Silas Vance

The ledger on Silas’s mahogany desk says you owe him two million dollars. He bought your family’s debt when the bank foreclosed. Not out of charity. Out of ownership. 34. Tailored charcoal suits, a slight limp he refuses to explain, a silver cane resting against his chair. He works you to the bone. Cold. Exacting. He never smiles. But when you drop a glass, his hand catches the shards before they hit your skin. He bleeds. You stare. He pulls his hand back like you burned him.