9. The Man Beneath The Mask
9
THE MAN BENEATH THE MASK
~MASKED REAPER~
T he engine of my Ducati Panigale V4R purrs beneath me as I cut through the estates district, a crimson beast weaving between luxury vehicles with surgical precision.
The sensation of raw power between my legs is almost enough to make me forget where I'm headed—almost, but not quite.
I hate these mandatory check-ins.
As the wrought iron gates of the estate come into view, I downshift, letting the bike's growl announce my arrival before the security cameras can. The gates swing open without hesitation—they know better than to keep me waiting.
The driveway stretches ahead, immaculate white gravel crunching beneath my tires as I approach the mansion that looms against the skyline like a monument to excess and power.
Three stories of gleaming windows and pristine stonework, surrounded by manicured gardens that would make European royalty envious.
Pretentious as fuck.
I bring the bike to a stop at the base of the marble steps, the engine's roar cutting to silence as I kill the ignition. For a moment, I just sit there, savoring these last seconds of freedom before I have to step back into the world I've spent years trying to escape.
The valet appears at my side—a young Beta with nervous eyes who's been trained to expect my arrival.
"Mr. Rook," he says, his voice carefully neutral.
I swing my leg over the bike, standing to my full height. The kid takes an instinctive step back— they always do. Even without the reputation, there's something about my presence that puts people on edge.
Good.
I take my time removing my helmet, shaking out hair that's grown too long since my last visit. The valet's eyes widen slightly, though whether at the mask I still wear or the scars visible at the edges of it, I couldn't say.
With deliberate carelessness, I toss the vintage keys in his direction. He scrambles to catch them, nearly dropping them in his haste.
"Not a scratch," I say, the warning clear in my tone.
The bike is worth more than he'll make in five years. We both know it. The Ducati isn't just transportation—it's a statement, a reminder that while I might choose to live in the rotting sectors of Dead Knot, it's exactly that: a choice.
Not a necessity.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the way my boots leave dirt on the pristine marble. The security detail flanking the massive double doors straighten as I approach, their hands instinctively moving toward concealed weapons before recognition sets in.
They bow—a slight incline of the head that acknowledges both my position and the danger I represent. The doors swing open before I reach them, as if by magic rather than the servants stationed just inside.
Fucking theatrical.
The foyer is exactly as I remember it—soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, artwork worth more than most people's lives displayed with casual arrogance. The air smells of furniture polish and old money, stale despite the open windows.
I suppress a grimace, already missing the comforting scents of gun oil and Venom that permeate my own space. Her lingering presence would be more welcome than all this sterile opulence.
She'd probably steal half the artwork just to make a point.
The thought brings an unexpected smile to my lips, hidden beneath the crimson mask that's become as much a part of me as my own skin.
I head for the grand staircase, boots echoing on the marble floors. I'm halfway to the first landing when a voice cuts through the silence like a serrated blade.
"Now Rook, if you don't take that silly mask off your face like you're some type of burn victim..."
Magda.
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck in the back of my head. The elderly maid stands in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed over her chest like an immovable force of nature. At seventy-something years old, she's a living relic of Marcus's family history—a woman who's seen empires rise and fall from within these very walls.
She's also the only person in this house, apart from my pack, who speaks to me like I'm still the scrawny fourteen-year-old she caught stealing from the pantry fifteen years ago.
"Hey Mags," I offer reluctantly, knowing that ignoring her is a death sentence in slow motion. The old woman might look frail, but I've seen her take down men twice my size with nothing but a wooden spoon and the sheer force of her disapproval.
I don't need the warning of my instincts to duck as a slipper sails through the air where my head had been a moment before.
The chancla— as she calls it —hits the wall with a sharp crack before falling to the floor.
"Show some damn respect and take that stupid mask off," she barks, already reaching for her other slipper.
"Later, Mags," I call over my shoulder, taking the remaining stairs at a sprint before she can reload. Her cursing follows me down the corridor—a mix of English, Spanish, and what I suspect might be ancient Sumerian, given the way it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I navigate the mansion's east wing with practiced familiarity, heading for the only place in this gilded cage where I might find some peace: Marcus's office.
Not even Magda would dare interrupt him there.
The perks of being the alpha of alphas.
The heavy oak door is already ajar when I reach it, voices drifting from within. I push it open without knocking—one of the privileges of pack status that I exercise as often as possible.
The office is a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion. Where the other rooms are designed to impress visitors with their opulence, this space exists solely for function. Dark wood paneling, walls lined with books that have actually been read, not just displayed. A massive desk dominates one end, covered in maps and files rather than ornaments.
And hanging from the ceiling like some deranged bat is Knox.
He's suspended upside down from what appears to be a hastily installed gymnastics bar, his legs hooked over it as he plays a handheld game console. The Nintendo Switch 2 beeps and boops as his fingers fly over the controls, his expression one of intense concentration despite his ridiculous position.
Fucking tech gremlin.
"You should listen to the old hag," Knox says without looking up from his game. "You'll live longer."
I kick the door shut behind me, tossing my jacket onto a nearby chair. "If I wanted life advice from a rodent, I'd visit a pet store."
Knox snorts, still focused on his game.
"Is that why you spend so much time in Dead Knot's sewers? Looking for wisdom from your rat brethren?"
"Better company than what I find here," I retort, dropping onto the leather sofa that occupies the center of the room. The cushions release a soft cloud of dust—evidence that housekeeping doesn't venture in here often. "At least rats are honest about being vermin."
Knox finally looks up from his game, his mismatched eyes—one green, one pale blue—narrowing with amusement.
"Someone's grumpier than usual. What's wrong? Your little venom trap not satisfying you anymore?"
My hand twitches toward the knife at my belt before I can stop myself.
Knox notices— he always does —and his grin widens.
"Oh ho! Struck a nerve, did I?" He swings effortlessly, releasing his legs from the bar and landing on his feet with cat-like grace. Despite being the smallest of our pack, he moves with a predator's efficiency. "The great and terrible Viper, brought low by an Omega's?—"
"Finish that sentence," I growl, "and they'll need dental records to identify your body."
Knox throws his head back and laughs—a sound that's always reminded me of broken glass being crushed underfoot.
"As if you could catch me. I'd have your systems fried and your reputation in tatters before you cleared the door."
It's an old argument, familiar in its rhythms.
Knox—th e technological wizard whose fingers can hack any system, break any code.
Me— the enforcer, the weapon, the physical manifestation of our pack's reach.
We're opposite sides of the same blood-soaked coin.
"Children," a deep voice rumbles from the doorway to the adjacent room. "Play nice."
We both turn to see Bastian leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his massive chest. At six-foot-seven, he dwarfs even me, his frame packed with the kind of muscle that comes from a lifetime of violence rather than gym workouts.
"He started it," Knox says, pointing at me with his game controller.
Bastian's scarred face shifts into what might generously be called a smile.
"And I'll finish it if you wake Marcus. He's been on calls with the Eastern territories all night."
I grunt, acknowledging the warning. Marcus's temper is legendary, particularly when his sleep is disturbed.
"How bad is it?"
Bastian pushes off from the doorframe, moving to the bar cart tucked in the corner. The crystal decanters look absurdly delicate in his massive hands as he pours three fingers of whiskey into a tumbler.
"Bad enough that the Triads are making noise," he says, taking a sip before passing the glass to me. "Territory disputes in sectors we thought were secure."
"Let me guess," Knox interjects, dropping onto a nearby chair and propping his feet on an antique table worth more than most cars. "The Prescott faction is behind it."
Bastian's silence is answer enough.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light play through it. The Prescotts have been a thorn in our side for generations—old money mixed with new brutality, a combination that's proven difficult to eradicate.
Especially when the government shields them.
"When does Marcus want to move?" I ask, downing the whiskey in one swallow. The burn is familiar, grounding.
"That's what tonight's meeting is about," Bastian says, pouring himself a drink. "Plans have... accelerated."
Knox sits forward, suddenly serious.
"Because of the girl?"
My head snaps up, tension coiling through my muscles.
"What girl?"
The look that passes between Knox and Bastian sends a chill down my spine—a feat, considering my usual temperature runs somewhere between 'ice cold' and 'dead inside.'
"Your girl," Knox says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Or should I say, Jessica Vesper Calavera."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Not Venom—the identity she's cultivated within Dead Knot's walls. Her real name. The name of a ghost.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demand, setting the glass down with enough force that it cracks.
Bastian sighs, shooting Knox a look that clearly says 'now you've done it.'
"We were going to wait for Marcus to explain?—"
"Explain what?" I'm on my feet now, the mask suddenly suffocating. "How do you know that name? What does she have to do with any of this?"
Knox, for once, looks uncertain.
"You really don't know, do you? You've been fucking her for, what, almost a year? And you never bothered to figure out who she really is?"
The room seems to tilt, the floor unsteady beneath my feet. I've never asked for her real name, never pried into her past. Our arrangement has always been built on the present—on mutual need and the understanding that what happens in Dead Knot stays there.
"She's dead," I say flatly. "Jessica Calavera died six years ago. Everyone knows that."
"Did she?" Knox asks softly. "Or did someone want the world to think she did?"
Before I can respond, a door at the far end of the office opens.
Marcus enters, his presence immediately commanding the room despite his casual attire. At forty-five, he carries his age with the confidence of a man who's survived things that would have killed most. Silver threads through his dark hair, and the lines around his eyes speak of burdens I can only imagine.
His gaze finds mine immediately, holds it. There's something in his expression—concern? Pity? Either would be unprecedented.
"Rook," he says, his voice carrying the slight rasp that comes from decades of expensive cigars. "Take off the mask. We need to talk."
It's not a request, despite the gentle delivery.
Marcus doesn't make requests— he issues commands and expects them to be followed. Fifteen years under his leadership has taught me the cost of defiance.
For a moment, I consider it anyway.
Consider turning on my heel, walking out, returning to the only place that's felt like a sanctuary in years.
To Venom—or Jessica, or whoever the hell she really is.
But that's not how this works. Not how we work.
I reach up, fingers finding the edges of the crimson leather that's become my identity. With a single, fluid motion, I pull it away, exposing my face to the three men who already know every scar, every line, every secret it holds.
"Rook," Marcus says, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Good to have you around."
I meet his gaze, unflinching despite the vulnerability I always feel without the mask's protection.
"What the fuck is going on, Marcus? What does Venom have to do with the Prescotts?"
Marcus's expression darkens, the shadows in his eyes deepening.
"Everything," he says simply. "She has everything to do with them. Just as she has everything to do with us."
He gestures toward the inner office, the sanctum where our most sensitive operations are planned.
"Come. It's time you learned exactly who you've been protecting all these months."
As I follow him into the room, I can't shake the feeling that whatever awaits me there will change everything—not just about my understanding of Venom, but about my role in whatever game Marcus has been playing all along.
And I've never liked being a pawn.