Page 78 of Silent Oaths
Julianpushes off the counter, nodding toward the door. “Let’sgo.”
Maxwelldoesn’t follow.Instead, he lingers.Then, asIpass, his lips curl into a smirk. “Seeyou soon,Starling.”
Iignore the way my stomach flips at the name and slip out the door, followingJulianto his car.
Thedrive is silent.
Idon’t know if it’s becauseJulianisn’t in the mood to talk or if he can senseI’mstill unraveling.Eitherway,Idon’t try to break it.Instead,Istare out the window, gnawing on my nail, my nerves coiling tighter with every mile.
Wefinally pull into the underground garage.Themoment we cross the threshold, we’re swallowed by darkness.
Juliankills the engine, gets out, and starts walking.Ifollow, my heart hammering, my hands clammy.Ihave no idea what to expect today.
Westep into an elevator, andJulianpresses his finger on a scanner.Thedoors slide shut, and we ascend in silence.
WhenIstep out, expecting the familiar loungeI’veworked at for months now,Idon’t see theVanguardIknow.
Thefloors gleam under the recessed lighting.Thewalls are darker, the decor sleeker, richer.There’sno music, no casual chatter from the patronsI’vegrown used to serving.Everythingfeels more exclusive.
“Thisisn’t what you’re used to, huh,Siren?”
Ifreeze.
Theodoresteps forward, hands in his pockets, his deep gaze sinking into my bones.Ifeel him from the inside out.
Ishift on my feet, unsteady because of last night and everythingIshouldn’t feel but do.
Theodoresays, “Followme,” and all three of us head down a long hallway before stepping into an office.
Aheavy wooden desk dominates the center, its surface cluttered with stacks of papers, open books, and a single glass of dark liquor left untouched.
Theodoregestures to the room as he strides inside. “Thisis the patriarch’s office—my father’s old digs.”Hemoves toward the desk, resting a hand on a pile of documents. “Butit’s mine now.”
Hetaps a finger against the papers, nodding toward the mess. “That’sall the researchI’vebeen able to do since he died.”
Myfeet carry me toward him, andIlet my gaze drop to the neatly stacked pages peeking out from beneath the folders.
Cautiously,Ireach for one, hesitating for a fraction of a second before glancing at the brothers.Theodorenods.Juliandoesn’t say anything, just watching me.
Iflip it open.
Thefirst thingIsee is a series of articles fromTheBlackQuill, each one dating back nearly twenty years.Thereare headlines about unexplained disappearances, cryptic investigations, whispers of corruption buried between the lines of careful journalism.Butthen, further down, something catches my eye.
Sotelo.
Mystomach tightens asItrace the ink with my fingertips, my pulse picking up speed.
Juliansteps closer, peering over my shoulder. “Whatis it?”
“Irecognize this name.”
Ilook up at them.Apart of me hesitates to share this part of me, but if anyone would understand what it’s like to search for answers buried in shadows, it’s them.
“WhenIstarted looking for my parents, my research led me to theSotelofamily.”Ishake my head, staring back down at the article. “Inever knew my parents’ names, but whenIstarted digging,Ifound ties to theSotelofamily.Ijust don’t know whether it’s through my mother’s side or my father’s.”
Maxwellexhales sharply. “Well, shit.”Heappears out of nowhere, interrupting our conversation. “TheSotelofamily was apparently wiped out decades ago.Youthink you’re connected to them?”
“Ican’t be sure, butIhave a lot of documents at my place that go into detail about theSotelofamily.There’sdefinitely a connection.”
