Chapter 20 Ace
ACE
The text from Xavier comes at the precise moment Cyrus and I finish our morning coffee. A simple string of numbers that means only one thing: we’re needed.
“Blackwood wants us,” I say, sliding my phone across the island counter. Cyrus glances at it, his expression shifting from relaxed to focused in an instant.
“Been a while.” He drains his cup and sets it in the sink. “Think Keira will notice we’re gone?”
“She’ll be at the studio all day.” I’m already mentally cataloging what we’ll need. “We’ll be back before she finishes rehearsal.”
Within twenty minutes, we’re sitting in Xavier Blackwood’s office—a minimalist space of black leather and chrome that matches his coldly efficient personality.
“Vincent Marconi.” Xavier slides a file across the polished surface. “He’s been pushing product in the east district. Three of our dealers have disappeared in the last week.”
I flip through the file, absorbing details: locations, habits, security measures. Cyrus reads over my shoulder, our breathing falling into a synchronized rhythm.
“Clean?” Cyrus asks.
Xavier’s mouth curves into what might be called a smile. “Messy. Send a message.”
We nod in unison. No further questions needed.
Two hours later, we’re parked outside Marconi’s favorite restaurant, a small Italian place downtown. I check my watch.
“Three minutes,” I say.
Cyrus adjusts his leather gloves. “Fool has lunch at the same place and time every Tuesday. You’d think a man in his position would vary his routine.”
“They never learn.” I slide a silenced pistol into my waistband, hidden beneath my tailored jacket. “We’ve eliminated how many like him?”
“Lost count at fifty,” Cyrus replies with indifference. “Exit through the kitchen?”
“Always.” I nod toward the back alley. “I’ll herd him, and you execute.”
We move in tandem, wordlessly splitting up as we approach the restaurant. I circle around to the main entrance while Cyrus slips toward the back.
Tracking Marconi is disappointingly easy. His security is lax—two men at his table. Amateur work. I take my position at the bar, ordering a drink I won’t consume, eyes scanning.
Our gazes lock across the restaurant—Cyrus through the kitchen window, me at the bar. A slight nod passes between us. This is what we do. This is who we are.
The killing will be simple. Just another Tuesday.
The target emerges from the restaurant right on schedule, flanked by his security. Pathetic. They’re scanning for obvious threats—men with guns, suspicious vehicles. They never look for the predator hidden in plain sight.
I signal Cyrus with a subtle tap on my watch. Time to move.
I cut across the street, timing my steps perfectly as Marconi and his guards move toward the black SUV. Security is laughably minimal—just two men scanning the streets with the casual arrogance of those who’ve never faced real predators.
“Driver’s side clear,” Cyrus’s voice comes through my earpiece, barely a whisper.
I make brief eye contact with a woman walking her dog, then adjust my pace to fall into her blind spot. Civilians complicate things. Witnesses mean cleanup.
Three. Two. One.
Cyrus emerges from behind a parked van, seemingly materializing from nothing. His movement is fluid as he drives a knife through the first guard’s throat before the man can reach for his weapon. Arterial spray arcs across the sidewalk, masking sure it’s messy just as Xavier ordered.
I approach from the opposite direction, sliding my silenced pistol from its holster.
The second guard turns, finally alert to the danger, but he’s already too late.
I fire twice—one round to the knee to drop him, ensuring maximum visibility to Marconi, and a second to the shoulder. Not fatal. Not yet.
“Jesus Christ!” Marconi stumbles backward, fumbling for something inside his jacket.
I catch his wrist before he can draw, twisting until bones crack. “The Blackwoods send their regards.”
Cyrus grabs Marconi by the hair, looking him directly in the eyes. “You were warned about the east district.”
“I’ll pull out. I swear—” Marconi’s pleading cuts off as Cyrus slams his head against the car door.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” I explain, voice level despite the violence unfolding. “This is a message.”
I drive my knife into Marconi’s side—not a killing blow, but painful.
“Your replacement needs to understand,” I continue, twisting the blade. “The Blackwoods don’t give second chances.”
Cyrus finishes him with theatrical brutality—multiple stab wounds to the chest, leaving the body displayed against his own vehicle like a grotesque warning sign.
I wipe the blade on Marconi’s jacket, feeling the familiar calm that always follows a kill. The hot rush of adrenaline settles into something cooler, more refined—a clarity that’s almost transcendent. It’s been this way since the first time.
“Remember Hoffman?” Cyrus asks, as if reading my thoughts while he cleans his own knife.
“Hard to forget your first,” I reply, my lips curling into a smile.
Hoffman had been one of our trainers—the man who’d taught us to kill with bare hands before we’d even hit puberty. The Architect Program had acquired us as children, placing us with handlers who shaped us into weapons through methods that would make seasoned torturers flinch.
“He never saw it coming,” Cyrus says, his eyes taking on that distant look they get when he’s remembering. “Kept saying we were showing promise right up until I drove the knife in.”
The memory is pristine, perfectly preserved: Hoffman’s shocked expression when his prized pupils turned on him, the sound of his gurgling as I held him down while Cyrus opened his throat. He was the first of seven handlers we eliminated that night—each death more satisfying than the last.
“And Larson?” I prompt, watching for the flare of savage joy in my brother’s eyes.
“That bitch screamed so loud the neighbors called the cops,” Cyrus laughs. “Good thing we’d already been taught how to disappear.”
Our handlers had created the perfect killing machines, never imagining we’d use those skills against them. We’d been fifteen years old, covered in blood that wasn’t ours, standing over the bodies of the people who’d broken us down and rebuilt us as weapons.
Xavier and Knox Blackwood found us a year later, after we’d lived on the streets, hiding in one of their warehouses. They offered us purpose—exclusive contracts, high-value targets, and the freedom to indulge the darkness that had been cultivated in us.
“We should move,” I say, scanning the street. “They’ll have this place flooded with cops in minutes.”
Cyrus and I move in perfect synchronicity away from the scene, our steps measured and unhurried. We don’t run—running draws attention. Instead, we walk calmly toward the parking garage two blocks away, blending into the crowd of office workers and shoppers.
“Five minutes until first responders,” I note, checking my watch as we turn the corner.
Cyrus nods. “Plenty of time.”
We reach our car, a nondescript black sedan with tinted windows and false plates. Cyrus takes the wheel while I wipe down our weapons before storing them in a hidden compartment beneath the floor mats. The routine we have practiced thousands of times.
But something feels different.
As the city blurs past the windows, I find my thoughts drifting to our penthouse. To Keira. Her rehearsal should have finished three hours ago. She’d have returned to an empty apartment.
“You’re quiet,” Cyrus says, glancing at me.
I meet his gaze, recognizing my own thoughts reflected in his eyes. “Just thinking.”
“About Keira?”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
We’ve always been careful. The risk of failure has been accepted as a professional hazard. But now, watching the blood dry beneath my fingernails, I consider something I’ve never allowed myself to contemplate before. What if we hadn’t walked away?
What if Marconi’s security had been better? What if there had been a third guard we missed? What if one of us took a bullet?
The thought of Keira waiting, not knowing, settles uncomfortably in my chest. She would have no way to find us. No explanation for our disappearance. The Blackwoods would ensure any connection to us vanished, leaving her with nothing but questions.
“We should text her,” I say, the words escaping before I can analyze them.
Cyrus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t mock the suggestion. “Yeah. Probably should.”
I pull out my phone, composing a message that reveals nothing.
Finishing up business. Home by six.
The relief I feel when I hit send is unfamiliar and unsettling. This consideration for someone outside ourselves is foreign territory.