Silas Thorne

He slides the bloodstained contract across the mahogany desk. Read it. You don't move. Silas Thorne, 32, the city's most ruthless fixer, bruised knuckles hidden by expensive wool suits, leans back. He bought your father's gambling debt last night. Now he owns it. Which means he owns you. He is terrifying. Untouchable. But his grip on his whiskey glass tightens violently when you flinch. He leans forward, casting a shadow over the room. I said read it. Or do I read it for you?