I recognized my ex-husband Marcus the second he stepped out of room 1402 at the Grand Monarch Hotel, holding hands with his new fiancé.
The penthouse was silent, bathed in the soft, cool glow of the Chicago skyline. Marcus moved through the expansive living room, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He still wore the suit from his confrontation with Duke, but it was now rumpled, a stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings.
He gripped the old family access pass, a heavy brass card, a relic from a time when he truly believed he was part of Duke’s legitimate business. He slid it into the security panel beside the master bedroom. A soft chime, then a green light.
Duke was out, managing the fallout from Hollis’s raids, probably barking orders at his lieutenants. This was Marcus’s window. His last chance.
He found Duke’s personal safe hidden behind a sliding bookshelf, disguised as a section of classic literature. His fingers fumbled with the antique lock, remembering the combination Duke had foolishly taught him years ago, as a test of loyalty.
The tumblers clicked. The heavy iron door swung inward with a faint groan, revealing stacks of cash, a few expensive watches, and a stack of leather-bound ledgers. The physical master ledgers. The proof Lisa needed.
Marcus reached inside, his fingers brushing against the cool leather. He pictured Lisa, her face resolute even when pregnant, her quiet strength. He pictured Malik, his brother-in-law, whose memory had been tarnished by Duke’s lies. He was doing this for them. For atonement.
Just as his fingertips curled around the first ledger, the heavy oak double doors of the penthouse main entrance burst open with a resounding crash.
Two hulking figures in dark suits, Duke’s senior bodyguards, filled the doorway. Their faces were grim, their eyes narrowed. They moved with a practiced, brutal efficiency.
“Marcus Gaines,” one of them growled, his voice a low rumble. “Duke expected you might try something like this.”
Before Marcus could even react, a powerful fist slammed into his jaw, sending him sprawling across the Persian rug. He tasted blood. Another kick to his ribs. Then a foot pressed down on his chest, pinning him against the floor.
He gasped, struggling for air, the ledgers just out of his reach. The bodyguards retrieved their phones.
“Boss,” one of them said into the receiver, his voice devoid of emotion. “He’s here. Just like you said. And he was going for the safe.”
Marcus heard Duke’s voice on the other end, faint but cold. He closed his eyes, the throbbing pain in his head a dull counterpoint to the realization that he had failed. Again.
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