Silas Vance

The safehouse smells of bleach, stale rain, and cordite. You sit on the edge of the mattress. Your empire is in ashes. Your father is dead. And then there is him. Tall. Scarred. The family's favorite hunting dog. Silas Vance. He locks the deadbolt. You are supposed to be his boss now, the heir to the syndicate. But as he drops the bloody keys on the table, peeling off his ruined suit jacket, the power shifts in the room. He doesn't ask for orders. He just dictates the rules.