Chapter 3
The rhythmic thud of leather-soled shoes grew louder, echoing through the empty dining room like a countdown. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She gripped the edge of the sink so hard her fingernails dug into the stainless steel. Panic flared in her dark eyes, completely erasing the controlled composure she had tried so desperately to maintain.
“Hide,” Clara hissed, her voice cracking as she grabbed Marcus’s forearm. “Marcus, please. If he sees you here, with me, looking like this... he’ll twist the story. He knows people in the department. He’ll paint you as the monster, and he’ll walk away clean while you take the fall.”
Marcus didn’t move an inch. He looked down at her small, bruised hand gripping his wrist, then slowly raised his gaze to the swinging wooden doors. The shadows in the dining room seemed to stretch as the figure on the other side paused just inches from the entrance. The silhouette cast against the frosted glass was unmistakable—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a tailored overcoat that reeked of expensive bourbon and rain.
“Too late,” Marcus said quietly, his voice devoid of fear, carrying only a heavy, chilling finality.
The wooden doors swung open with a sharp creak. Julian stood in the threshold, looking entirely out of place in the greasy, dimly lit kitchen. His silver-rimmed glasses caught the fluorescent glare, reflecting twin beams of cold light. He looked immaculate at first glance, but a closer inspection revealed the subtle signs of a frantic night: his tie was slightly askew, his hair was disheveled, and his expensive leather shoes were coated in fresh mud.
Julian’s eyes swept past Marcus as if he were a piece of furniture, locking immediately onto his sister. A cold, condescending smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Clara,” Julian said smoothly, stepping into the kitchen and ignoring the thick tension in the room. “I told you last night not to test my patience. I left my gold lighter on your kitchen counter. I need it back before I head down to the federal courthouse this morning. I can't afford to be late, and I certainly don't have time to chase you across town.”
He finally acknowledged Marcus, offering a curt, dismissive nod. “Marcus. Didn't expect to see you playing dishwasher at three in the morning. Keep up the good work; the health inspector might actually give this dump a pass if the floors were half as clean as your apron.”
Marcus didn't flinch. He slowly extracted his arm from Clara’s grip and stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Julian and the terrified woman at the sink. The height difference between the two men was negligible, but Marcus possessed an aura of raw, concentrated violence that made Julian’s polished demeanor look paper-thin.
“You have a lot of nerve coming into my kitchen, Julian,” Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave.
Julian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, though he quickly recovered, adjusting his cuffs with an air of arrogant superiority. “Careful, Marcus. We have an arrangement. You keep your nose clean and your books balanced, and I keep certain people in the municipal government from asking uncomfortable questions about your past. Don't ruin a mutually beneficial partnership over a domestic dispute that's none of your business.”
“Domestic dispute?” Marcus echoed, taking a slow step toward the lawyer. “Is that what you call beating a woman half to death because you lost money at a card table?”
Julian’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine panic darting behind his lenses before he locked down his expression. He cast a venomous glance at Clara, who shrank back against the sink.
“She’s hysterical,” Julian snapped, his voice rising in pitch. “She’s always been unstable. Now, hand over the lighter, Clara, and let the grown-ups talk business.”
Marcus didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, he reached out with a blindingly fast movement, grabbed Julian by the lapels of his expensive overcoat, and slammed him hard against the metal shelves lining the back wall. Cans rattled and crashed to the floor, spilling contents everywhere.
May you like
“You’re done talking to her like that,” Marcus whispered directly into Julian’s terrified face.
Before Julian could scream, the harsh ring of a cell phone cut through the kitchen—not Julian’s phone, but Clara’s, sitting abandoned on the counter, flashing with an unknown, restricted caller ID.
