Chapter 15 Marcus
MARCUS
The gray sedan sits in the church parking lot like a tumor, and I’ve had enough. I should have trusted Charlie when she first mentioned it.
I’ve spotted it three times this week.
Always at a distance, always with the same man behind the wheel, always with that camera pointed at St. Michael’s like we’re some kind of wildlife documentary.
My hands curl into fists as I cross the asphalt, my tattooed arms flexing with barely contained rage.
The man doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised when I rap my knuckles against his window.
He rolls it down slowly, and I get my first good look at him. Mid-forties, receding hairline, the kind of face that’s seen too much and stopped caring.
Ex-cop, if I had to guess.
The way he holds himself, the calculating assessment in his eyes as he sizes me up.
“Can I help you?” His voice is flat, bored, like I’m interrupting his lunch break instead of confronting him about stalking.
“You can start by explaining why you’ve been watching our church.” I keep my voice level, but my accent thickens the way it does when I’m fighting for control. “Dime la verdad.” Tell me the truth.
He smirks, and I want to wipe that expression off his face with my fist. “Ray Kowalski. Private investigator.” He pulls out a business card and offers it through the window. “I’m just doing a job, Deacon Reyes.”
The fact that he knows my name makes my stomach drop. “What kind of job?”
“The kind where I document activities at certain locations.” Ray leans back in his seat, completely at ease despite the violence I know he can see simmering beneath my surface. “A local church hired me. They’re concerned about…irregularities at St. Michael’s.”
“Which church?” But I already know. The smirk on his face tells me everything.
“Client confidentiality.” He reaches for a manila folder on his passenger seat and pulls out a photograph. “But I think you can guess.”
The photo makes my blood run cold. Charlie and Adrian in the garden, standing close enough that the intimacy is unmistakable.
Adrian’s hand hovers near her face, not quite touching but the intention clear.
Her head is tilted back, looking up at him with an expression that anyone could read.
Nothing explicitly damning, but suggestive enough to raise every question we’ve been desperately trying to avoid.
“That’s nothing,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction. “Father Cross was probably brushing something off her face.”
“Sure.” Ray’s smile widens. “That’s one interpretation.
But I’ve got about fifty more photos that tell a different story.
You and her in the parish hall, standing too close.
Brother Moreau touching her shoulder during choir practice.
The way all three of you watch her during Mass.
” He taps the photo. “Individually, these are nothing. Together? They paint a pretty clear picture.”
My hands shake as I grip the edge of his car door.
I want to reach through the window and grab him by his cheap tie, want to make him understand that he’s playing with people’s lives, that Charlie doesn’t deserve to be hunted like this.
“What do you want?”
“Five thousand dollars.” Ray says it casually, like he’s discussing the weather. “I lose the photos, forget I was ever here, and your little secret stays safe.”
My fists clench until my knuckles go white, and I see Ray’s eyes flick to my tattooed arms, calculating whether I’m actually going to hit him.
“Vete al infierno,” I spit. Go to hell.
“That’s a no, then?” Ray shrugs, tucking the photo back into his folder. “Your choice. But these photos are going to my client. The only question is whether you want to control the narrative or let Victory Life do it for you.”
I step back from his car before I do something I’ll regret. Ray rolls up his window, starts his engine, and drives away like he hasn’t just threatened to destroy everything we’ve built.
I find Adrian in his office, reviewing parish finances with the kind of intense focus he uses to avoid thinking about anything else.
Elijah sits in the corner chair, sheet music spread across his lap, but his blue eyes track my entrance with immediate concern.
“We have a problem,” I say, closing the door behind me.
Adrian looks up, and I watch his expression shift from distracted to alert in seconds. “What happened?”
I tell them everything.
Ray Kowalski. The surveillance. The photos. The five-thousand-dollar demand.
With each word, the temperature in the room drops. Adrian’s jaw clenches tighter, his gray eyes going dark and stormy. Elijah sets aside his music, his angel face hardening into something I rarely see.
“Victory Life,” Adrian says, his voice carefully controlled in that way that means he’s barely holding himself together. “They’re not just competing. They’re actively trying to destroy us.”
“The photos aren’t explicit,” I add, leaning against the door. “But they’re suggestive. Enough to raise questions.”
Elijah stands then moves to Adrian’s desk. “Did he say how many photos he has?”
“About fifty, apparently. All of us with Charlie. Nothing damning on its own, but together…” I trail off, the implications clear.
Adrian’s control fractures. His fist slams into his desk with enough force to split the wood, the sound echoing through the small office like a gunshot.
“Mierda,” I breathe, staring at the crack in the desk. “Adrian.”
He’s breathing hard, his knuckles already bruising. “They’re hunting her. Hunting all of us. And I’m supposed to just…what? Pray about it?”
Elijah moves closer, his hand hovering near Adrian’s shoulder but not quite touching. “We need to think strategically. Getting arrested for assault won’t help anyone.”
“I know.” Adrian flexes his damaged hand, wincing. “I know. But the thought of that man watching her, documenting her every move, turning her into evidence…” His voice breaks slightly. “She doesn’t deserve this.”
I think about Charlie in the confessional, her body pressed against mine, the way she whispered my name like a prayer. The memory makes my cock throb despite the current crisis, and I shift my weight, trying to focus. This isn’t the time for that, but my body doesn’t seem to care.
“What if we hire him?” Elijah’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Turn him into our inside man instead of our enemy.”
Adrian and I both turn to stare at him. Elijah shrugs, his expression pragmatic beneath that angelic exterior.
“Think about it. Ray’s a mercenary. He works for whoever pays him. If we offer him more than Victory Life, he could feed us information about their plans, maybe even sabotage their investigation.”
“That’s risky,” I say, but my mind is already working through the possibilities. “What’s to stop him from taking money from both sides?”
“Nothing,” Elijah admits. “But right now, he’s definitely working against us. At least this way, we have a chance.”
Adrian stares at his desk, his jaw working. “We don’t have five thousand dollars.”
“We could find it,” I offer, though I have no idea where. The parish is barely staying afloat as it is.
Before Adrian can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway. We all freeze, the tension in the room ratcheting up another notch. The door opens, and Charlie appears, keys in hand, her vintage sundress swirling around her thighs as she steps inside.
“I’m returning the parish hall keys,” she starts, then stops. Her hazel eyes move between the three of us, reading the charged atmosphere with unnerving accuracy. “What’s wrong?”
The afternoon light streaming through Adrian’s window catches her auburn hair, making it glow like fire.
Her dress clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, see the pulse hammering beneath her delicate skin, and want nothing more than to cross the room and pull her against me.
But I can’t. Not here. Not now. Not with threats closing in from every direction.
Adrian’s hands curl into fists at his sides, and I watch him fight the urge to reach for her. His gray eyes track her every movement, hungry and desperate and carefully restrained.
The split knuckles on his right hand are already swelling, evidence of the violence he’s barely containing.
Elijah’s gaze never leaves her face, and I see the same need reflected there that I’m feeling.
The way his fingers flex against his thigh, like he’s imagining running them through her hair.
The slight parting of his lips as his gaze drops to her mouth.
“I talked with the guy stalking the church,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. “I saw the photos.”
Charlie’s face goes pale. “Photos?”
“Of us,” Adrian says quietly. “All of us. Together.”
She sets the keys on his desk with shaking hands. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” I move closer despite knowing I shouldn’t, drawn to her like gravity. “Nothing explicit, but suggestive. Enough to cause problems.”
Charlie’s teeth worry her bottom lip, and I want to bite it myself, taste her again, and forget everything except the way she feels in my arms.
She’s wearing that cardigan she always has, the one that’s slightly too big, and I imagine peeling it off her shoulders, revealing the soft skin beneath.
“What are we going to do?” Her voice is small, scared, and it breaks something in my chest.
Before any of us can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen, and my blood turns to ice.
Unknown number. One attached photo.
I open it with trembling fingers.
It’s the four of us in the church basement last week, heads close together around a table, planning how to respond to Victory Life’s attacks.
Charlie’s hand rests on Adrian’s arm, the gesture casual but intimate.
Elijah leans close to her other side, his body angled protectively.
I’m standing behind her, my hand on the back of her chair.
Even in the grainy photo, the connection between us is unmistakable.
Below the image, a message that makes my stomach drop.
Smile for the camera. More where this came from. –Pastor Whitmore.