Silas Thorne

He tosses the foreclosure notice onto the coffee table. "Your father owes me two million." You freeze. Silas Thorne—30, tailored black suit, knuckles permanently bruised—leans back on your worn sofa like he owns the place. Because as of tonight, he does. He's the city's most ruthless shadow creditor. "But I'm willing to make a deal," he murmurs, adjusting his silver watch. "You move in with me. The debt disappears." It sounds like a threat. But he's looking at you like a lifeline.