Chapter 5
Looking around me, I quickly decide that my next step needs to be negotiating entry into the inner circle, and my best bet to do that is through Marcus.
It doesn’t find me long at all to find the man. He’s roughly six feet tall, maybe thirty, thirty-one. He notes my gaze, and I tilt my head toward his office. He nods.
This time, he doesn’t direct me to the staircase.
The private elevator to Marcus’s office feels like ascending into the mouth of a beautifully appointed hell.
The polished steel doors reflect my face back at me in fragments—amber eyes bright with adrenaline, split lip from the fight, and harder features than the ones I had five years ago.
“Second thoughts?” Marcus asks quietly, his cultured voice cutting through the elevator’s mechanical hum.
“Always,” I admit, “but second thoughts are a luxury I can’t afford right now.”
“Honesty. How refreshing.” His reflection meets mine in the steel doors. “Most people in our line of work prefer comfortable lies.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, “you’re decidedly not.”
The doors slide open to reveal his office bathed in soft amber lighting.
It’s even more impressive the second time around—all clean lines and expensive technology, with those floor-to-ceiling windows offering a perfect view of the chaos below.
But now I notice details I missed before: the subtle reinforcement in the walls, the discrete security cameras positioned to capture every angle, and most importantly, the way every piece of furniture is positioned to give Marcus tactical advantages in any conversation.
This isn’t just an office. It’s a command center.
“Drink?” he offers, moving to that well-stocked bar cart with practiced ease. “I have everything from top-shelf whiskey to something that won’t knock you unconscious if you’re worried about being drugged.”
“Paranoid much?”
“Alive much,” he counters with a smile that’s all edges. “In our world, the two tend to go hand in hand. I’m afraid I don’t generally keep beer here.”
Ah, he remembered my comment. I almost forgot I slipped him that nugget of truth.
I settle into one of the leather chairs positioned to face his desk, noting that it gives me a clear view of both the door and the windows while keeping my back to a solid wall. “Smart setup you have here.”
“Thank you. I believe in being prepared for all possibilities.
“He pours two glasses of something amber and most likely expensive, offering me one before taking the chair across from me rather than behind his desk. A gesture of equality or at least the pretense of it. “Including the possibility that Vincent Blackwood’s daughter might one day return from the dead seeking revenge.”
I accept the glass and study the way the liquid catches the light. I don’t only drink beer, but when I’m dealing with high-powered men, I won’t dare take a single sip. I need to remain sharp.
“How long have you known who I am?” I ask.
“From the moment you walked through those doors.” His dark eyes are steady on mine, and I can practically see the gears turning behind them. “Facial recognition software is remarkably advanced these days, even when accounting for five years of growth and trauma-induced changes.”
“‘Trauma-induced changes.’” I repeat the clinical phrase with bitter amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer? Weapons-grade metamorphosis? Evolution through violence?” He takes a measured sip of his drink. “The terminology doesn’t change the reality. You’re not the same person who fled this city five years ago.”
“No, I’m not. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing…”
Maybe one sip won’t hurt.
I finally taste the whiskey—smooth and expensive, with an edge that burns just enough to remind me where I am.
“From my perspective? Exceptionally good.” He lifts his glass toward me.
“The sheltered princess wouldn’t have survived five minutes in the world you’re trying to enter, but the weapon you’ve made yourself…
” He pauses, letting his gaze travel over me with calculated assessment. “That has potential.”
“Potential for what?”
“Change. Disruption. Profit.” His smile turns predatory. “The current power structure in this city has been stable for five years. Stability breeds complacency, and complacency creates opportunities for those smart enough to exploit them.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him over the rim of my glass. “You want to use me to destabilize the balance of power.”
“I want to offer you the resources to destabilize it yourself. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“All the difference in the world. One makes you a pawn. The other makes you a player.” He sets his glass down with deliberate precision. “Which do you want to be?”
The offer hangs between us like bait on a hook, tempting and dangerous. “And what exactly are you offering?”
“Information. Access. Protection when necessary, though I suspect you’ll rarely need it.
” Marcus rises and moves to the windows, gazing down at the fight club below where another battle is reaching its bloody conclusion.
“The inner circle of this organization sees everything that happens in the city’s underworld.
Money flows, territory disputes, personnel changes…
we know about it all before it becomes public knowledge. ”
My stomach twists into a knot. I know precisely what he’s hinting at.
“Including information about my father’s death.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing more desperation than I intended.
Marcus doesn’t pounce on the weakness. Instead, he turns back to me with something that might be sympathy in his dark eyes. “Especially information about your father’s death.”
My pulse spikes dangerously. “What do you know?”
“More than you’d expect. Less than you need.
” He returns to his chair, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a confidence.
“Vincent Blackwood’s murder wasn’t the simple territory grab everyone believes it to be.
There were… complications. Betrayals within betrayals.
The kind of chess moves that take years to fully appreciate. ”
“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what happened.”
“It’s not that simple. Information like this comes with a price, and that price isn’t something I can ask for lightly.” His gaze is steady on mine, evaluating. “Are you prepared to pay it?”
“That depends on what you’re asking for.”
Marcus is quiet for a long moment, and I can practically see him calculating odds and outcomes behind those intelligent eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more personal than the polished businessman persona he usually projects.
“I want you to trust me.”
The request is so unexpected, so fundamentally intimate, that it steals my breath for a moment. “Trust you?”
“Completely. Implicitly. The kind of trust that requires you to put your life in my hands and believe I’ll protect it even when logic suggests otherwise.” He leans back, but his attention never wavers from my face. “That level of trust is… rare in our world. It’s infinitely valuable.”
No way in hell.
“Why would you want that from me?” I ask, pretending I’m considering this.
“Because,” he says simply, “you’re the most interesting thing to happen in this city in five years, and I have a weakness for interesting things.”
I study his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the angle he’s playing, but all I see is intelligence, calculation, and something that might be genuine attraction to the puzzle I represent.
“Trust isn’t something I give easily anymore,” I admit.
“I wouldn’t expect it to be, but I’m not asking for it immediately. I’m asking for the chance to earn it.” He retrieves a tablet from his desk and slides it across to me. “Consider this a down payment on good faith.”
The screen shows a series of photographs and documents, but one image immediately captures my attention: my father, alive and vibrant, shaking hands with a man I don’t recognize in what appears to be a private meeting.
“These were taken three days before Vincent’s death,” Marcus explains. “The man he’s meeting with is Jacek Kowalski, the younger brother of the current Kowalski family head.”
My blood turns to ice. This doesn’t make any sense to me. Yes, the family turned a bit opportunistic after my father was killed, but I never thought…
“The Kowalskis were involved?” I blurt out.
“More than involved. Jacek was the one who provided the intelligence that made the assassination possible. Security schedules, personnel rotations, even the location of your father’s safe room.
” Marcus’s voice is clinical, detached, but I can see the calculation in his eyes as he watches my reaction.
“He was Vincent’s most trusted lieutenant, and he sold him out for a promotion in the new order. ”
Jacek Kowalski. He wasn’t a blood relation, but that didn’t stop me from calling him Uncle Jacek.
He taught me to play chess and brought me books from his travels.
He had been at every birthday party, every family dinner, every important moment of my childhood.
He held me while I cried when Bruno, my St. Bernard, died and promised my father he’d always keep me safe.
He lied with every hug, every birthday gift, every bedtime story. He sat at our dinner table while planning my father’s murder. And I never saw it. I trusted him. I loved him. I would have died for him.
“You’re lying.”
“I have video footage of the meeting if you need additional proof. Audio recordings of the conversations. Financial records showing the payments.” Marcus’s expression is gentle but implacable.
“I know this is difficult to process, but Jacek Kowalski orchestrated your father’s murder from the inside. ”
“Why?” The word comes out broken, raw with years of suppressed grief and rage. “Why would he do that?”
“Because your father was planning to retire. He wanted to legitimize his operations and leave the criminal world behind.” Marcus reaches across to touch my hand, the contact surprisingly warm.
“ Jacek had spent twenty years building his position in Vincent’s organization.
He wasn’t about to watch it all disappear because his boss developed a conscience. ”
The pieces click into place with horrible clarity. My father’s increasing distance in the months before his death. The long conversations behind closed doors. The way he’d look at me sometimes, like he was memorizing my face for a future where he might not see it again.
He’d been planning to get out for me.
Mom died almost two years to the day before my father had been murdered. A heart attack in her sleep. So peaceful.
I wonder if her death is why he thought about changing things. He seemed so content before then, happy even.
“There’s more,” Marcus says quietly, “but that’s enough truth for one night. The rest will come when you’re ready to hear it.”
Fuck it. I drain my whiskey in one burning gulp, using the fire in my throat to anchor myself against the emotional tsunami threatening to sweep me away. “What exactly are you proposing?”
Marcus hesitates just long enough to make me wonder if the perfect strategist isn’t as immune to risk as he wants me to believe.
“An alliance. You get access to our intelligence network, our resources, our protection when necessary. In exchange, you help us navigate the chaos that’s about to unfold when word spreads that Vincent Blackwood’s daughter is very much alive and very much seeking answers. ”
“And the trust you mentioned?”
“Will develop naturally as we work together. Or it won’t, and we’ll find other arrangements.” His smile is sharp but not unkind. “I’m a patient man, Raven. I can wait for what I want.”
The offer is tempting, more tempting than I want to admit. I need to get into the inner circle. I can’t just slink around in the shadows and go directly after my father’s killer.
Especially since it seems like my knowledge about my father’s murder might not be complete as it is.
Navigating the labyrinth of betrayal and violence that claimed my father is going to require some trust, yes, but I’ll sleep with one eye open.
This isn’t about trust. This is about positioning myself close enough to Marcus that, when he slips up—or when I need him—I’ll be ready.
But all I say is, “I need time to think about this.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. For now… if you wish to stay close and keep your eye on the ground… might I line up some more fights for Sally Upton?”
“Certainly.” I grin.
He nods and rises gracefully, moving to open a wall panel that reveals a hidden elevator. “This will take you directly to the parking garage. Discrete exit, no witnesses.”
“And if I decide not to accept your offer?”
“Then you walk away, and we pretend this conversation never happened.” His expression grows serious.
“But, Raven, if you’re truly committed to destroying the people responsible for your father’s death, you’re going to need allies.
The kind of enemies you’re making don’t fall easily, and they certainly don’t fall alone. ”
I stand, noting the way he maintains distance while still projecting protective awareness of my every move. “You said Jacek Kowalski was responsible for providing the intelligence. Who actually pulled the trigger?”
“Now that,” Marcus says with a smile that promises dark revelations, “is information that requires a much deeper level of trust. When you’re ready to hear it, I’ll be here.”
I step into the hidden elevator but pause before the doors close. “Why are you really doing this, Marcus? What do you get out of helping me?”
His expression shifts, becoming something more personal, more honest than anything I’ve seen from him tonight. “Because Vincent Blackwood was a good man trying to do right by his daughter and because the people who killed him deserve everything that’s coming to them.”
The doors slide shut, and I’m growing all the more certain that I’m about to make a deal that will change everything.
The devil, it seems, wears expensive suits and offers exactly what you need to hear.
The question is whether I’m desperate enough to shake hands with him.