Chapter 3
MARCUS
Several weeks on, Sammy Hughes is a picture of health. He’s pink-cheeked and restless on the exam chair, his eyes darting toward the football propped against his mother’s bag.
I tilt his chin into the light and ease off the last Steri-Strip. His stitches are already out, but I kept the strip on a little longer as it’s better to give the tissue the support it needs. Today, he’s finally bandage-free.
I examine the scar. The line is settling, already smoothing out. It’ll take time before it fades into his skin, but it will, and it’ll carry the story without defining him.
“It’s almost there,” I say, my finger hovering just short of the healing skin. “You’ve taken good care of it.”
His mother leans forward, her hands knotted in her lap. “He’s been begging to get back out on the field. I keep telling him to wait, but…”
“But football doesn’t wait,” I finish for her, giving Sammy a look that makes him grin sheepishly. “I know. Still, the skin needs a little more time to toughen. He can run, train, and practice drills, but no tackles and no scrums. Not yet. We don’t want the scar to stretch.”
Her shoulders ease at the instruction, relief softening her face. I add, “Apply ointment once a day to keep the skin supple and also sunscreen anytime he’s outside. That’ll keep it from darkening.”
Sammy groans, rolling his eyes. “Do I have to?”
I let the corner of my mouth turn up. “Yes, you do. Even Garrett Wilson wears sunscreen.”
That earns me a laugh. I straighten, type a quick note on his chart, then hold out my hand.
“High five, champ,” I tell him.
Sammy slaps it with more force than expected, and I let my palm sting for a second.
“And here’s the deal,” I say. “When I clear you for tackles, most people won’t even notice your scar. But even if some kid points it out, you tell them that it makes you tougher.”
His grin is instant, and his mother exhales like I’ve given her something priceless. We shake hands, trade goodbyes, and Sabine—my PA and tyrant of all logistics—slips him a goodie bag on the way out.
“Don’t eat the chocolates all at once,” she calls after him.
“That was thoughtful,” I say as Sabine returns to the counter, already knee-deep in ribbons and tissue paper. Beside her, my receptionist is lettering a gold-trimmed card with the kind of calligraphy that could get her poached by Papyrus.
“Well, technically, you signed it off,” Sabine says as she snips a length of gold ribbon. “Delegated authority. Not embezzlement.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod toward the two glossy bags waiting to be finished, each already padded with tissue paper and hiding the gold foil neck of a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. “And those?”
“Oh!” She brightens, looping the ribbon into an aggressively perfect bow. “Holiday thank-you gifts for Evita Vale and Sienna Brooks. I figured Krug says, ‘We appreciate you,’ and not ‘Please don’t go Jennifer Coolidge on me in an acceptance speech.’”
“Classy,” I deadpan.
She grins. “You approved the champagne budget, too, Mr. Lockwood. Pretend surprise if you must.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“You calling it a night?” she asks, giving the bows one last adjustment before passing the finished bags to my receptionist, who tucks the cards in and seals everything with a gold Avelis sticker.
“Go home, both of you. I’ll lock up,” I tell them.
“You sure?” Sabine leans in, already half-suspicious.
“Yeah.” I ease my tone.
Her smile widens as she places the bags on the cabinet for pickup. My receptionist logs off and pulls on her cardigan, and the two of them head out, singing “Defying Gravity” as their heels strike cleanly. I set standards for presentation, and they routinely exceed them.
I pay well, expect much, and make damn sure the people who keep this place running know they matter. Respect given, respect returned. I don’t do raised voices or pointless hours. That’s how a clinic stays immaculate. And loyal.
I return to my office and clear out the last of my mail until one envelope marked Private and Confidential remains.
There’s no return address.
I slice it open.
“What the…”
A small bone tumbles onto the desk, pale against the dark wood. I slide on a glove and lift it to the light. It’s dense and porous, definitely not plastic or cast. It’s a tibia that’s too small for a human’s, so it’s maybe a primate’s. I’m no zoologist, but I know bones. And I know why.
A note is folded inside, and it’s made up of letters cut from magazines, childish in their mosaic but calculated in their intent:
EVERY EMPIRE HAS A FRACTURE POINT.
I’m no stranger to threats. Medicine breeds resentment—lawsuits dodged, progress resisted. But this? This is personal.
This has nothing to do with the Bronx Hospital, the condo demolitions, the protests, and the noise around them. That matter is settled. No, this points to something else.
Only my closest circle knows about my congenital tibial dysplasia.
He walks like a monkey, I recall, remembering that voice.
Not the place, not the year. Just the tone.
A woman. And if people claim a mother knows her child, I’d argue the opposite. A child never forgets the sound of the one who abandoned him.
The dysplasia, the deformity in my leg, was the reason my biological mother left me behind. The Lockwoods weren’t exactly the nurturing type, but they were decent enough to bring in a team of surgeons when I was five. And they never called her my mother. I was “left at their door.” Full stop.
For their sake, I never pressed. I let that lie stand.
The pain still kicks hard enough that I medicate it when I have to. But I never show it. I never say a thing. Not to anyone who doesn’t have a right to that part of me.
And yet, now someone does.
Involving the police will muddy everything. I won’t even tell my PI. The fewer hands on this, the cleaner the suspect list stays.
I slide the bone back into the envelope, place the note beside it exactly as I found it, and seal it shut. Then I unlock the cabinet in the corner, which holds records and things only I have the key to, and file it away. I’m going to keep it contained until the prick makes his next move.
The Station Bar is Manhattan’s best-kept secret precisely because there’s nothing to keep.
You won’t see velvet ropes or celebrities here, not even a bouncer.
Just scuffed floors, average pours, and the kind of anonymity you can’t buy anywhere south of 110th.
The perfect hideout for me and also the Hunt brothers, three guys whose faces tend to end up on social media for all the wrong reasons, to drink and disappear into conversations no one would care about.
Liam squints as I stride in. “Thought that was a TMZ guy walking in. But nope. Just Marcus without security.”
Max lifts his beer as though he’s toasting my incompetence. “So brave. So humble.”
I drop onto the stool. “Save it. I tolerate you both. That’s my good deed for the week.” I nod to the bartender. “Usual.”
Liam leans an elbow on the bar. “We make you a saint, Lockwood. Yet we’re not important enough for punctuality.”
“Shocking,” Max agrees. “Imagine if we were your missus. You gonna stroll in three contractions late, order ‘the usual,’ and then cut the cord?”
Liam cracks up. “Please. He’d show up after the kid’s already walking.”
“You better hope your future wife is patient,” Max says.
My beer lands, and I take a long pull. “At least you two think I’ll have a wife. Neither of you can hold a date long enough to finish an appetizer.”
Truth is, I’ll probably be the last single man standing in Manhattan. But they don’t need to know that.
Max points a finger at me. “When Dr. Late becomes Daddy Late, we’re never letting it go.”
I scoff, and we clink glasses before trading war stories of the day.
Liam treated a ferret for raisin poisoning. It was a full-on emergency at his vet clinic, with tiny teeth and all, so he gets to claim the save of the week.
Max didn’t fare as well. One of the housekeeping robots at his new hotel tried telling a joke to a Japanese guest. The guest stared, the robot froze, and management panicked. Max is still recovering.
“All right,” Liam says, wiping foam from his lip. “Down to business.”
“Party pooper,” Max fires back.
Liam and Maximilian Hunt are the brothers I never had. They’re shrewd investors, relentless allies, and loyal to the bone from the moment they crashed into my life.
We’ve survived it all. From wins so big that the world paid attention to losses so brutal that they should’ve taken us out.
I made the mistake of trusting the wrong man, ignored their warnings, and nearly paid the price.
When the dust settled and the numbers came back red, it wasn’t my name salvaging the boardrooms; it was theirs.
The Hunts. The men who stepped in when no one else would.
Fairy tales don’t start with bad timing and a mess that big. But ours did.
“What’s on the agenda then?” I tilt my glass at Liam.
“The Marrowby demolition is finally locked in. Two months late, thanks to your little ‘community outreach program.’” Liam gives me that long-suffering look only an older brother can pull off.
“Hey, everything I did was legal,” I say. “You demolish someone’s mold-infested shoebox, and suddenly you’re the Antichrist. Emotions got loud, but it doesn’t mean I was wrong, so don’t you go full-Pompeo on me.”
“You could’ve handled it better.”
“Yeah, all right, Dad.” I wave him off. “We’re not in the boardroom. Why the hell are we talking about above-ground business?”
“Because,” Liam says, “I’d just like to remind you that I’m still expecting my return.”
Max nods. “Us, too. We love sick kids, but not enough to donate our entire net worth.”