanner gleaming.

-Two stacks of euros, shrink-wrapped.

-A branded silver USB drive, skull motif, chain dangling.

-A leather-bound file ledger—old-school, blood-red.

I pocket the USB. Dante snatches the cash and ledger, shoves them in a duffle. He lifts the lock box.

“Grab the scanner, too.”

I rip the portable fingerprint module from its mount. The plastic cracks. Good.

Dante’s phone buzzes once—Evelyn’s ringtone. He silences it without looking.