Chapter 2
chapter two
the audacity of this man makes me sad to be one
Isquinted at my laptop screen, watching the lowlifes who thought breaking into the warehouse would be a smart idea.
Amateurs.
I knew exactly who they were too. The taller one with the wrench and the balaclava was Alex Alton. The shorter one beside him, who’d opted for a grey mask, was Andre Alton.
Twins. Crime lord family from Brooklyn. Both had been on my radar for a while, but I hadn’t anticipated their break-in this soon.
Unlucky for them, I bore no resemblance to their amateur minds.
The guys I’d had stationed there for weeks, just in case this happened, would pounce on them any second now.
I lounged back in my chair, my eyes on the screen, rolling a grape between my fingers before popping it into my mouth.
The skin burst sweet, crisp, and unmistakably purple.
I know they’re red grapes, but they’re not.
Not to me. People get stuck on labels, don’t you think?
They slap one on something and expect the world to believe it without question.
But labels lie. They tell you what you’re supposed to see, not what’s really there.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned doing this job, it’s that what’s really there is the only thing worth paying attention to.
Like what was happening on my screen.
To the world, the Alton twins are the golden retrievers of charity work.
Hospital wings named after them, billions raised for sick kids, every cliché PR move to make the masses fall in love with them.
But right now? They’re prowling around my warehouse in Queens, hunting for tech they’ve been chasing for months.
Tech that no one but me, the best in security and military intel, should even know exists.
They think they’re going to steal it and sell it to someone who’d love nothing more than to see my company, Romano Security, burnt to a pile of ashes, before donating a speck of that blood money to whatever charity kept their halos shiny.
I knew this because, well, I'd been doing this job long enough to know that labels weren’t everything.
And also because these two might just be the stupidest criminals in history.
Leaving a trail of digital breadcrumbs in their own systems?
It was practically an engraved invitation to watch them attempt to pull this off.
On the screen, the chaos of my men and the twins' less-than-reliable backup blurred into fists flying and the occasional gunshot. But my guys were good, and trained by the best. They’d have this wrapped up in no time. I appreciated it even more knowing this technically wasn’t even their job.
Romano provided high-level security to those who needed it most. Status didn’t matter.
If you required protection, we were there.
But to deliver at that level, certain tech, like the piece Dee and Dum had just tried to steal from me, was essential.
Which made watching the scene unfold on the screen all the more satisfying.
I leaned back, stretched until my shoulders popped, and rubbed the back of my neck as I popped another grape in my mouth.
Every muscle ached like it’d been through a meat grinder.
The past few months here had been relentless, like a slow-motion train wreck I couldn’t step away from.
And when you’re the one holding the whole damn operation together, there was no stepping away at all.
“No rain. No fucking rain, remember.” I muttered, staring at the ceiling.
No hardship meant no reward, I knew that. Had known that since I was little. But my God, did I wish that the satisfaction of running a corporation like this came a little easier. Stress had aged me faster than I’d like to admit, and for someone who was barely twenty-seven, that didn’t bode well.
Should I cut back on the coffee and late-night stakeouts? Probably? Or maybe I should just get a hobby that was anything other than making sure the world didn’t fall apart.
Ha, boring, I muttered in my head.
As I closed my laptop screen, three sharp knocks on the door dragged me back to reality.
“Not now,” I barked, hoping the tone was enough to send whoever it was scurrying.
But Margaret didn’t scare that easily. She cracked the door open, peeking her head in with that infuriatingly calm expression she always wore, like nothing in the world fazed her.
That was needed for this place.
“He’s here, Marcus.” My PA's soft voice called, with a weight behind her words that made my stomach tighten.
I groaned again, pushing myself upright and rolling up my sleeves as I stood. The tattoos on my forearms caught in the low light, the intricate patterns a permanent reminder of the life I’d built, and the memories that were nothing more than ink on my skin.
“Fine,” I smiled as sweetly as I could, gesturing with a sharp flick of my hand. “Send him in.”
I didn’t have to wait long. The door creaked open, and a tall figure and annoyingly familiar face stepped into the room.
The air seemed to shift, the temperature dropping a few degrees as Jamie Radcliffe waltzed into my room like he paid the rent.
He didn’t bother hiding the smirk on his face, like he’d walked into a reunion with an old buddy instead of the office of a man who’d been wanting to tear him apart for months.
He was another reason I hated labels.
Jamie was a family man, married, a little girl between them, a hero’s smile that was pure gold. He was supposed to be the best, but unbeknownst to us all what lurked underneath was anything but.
I took a long moment to look at him. Really look. His smugness was a thin veneer over a core of rot, and I cursed myself for not seeing it sooner.
“Jamie,” I said, his name coming out like a growl.
He didn't let his grin slip. “Marcus.”
I leaned forward, planting my closed fists on the desk. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”
His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. “So I’ve been told.”
Anger flared hot in my chest, but I didn’t let it show. Not yet. “You think this is funny? What you did? You think I’m just going to let that slide?”
He shrugged, leaning casually against the door frame. “Depends on what you think I did.”
Oh, fuck him.
I sniffed a laugh, letting his words settle before rounding my desk, reaching him in three wide strides and towering over him.
My finger plunged into his chest as my other gripped his shoulder.
“You took the trust of this company, the trust of a client, and you smashed it into the fucking ground. Do you have any idea what that did to her? What it did to me? To this whole operation?”
Jamie’s smirk faltered, just slightly, so I pressed the advantage.
“I built this company because people like you exist. Because people like my s—“ I choked on her name. Wondered if I always would.
I cleared my throat. “—you know damn well that millions of people aren’t protected. And you had the audacity to waltz in here, knowing how we started, wearing our badge, and chose to ruin someone’s life.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.
“You should be behind bars,” I snapped, shaking his shoulder. “And the only reason you’re not is because the girl you hurt is too strong to let you ruin her any more than you already have. You’re a disgrace to everything we stand for. And you’re done.”
Finally, the smirk was gone. Jamie straightened, his expression hardening, but he didn’t say a word. Like, behind the facade that he was keeping up for whatever reason, he knew that what he’d done was wrong. But admitting that might kill him.
Ruin him.
“Get the hell out of my office,” I spat, my voice low, dripping with anger, shoving his chest as he stumbled back.
For a second, I thought he might push back, but something flickered across his face. When I thought I could name it he was already turning on his heels and walking out, without another word. The door closed behind him, and the tension in the room lingered like smoke after a fire.
Three minutes later, when I was back in my chair and digging the pads of my fingers into my temples, Margaret stepped in silently, wrinkled smile pulling tight as she placed a coffee on my desk.
“I’m putting you on a ban after this one.” She quipped as she sat it down.
I gripped the mug in my hands and lifted it, my smile barely a smile at all. “Sure, Margs.”
She rounded the table and clapped me on the back. Her way of saying good job. But it didn’t feel like a win. Not yet.
As the door clicked shut when she left, I cracked my knuckles and opened the laptop again, the glare from the screen slicing through the low light of the office.
I went straight for my emails, because life was already hard enough today.
The usual load piled into my inbox, status updates, client requests, another accounting report I’ll pretend to skim later.
But one subject line stared back at me like a neon sign in the dead of night.
Re: Incident Report: Jamie Radcliffe.
My jaw tightened as I clicked it open. I’d already read it, but some sick part of me wanted to go through it again, like pressing on a bruise. My fingers drummed on the desk as I reread the clinical phrasing from the girls' agency.
Mr. Radcliffe’s behaviour was predatory, unprofessional, and severely impacted Miss Holland’s mental well-being. She no longer feels safe, even within the confines of her own home.
They didn’t mince their words. It was all there in black and white, every way I’d unknowingly let this happen, and I hated every word of it. Not because it was untrue, but because it was. Because it happened on my watch and I’d let someone else down.
The memory of Lana hit me like a sucker punch. Her voice echoed, scared and broken. And what did I do? I said nothing. Did nothing.
Until it was too late.
That was why I started this company. Why I poured every ounce of myself into making sure no one else had to feel what she felt. What I felt. And yet, here I was. Another person’s trust was shattered because I fucked up.
I scrolled down the email, the details sitting heavy on my chest like a barbell I couldn’t quite bench.
She’d been stuck with Jamie for two years.
And for those years, everything seemed perfect.
I didn’t hear a fucking peep from her or her agency.
Until he turned out to be the exact thing she needed protection from.
I leaned back, exhaling hard, but the weight in my chest didn’t shift.
I never paid much attention to the name Cora Holland before.
I’m not exactly plugged into the influencer scene, or any scene, really.
I kept my nose out of my clients’ personal lives unless I needed to know.
And Cora? She was just another name on a file. Another life we were protecting.
But now? Now I knew a lot more about the internets angel that I'd ever wanted to.
My phone buzzed, snapping me back to the present. A new email notification slid into view.
Urgent: Replacement Protection Needed for Cora Holland.
I snorted, rubbing my face with both hands. “No shit.”
The email was short and demanding. They needed someone solid. A real professional. Someone “not an asshole,” their exact words. Like it was that simple.
And it should have been. But now it was like this whole thing was a trap, and I was second-guessing every person I’d ever hired. I thought Jamie was solid, too, and look how that turned out.
I stared at the email, the cursor blinking like it was mocking me. I could assign someone else to her, someone with a clean record, one of my top guys. I wondered if Meg would take a break from training and watch over her until I found someone spotless.
But what if that wasn’t enough? What if this happened again?
I shook my head.
No.
Not this time. Not with her.
I closed the email and opened a separate program, one I didn’t advertise to my clients.
It was a little… off the books. Something I had built years ago for when I needed answers fast and didn’t feel like waiting for bureaucracy to catch up.
I typed in her name and watched as the software did its magic, piecing together scraps of data from places people thought were private.
Her address I knew. But what I need was—
Her schedule.
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “Gotcha.”
Reaching for the phone on my desk, I left my office and headed for the elevator, tapping twice on Margarets desk as I passed her. “Cancel my nine o’clock,”
She didn’t even ask why. But she did give me that pointed stare that felt more motherly than it did demanding.
I smiled and tilted my head anyway as I stopped. “Please.”
Half her smile lifted, then she nodded, just in time for the elevator to ding.
If the agency wanted someone who wasn’t an asshole, I’d best go find out how Cora Holland defined ‘asshole’.