Page 140 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I know their type. I've fought against people like them enough times to spot the pattern a mile away. And I’m not the kind of guy who waits around for problems to land on my doorstep.
So, I dig.
Not just surface-level social media stalking or public records. I dig deep. Offshore accounts, sealed court records, NDAs buried under layers of shell companies.
By the time I'm finished, I know more about Dom and Heather than they probably know about themselves.
Dom’s financials are a fucking mess. He’s been bleeding money for years—gambling debts he couldn’t cover, personal loans from less-than-legitimate sources. Worse, he’s been siphoning money from his family’s business to cover his lifestyle.
Sloppy. Greedy. Desperate. The holy trinity of bad decisions.
And Heather? She’s been busy too. Cozying up to investors, flipping shady real estate deals under fake LLCs, getting herself tangled in fraud allegations that are one stiff breeze away from blowing her whole fake empire to pieces.
Perfect.
I set up the meeting the same way men like Dom prefer—public enough to keep him from pulling anything stupid, private enough that no one will notice when I gut him with words alone.
He shows up at the bar right on time, dressed the part in a too-expensive suit meant to project success instead of desperation. I’m already at the back corner table, nursing a whiskey, waiting.
His eyes flick around the room as he approaches, nerves telegraphed in the way he rolls his shoulders back too hard. He’s trying to convince himself he’s still in control.
He’s not.
"Silas," he says smoothly, sliding into the seat across from me like this is just another business meeting.
I smile. Slow. Easy. A warning hidden under the charm.
"Dom."
I let him squirm for a minute, pretending to scroll on my phone. Then I set it down, pull out the slim leather folder I brought with me, and slide it across the table.
"Go ahead," I say lightly. "Take a look."
He hesitates. That alone is telling. A guilty man always knows when the trap is baited for him.
Finally, he flips it open. Page after page of his own sins are laid out in black and white—bank statements, wire transfers, property records, screenshots of off-the-books deals.
I watch the color drain from his face. Watch the way his throat bobs on a hard swallow.
"You’re fucked," I say casually, tipping my glass toward him. "And that’s the polite version."
Dom tries for a recovery, setting his jaw. "You can’t prove half of that."
"Maybe," I admit, flashing a grin. "But do you really want to bet your freedom on whether a jury believes you?"
I lean in, dropping the smile, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
"You have two options," I say, each word sharp enough to cut. "Option one: you walk away from Sebastian. From Genevieve. From all of us. You disappear. You stay the fuck out of our lives. Option two..." I sit back, letting it hang there for a second. "I bury you. Publicly. Professionally. Personally. I will rip your life apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but your fucking skeleton."
His hands tremble slightly as he flips another page, confirming everything he already knows is true.
I let the silence stretch between us. Let him start to drown in it.
Finally, Dom clears his throat, trying and failing to hide the shake in his voice. "I see your point."
"Good talk," I say breezily, standing up to leave. "Let’s not have another one."
I walk out without looking back.
