Page 15 of Knuckles & Knives
“Information. Access. Protection when necessary, though I suspect you’ll rarely need it.” Marcus rises and moves to the windows, gazing down at the fight club below where another battle is reaching its bloody conclusion. “The inner circle of this organization sees everything that happens in the city’s underworld. Money flows, territory disputes, personnel changes… we know about it all before it becomes public knowledge.”
My stomach twists into a knot. I know precisely what he’s hinting at.
“Including information about my father’s death.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing more desperation than I intended.
Marcus doesn’t pounce on the weakness. Instead, he turns back to me with something that might be sympathy in his dark eyes. “Especially information about your father’s death.”
My pulse spikes dangerously. “What do you know?”
“More than you’d expect. Less than you need.” He returns to his chair, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a confidence. “Vincent Blackwood’s murder wasn’t the simple territory grab everyone believes it to be. There were… complications. Betrayals within betrayals. The kind of chess moves that take years to fully appreciate.”
“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what happened.”
“It’s not that simple. Information like this comes with a price, and that price isn’t something I can ask for lightly.” His gaze is steady on mine, evaluating. “Are you prepared to pay it?”
“That depends on what you’re asking for.”
Marcus is quiet for a long moment, and I can practically see him calculating odds and outcomes behind those intelligent eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more personal than the polished businessman persona he usually projects.
“I want you to trust me.”
The request is so unexpected, so fundamentally intimate, that it steals my breath for a moment. “Trust you?”
“Completely. Implicitly. The kind of trust that requires you to put your life in my hands and believe I’ll protect it even when logic suggests otherwise.” He leans back, but his attention never wavers from my face. “That level of trust is… rare in our world. It’s infinitely valuable.”
No way in hell.
“Why would you want that from me?” I ask, pretending I’m considering this.
“Because,” he says simply, “you’re the most interesting thing to happen in this city in five years, and I have a weakness for interesting things.”
I study his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the angle he’s playing, but all I see is intelligence, calculation, and something that might be genuine attraction to the puzzle I represent.
“Trust isn’t something I give easily anymore,” I admit.
“I wouldn’t expect it to be, but I’m not asking for it immediately. I’m asking for the chance to earn it.” He retrieves a tablet from his desk and slides it across to me. “Consider this a down payment on good faith.”
The screen shows a series of photographs and documents, but one image immediately captures my attention: my father,alive and vibrant, shaking hands with a man I don’t recognize in what appears to be a private meeting.
“These were taken three days before Vincent’s death,” Marcus explains. “The man he’s meeting with is Jacek Kowalski, the younger brother of the current Kowalski family head.”
My blood turns to ice. This doesn’t make any sense to me. Yes, the family turned a bit opportunistic after my father was killed, but I never thought…
“The Kowalskis were involved?” I blurt out.
“More than involved. Jacek was the one who provided the intelligence that made the assassination possible. Security schedules, personnel rotations, even the location of your father’s safe room.” Marcus’s voice is clinical, detached, but I can see the calculation in his eyes as he watches my reaction. “He was Vincent’s most trusted lieutenant, and he sold him out for a promotion in the new order.”
Jacek Kowalski. He wasn’t a blood relation, but that didn’t stop me from calling him Uncle Jacek. He taught me to play chess and brought me books from his travels. He had been at every birthday party, every family dinner, every important moment of my childhood. He held me while I cried when Bruno, my St. Bernard, died and promised my father he’d always keep me safe.
He lied with every hug, every birthday gift, every bedtime story. He sat at our dinner table while planning my father’s murder. And I never saw it. I trusted him. I loved him. I would have died for him.
“You’re lying.”
“I have video footage of the meeting if you need additional proof. Audio recordings of the conversations. Financial records showing the payments.” Marcus’s expression is gentle but implacable. “I know this is difficult to process, but Jacek Kowalski orchestrated your father’s murder from the inside.”
“Why?” The word comes out broken, raw with years of suppressed grief and rage. “Why would he do that?”
