Chapter 2: The Mark of Truth
The guards didn't stop. They didn't care. They shoved her toward the exit, their faces set in stone. As they yanked on the collar of her frayed, oversized military jacket to haul her back, the fabric tore. The rough canvas ripped away, exposing the pale skin of her neck.
And there, stark against the grime of her travel-worn skin, was a small, crescent-shaped birthmark.
The room, which had been buzzing with the low hum of business, went deathly silent.
Silas Vance, the man who had ordered the assassination of his own rivals with a flick of his wrist, stopped breathing. The cigar he had been holding slipped from his fingers, landing unnoticed on the table. He stood up so quickly his chair toppled backward, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.
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"Stop," he whispered. The word wasn't a shout, but it carried the authority of an earthquake.
The guards froze, confused. They looked at the girl, then at their boss. Silas wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the girl’s neck with eyes that were suddenly, violently wet.
