Page 4 of Knuckles & Knives
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He moves closer so his voice is for my ears alone. “We need to talk. Now. Before word spreads and every enemy your father ever made comes crawling out of the woodwork.”
“Let them come.” I meet his dark gaze steadily. “I’ll be ready.”
“Will you?” His hand hovers near my cheek like he wants to touch the bruise forming there. “Because the girl I remember was brave and stubborn and completely unprepared for the kind of war you’re about to start.”
“Good thing I’m not that girl anymore.” I punch my knuckles together, promising more violence to come.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, respect, maybe even desire. “No,” he says quietly. “I can see that you’re not.”
The moment stretches between us. Then, someone clears their throat behind us, and we turn to find Marcus Quintana approaching with his usual measured stride.
“Ms. Blackwood,” he says with a slight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome home.”
Despite everything—despite the danger, the uncertainty, and the impossible odds—I find myself smiling back. “It’s good to be back.”
Let the shadows rise.
CHAPTER 2
Marcus Quintana’s smile is as sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. He extends his hand toward me with the practiced grace of a man who’s never met a situation he couldn’t manipulate to his advantage.
Honestly, I both respect and admire that. I even want that for myself.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says, though we both know that’s a lie. “Marcus Quintana. I handle the… business operations for the club.”
I shake his hand, noting the calluses hidden beneath his manicured exterior and the way his fingers linger just a fraction too long. “Sally Upton,” I reply, using the name on my fake ID. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”
“Any friend of Ghost’s is welcome here.” His dark eyes flick toward where medics are helping Axel to his feet.
I follow his gaze. The fighter looks dazed but alert, and when he catches me watching, he has the audacity to flash me a grin that’s equal parts impressed and intrigued. He lifts his chin toward me, but if I have to guess, he’s already thinking about what he would do next time if we’re in a ring together again.
Honestly, the fighter isn’t just dangerous. He’s fascinating, and now I have his attention.
Dom shifts beside me, his presence as solid and protective as a brick wall. “Marcus, maybe we could?—”
“Of course.” Marcus’s interruption is smooth as aged whiskey. “Ms. Upton, would you care to join me in my office? I’m sure you’re interested in discussing your… future prospects here at the Obsidian.”
The invitation isn’t really a request. I can feel the weight of attention from the VIP section above, and I’m betting Kieran Frost is very interested in whatever conversation is about to unfold.
“Lead the way,” I say easily, ignoring the warning look Dom shoots me.
Marcus looks Dom up and down as if to remind the former underground fighting champion of his place—overseeing security for the Obsidian Syndicate’s fight clubs—which means he has no business following us.
Dom reluctantly concedes, and I walk a step behind Marcus.
His office is accessed through a discrete door behind the bar, up a narrow staircase that leads to the club’s administrative heart. The space is surprisingly sophisticated—all clean lines, expensive electronics, and abstract art that probably costs more than most people make in a year. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a perfect view of the main floor below, and I spot at least three different security cameras positioned to capture every angle.
“Impressive setup,” I comment, trailing my fingers along the edge of his massive desk. “Very… comprehensive.”
“I believe in being thorough.” He moves to a well-stocked bar cart and pours two glasses of amber liquid. “Macallan 25. Your father’s favorite, if memory serves.”
The casual mention of Vincent Blackwood feels deliberate, but I keep my expression neutral. “I wouldn’t know. I’m more of a beer girl.”
“Hmm.” Marcus offers me one of the glasses anyway. “Funny thing about memories. They have a way of surfacing when we least expect them.”
I accept the whiskey but don’t drink. Instead, I move to the window overlooking the fight club, watching as the crew cleans Ghost’s blood from the canvas. “Philosophical for a businessman.”
“I find philosophy useful in my line of work. For instance, there’s an old saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’“ His reflection appears beside mine in the glass. “But that assumes you know who your real enemies are.”
