Chapter 2
Marcus Quintana’s smile is as sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. He extends his hand toward me with the practiced grace of a man who’s never met a situation he couldn’t manipulate to his advantage.
Honestly, I both respect and admire that. I even want that for myself.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says, though we both know that’s a lie. “Marcus Quintana. I handle the… business operations for the club.”
I shake his hand, noting the calluses hidden beneath his manicured exterior and the way his fingers linger just a fraction too long. “Sally Upton,” I reply, using the name on my fake ID. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”
“Any friend of Ghost’s is welcome here.” His dark eyes flick toward where medics are helping Axel to his feet.
I follow his gaze. The fighter looks dazed but alert, and when he catches me watching, he has the audacity to flash me a grin that’s equal parts impressed and intrigued.
He lifts his chin toward me, but if I have to guess, he’s already thinking about what he would do next time if we’re in a ring together again.
Honestly, the fighter isn’t just dangerous. He’s fascinating, and now I have his attention.
Dom shifts beside me, his presence as solid and protective as a brick wall. “Marcus, maybe we could—”
“Of course.” Marcus’s interruption is smooth as aged whiskey. “Ms. Upton, would you care to join me in my office? I’m sure you’re interested in discussing your… future prospects here at the Obsidian.”
The invitation isn’t really a request. I can feel the weight of attention from the VIP section above, and I’m betting Kieran Frost is very interested in whatever conversation is about to unfold.
“Lead the way,” I say easily, ignoring the warning look Dom shoots me.
Marcus looks Dom up and down as if to remind the former underground fighting champion of his place—overseeing security for the Obsidian Syndicate’s fight clubs—which means he has no business following us.
Dom reluctantly concedes, and I walk a step behind Marcus.
His office is accessed through a discrete door behind the bar, up a narrow staircase that leads to the club’s administrative heart.
The space is surprisingly sophisticated—all clean lines, expensive electronics, and abstract art that probably costs more than most people make in a year.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a perfect view of the main floor below, and I spot at least three different security cameras positioned to capture every angle.
“Impressive setup,” I comment, trailing my fingers along the edge of his massive desk. “Very… comprehensive.”
“I believe in being thorough.” He moves to a well-stocked bar cart and pours two glasses of amber liquid. “Macallan 25. Your father’s favorite, if memory serves.”
The casual mention of Vincent Blackwood feels deliberate, but I keep my expression neutral. “I wouldn’t know. I’m more of a beer girl.”
“Hmm.” Marcus offers me one of the glasses anyway. “Funny thing about memories. They have a way of surfacing when we least expect them.”
I accept the whiskey but don’t drink. Instead, I move to the window overlooking the fight club, watching as the crew cleans Ghost’s blood from the canvas. “Philosophical for a businessman.”
“I find philosophy useful in my line of work. For instance, there’s an old saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’“ His reflection appears beside mine in the glass. “But that assumes you know who your real enemies are.”
He’s testing me. I refuse to meet his gaze as I counter with, “And if you don’t?”
“Then you’re probably about to make some very expensive mistakes.”
I turn to face him fully, noting how he’s positioned himself between me and the door. Not blocking my exit, exactly, but making his presence impossible to ignore. “Sounds like you have something specific in mind.”
Marcus takes a measured sip of his whiskey, never breaking eye contact. “Raven Blackwood was eighteen when she disappeared. Officially, she died in the same attack that claimed her father’s life. Unfortunately, bodies were never recovered.”
My pulse spikes, but I force myself to remain calm. “Tragic story. I’m sure her family mourned her loss.”
“I’m sure they did. Especially Dominic Vega, who blamed himself for failing to protect Vincent’s little girl.” He sets his glass down with deliberate precision. “He’s never quite gotten over the guilt.”
Dom’s guilt. Something sharp twists in my chest, but I push the feeling away and focus on the game Marcus is playing. “Why are you telling me this? And why do you think—”
“Because dead girls don’t usually fight like they’ve been training with military contractors for five years.
Dead girls don’t carry custom switchblades or move through crowds like they’re cataloging every exit and potential weapon.
” His smile turns predatory. “And dead girls definitely don’t have amber eyes that change color when they’re angry. ”
Shit. I know he called me by name already, but I hoped to convince him he had been mistake, but no. I’ve been made, completely and thoroughly. My eyes are an unusual color, but they tend to be too dry for me to wear colored contact lenses, especially when I’m fighting. Can’t take the risk.
For the most part, though, instead of panic, I feel relief. Playing pretend was exhausting anyway.
“So what happens now?” I ask, setting my untouched whiskey on his desk. “Do you call security? Turn me over to the Sterlings for the bounty I’m sure they’ve placed on my head?”
“That would be the smart play,” Marcus agrees. “Vincent’s daughter returning from the dead is the kind of news that could destabilize the entire power structure we’ve spent five years building.”
“But?”
“But I’ve always found chaos more profitable than stability.” He moves close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne and see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. “The question is… what do you want, Raven Blackwood?”
His smooth voice saying my real name sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
This close, I can see that Marcus Quintana is more dangerous than his refined exterior suggests.
There’s something predatory in the way he watches me, like he’s solving a complex equation and I’m the variable he can’t quite pin down.
“I want what was stolen from me,” I say simply.
“Your father’s empire.”
“Everything.” I almost spit out the word. “Every territory, every business, every connection. I want it all back.”
Marcus nods slowly, as if my declaration makes perfect sense. “Ambitious. Also nearly impossible. The Sterlings and Kowalskis have divided your father’s holdings between them. They’re not going to simply hand everything back because Vincent’s daughter asks nicely.”
My grin is all teeth. “Who said anything about asking nicely?”
Something flickers in his expression—approval, maybe, or recognition of a kindred spirit. “War, then. Against two of the most powerful crime families in the city.”
I shrug one shoulder. “If that’s what it takes.”
“It is.” He reaches past me to adjust something on his desk, and the movement brings him close enough that I can feel his body heat. “But you’ll need allies. Resources. Information.”
I lift my chin. “Are you offering?”
“I’m considering it.” His fingers brush against mine as he straightens, the contact electric and brief. “What are you willing to offer in return?”
Before I can answer, the office door bursts open and Dom storms in like an approaching thunderstorm. His dark eyes take in the intimate distance between Marcus and me, and his jaw tightens with barely controlled violence.
“Time’s up,” he growls, moving toward us with predatory intent. “Sally, we’re leaving. Now.”
Interesting. He has to know that Marcus recognizes me, yet Dom’s using my fake name. He won’t risk blowing my cover. He’s watching over me even now. Not that I need him to, of course, but his loyalties haven’t changed, which I most certainly appreciate.
“I don’t think the lady was finished with our conversation,” Marcus says mildly, but I notice he doesn’t back away from Dom’s intimidating approach.
“The lady can speak for herself,” I interject before Dom can respond. The testosterone in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife, and I’m not in the mood to play mediator between two alpha males marking territory.
Dom’s attention snaps to me, and I see hurt flash across his features before he locks it away behind his professional mask. “Fine. Then tell me you’re not seriously considering whatever deal he’s proposing.”
“I’m considering all my options.”
“Your options?” Dom steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Your option should be getting the hell out of this city before someone puts a bullet in your head. Just like they did to your father.”
My temper spikes. So much for his trying to conceal who I am.
“Don’t you dare use his death to try to control me,” I snap.
“Control you?” Dom’s laugh is bitter and raw. “I’m trying to keep you alive, just like I promised him I would.”
Of course my father would procure that from Dom.
The confession hangs in the air between us as I stare at him, seeing past the enforcer’s mask to the man underneath—the one who taught me how to fight, who gave me a head start, who probably hasn’t slept well since the night he failed to save Vincent Blackwood.
“He asked you to protect me,” I say quietly.
“He asked me to protect his daughter. The innocent girl who collected vintage fight posters and spoke three languages and had never killed anyone.” Dom’s voice drops to a whisper. “But that girl died the night he did, didn’t she?”
The accuracy of his observation steals my breath. He’s right. The Raven who fled this city five years ago was soft around the edges, sheltered despite her dangerous upbringing. The woman who returned is carved from sharper material, honed by years of training and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.
“Yes,” I admit. “She did.”