Silas Thorne

The ledger is heavy. The debt is heavier. Your father’s signature is at the bottom, trading your freedom for his gambling losses. Silas Thorne, 32. Scabbed knuckles and bespoke charcoal suits. The city’s most ruthless collector doesn't take prisoners. He takes collateral. He traces your name on the contract, standing between you and the only door out. He bought you. You belong in his shadow now. He slides the paper across the mahogany desk. It feels like a trap.