Chapter 4 - The Threat in the Fog
The peace of the mountain was an illusion.
In my world, silence usually meant someone was sharpening a knife.
The Valenti family had been quiet for too long.
They wanted the North Carolina routes, and they knew I was distracted.
They thought the "Queen of Burned Biscuits" was a weakness.
They were wrong.
It happened on a Tuesday, the air thick with a storm that promised to turn into ice.
I was in the basement, checking the security feeds.
Suddenly, the monitors flickered and died.
"Silas!" I called into my radio.
Static.
I pulled my 1911 from its holster and moved toward the stairs.
My heart wasn't beating for my business.
It was beating for the woman in the yellow raincoat.
I reached the kitchen, my movements a blur of practiced violence.
The back door was hanging off its hinges.
The cold mountain air was rushing in, carrying the scent of pine and gunpowder.
Evie was on the floor, her back against the refrigerator.
Two men in dark tactical gear were moving toward her.
One of them reached for her arm.
I didn't shout. I didn't warn them.
I fired twice.
The first man went down before he knew the room had a third occupant.
The second turned, raising a suppressed submachine gun.
I dove behind the marble island, the stone chipping as bullets sprayed the air.
"Evie! Stay down!" I roared.
I saw her crawl toward the pantry—the same place we had argued about the locket.
She didn't scream.
She didn't panic.
She grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack as she moved.
The second gunman was moving to flank me.
He stepped past the pantry door.
CLANG.
The sound of iron hitting a skull echoed through the kitchen.
The man crumbled like a sack of flour.
Evie stood over him, the skillet still raised, her face pale but her eyes blazing.
"Nobody," she panted, "messes with my kitchen."
I moved across the room and pulled her into my arms.
She was shaking, but she held onto me like I was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, my hands roaming over her face, her shoulders.
"I’m fine," she whispered. "Is it over?"
"Not yet."
I looked at the man she’d knocked out.
It was a professional hit.
The Valentis had sent their best, and they had failed.
"Silas! Perimeter is secure!" my head of security shouted as he burst into the room.
"They cut the lines at the gate. We found three more in the woods."
I looked at Silas, then back at Evie.
The realization hit me like a freight train.
I had almost lost her.
Not to the fog. Not to the past.
To my own life.
"Pack your bags," I said, my voice shaking.
Evie pulled back, her eyes wide. "What?"
"You’re leaving. It’s not safe here. I’ll send you to a house in Charleston. I’ll give you enough money to start ten restaurants."
She stared at me for a long beat.
Then, she did something I never expected.
She slapped me.
It wasn't a hard slap, but it stung more than the bullets.
"You think you can just ship me off like a crate of wilted lettuce?" she demanded.
"I just saved your life with a frying pan, Silas Vane!"
"I am not one of your soldiers. And I am not your dead wife."
"I am the woman who made you laugh."
"And I’m not going anywhere."
I looked at her—small, flour-dusted, and fiercer than any man I’d ever commanded.
I realized then that the cage I’d built wasn't just for me.
I had tried to put her in it to keep her safe.
But some birds were meant to fly through the storm.
"Fine," I said, leaning my forehead against hers.
May you like
"But you’re getting a bigger skillet."
***
