Chapter 28
28
MARCUS
I ’d always had my little hiding spots scattered around Charleston—dark corners and quiet haunts where me and my brothers could have what I liked to call intimate conversations with our guests. Places like the rusted-out shed behind the old textile mill on the edge of town, the basement of that abandoned bar off King Street with walls thick enough to muffle screams, or the concrete box near Joint Base Charleston we were in now, a familiar haunt from the early days when we’d first started building Dominion into what it was.
They weren’t pretty, weren’t comfortable, but they did the job. Sound didn’t carry, neighbors didn’t snoop, and the shadows kept our secrets. Perfect for getting answers out of people who didn’t want to give them.
Earlier, I’d gone looking for Evelyn Hart. Started at her house—a sleek, modern place on the Battery, all glass and white brick, the kind of home that screamed money and power. I’d slipped in through a side window, silent as a ghost, expecting to find her sipping tea or plotting her next move. But the place was a shell. No clothes in the closets, no papers on the desk, no dishes in the sink—just furniture, cold and untouched, like she’d packed up her life and vanished. Poof.
Same story at her office in the city complex. Desk cleared, files gone, nothing but the faint scent of her perfume lingering like a taunt. She’d rabbited, and I hadn’t seen it coming.
I’d been pacing my room at Dominion, stewing on it, Claire still asleep in my bed, her naked curves a distraction I couldn’t afford, when my phone buzzed. One of my guys—Tommy, ex-Ranger with eyes like a hawk—called in.
“Spotted that kid from the mayor’s office. The twitchy one. Walking home from some Mexican joint on East Bay, bag of takeout in his hand.”
Gibson Sinclair. The little prick from the lobby, the one who’d been at The Palmetto Rose the night Diego died, watching him like a vulture.
I didn’t think—just acted. I snatched him off the street as he fumbled with his keys, the greasy bag of tacos spilling across the pavement. He didn’t even fight, just yelped like a kicked dog as I shoved him into the back of the van, blindfolded him, and hauled him out to the concrete box near the base. Logical move. Only move.
Now here we were, him strapped to a steel chair in the middle of the room, me circling him like a shark.
The place was bare—gray walls, a single flickering bulb overhead, the faint hum of distant traffic filtering through the reinforced door. Smelled like damp concrete and old blood, a scent I knew too well. Very Tarantino.
Gibson Sinclair—twenty-something, scrawny, with a mop of dark hair and a face that screamed soft—sat there trembling, his cheap tie loosened, his button-down stained with sweat.
I hated him from the jump. Hated his nervous ticks, the way his eyes darted like a cornered rat, the way he looked like he’d fold under a stiff breeze. I couldn’t wait to pound the truth out of him, to feel his bones give under my fists, to hear him spill everything he knew about Hart, about Diego, about Department 77.
Didn’t take punches at first. The kid was a weakling—well-placed slaps did the trick, sharp cracks across his cheeks that turned his pale skin red fast. He started talking, voice high and shaky, blood trickling from a split lip.
“I was just there to keep an eye on him—Diego Gil. Discreet, she said. That’s all I was told!”
I didn’t buy it. Leaned in closer, my shadow swallowing him, my breath hot on his face.
“You expect me to believe that? You were there when he died, and you just watched ?”
He flinched, hands twisting against the zip ties. “It’s the truth! I swear! Hart told me to tail him, report back. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything to him!”
Bullshit. I drove a fist into his ribs, precise, hard enough to make him grunt but not to crack bone. He doubled over as much as the ties let him, gasping, tears mixing with the blood on his chin.
“Why you?” I growled, grabbing his jaw, forcing his head up. “Why send a sniveling little shit like you? You’re not cut for this.”
“I don’t know!” he whined, voice breaking. “I work for the mayor—odd jobs, whatever she needs. She’s been giving me weird tasks lately, that’s all I know!”
“Weird tasks?” I tightened my grip, my knuckles white against his skin. “What kind? ”
He stammered, snot bubbling from his nose. “Stupid stuff—pick up her dry cleaning, drop off envelopes, follow people sometimes. Nothing big, I swear!”
I cut him off with a slap, harder this time, his head whipping to the side so fast I thought it might spin off. He was an easy bleeder—red streaked down his face, dripping onto his shirt, pooling on the concrete.
“Where’s Hart?” I snarled, leaning in so close I could smell the fear on him, sour and sharp.
“Home or the office, probably,” he mumbled, eyes squeezed shut. “She works a lot.”
“Wrong answer.” I straightened, driving another punch into his gut, this one lifting him an inch off the chair. He wheezed, choking on his own spit. “I’ve been to both. She’s gone. Poof. Where is she?”
“I don’t know!” he sobbed, head lolling. “She told me to take the rest of the day off—said she had to catch up after the masquerade. That’s all I got!”
Masquerade. The word hit like a ricochet, but it didn’t tell me shit. I’d been at that damn gala too, watching Claire, watching Diego, and Hart had been there, all smiles and silk. Now she was smoke, and this kid was my only lead.
I laid into him harder—fists finding his ribs, his chest, his face, each hit calculated to hurt, to break, but not to kill. Not yet. Pain radiated up my knuckles, a dull ache I welcomed, grounding me as his cries turned shrill, then ragged.
“Where. Is. She?” I roared, punctuating each word with a blow, his blood slicking my hands, splattering my shirt. He didn’t answer—just whimpered, head rolling, too weak to even beg.
My desperation clawed at me, raw and jagged, a beast I couldn’t cage. Nothing was working. Not my contacts, silent as graves. Not our tech, spitting out dead ends.
Hart was the only thread tying us to Department 77, and she’d slipped through my fingers. I had to know. Had to. For me. For Claire. For my father, whose ghost loomed larger every second, his secrets choking me like smoke I couldn’t clear.
I didn’t want to admit I was unraveling. That’d mean weakness, and I wasn’t weak. I’d buried men stronger than Gibson Sinclair, walked through fire without blinking, built Dominion with my bare hands alongside my brothers.
But this—this was different. This was personal, a wound I couldn’t cauterize, and I was ready to kill this kid even if he knew nothing, just to feel something give under the weight of it all.
I raised my fist again, blood dripping from my knuckles, Gibson’s face a mess of red and purple, when the door banged open behind me. I spun, rage flaring hot, and there she was—Claire, storming in, gray eyes blazing, Ryker on her heels like a shadow.
“What the fuck?” I roared, rounding on my brother first, my voice bouncing off the concrete. “You brought her here?”
Ryker didn’t flinch, just crossed his arms, his face carved from stone. “She wouldn’t stay put.”
I turned on Claire, closing the gap between us in two strides, my chest heaving. “You shouldn’t be here. This is my work—this has to be done!”
She didn’t back down, didn’t blink, just squared her shoulders and met my glare head-on. “No, Marcus, it doesn’t.” Her voice was steady, cutting through my fury like a blade. “Look at him. He doesn’t know anything.”
I laughed, sharp and bitter, gesturing at Gibson’s slumped form. “He was there, Claire. The night Diego died. He knows something.”
She stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. “He’s an assistant. A nobody. You think Hart would trust him with anything real? He’s scared, bleeding, and still telling you the same story, right? Because it’s all he’s got.” She shook her head, voice softening but firm. “This isn’t how Diego would’ve wanted it. Or your father.”
Her words hit like a gut punch, and I hated her for it. Hated how they sank in, hooking into the cracks I’d been ignoring. I turned away, fists clenching, ready to go back to Gibson, to pound until something—anything—gave.
“You don’t get it,” I growled, stepping toward him, my shadow falling over his crumpled body.
“She’s right,” Ryker said, voice low, cutting through the haze. I froze, glancing back at him. He met my eyes, unflinching. “There’s a better way.”
“How?” I snapped, desperation bleeding into my tone. “Tell me how, Ryker, because I’m out of fucking moves here!”
He shrugged, slow, deliberate. “I don’t know. But maybe Claire’s people can help where we’ve failed.”
I looked at Claire, my chest tight, my hands still slick with Gibson’s blood. Her face was set, determined, but there was something else there—something pleading, like she was begging me to listen, to stop. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, voice rough, almost breaking.
She took a breath, stepping closer, her gaze locking onto mine. “I have an idea.”