MARCUS
Dominic Ren was in a mood.
Marcus could always tell. After seven years of working for the man, he'd learned to read the signs—the way Dominic's jaw set a certain way, the shorter sentences, the silence that felt heavier than usual.
Today, all three.
They were in the car heading to the airport. Dominic sat in the back, scrolling through his phone, not speaking. Sienna sat beside him, laptop open, typing something Marcus couldn't see from the driver's seat.
Neither of them had said a word since leaving the office.
Marcus adjusted the rearview mirror slightly. A habit he'd developed years ago—watching without watching, staying aware of the temperature in the backseat.
Sienna looked tired. She hid it well, but he'd known her almost as long as he'd known Dominic. The slight tension around her eyes, the way she reached for her coffee more often than usual. She'd been running on fumes since Tokyo.
Dominic looked the same as always. Cold, focused, unreadable. But Marcus knew better.
The Heller situation was getting under his skin. Not because Heller had any real chance of winning—the evidence against him was airtight. But because Raymond Vance's fingerprints were all over it. The timing, the journalist, the sudden boldness of a man who should have disappeared quietly with his severance.
Someone was funding Heller's fight. Someone wanted this to be loud.
"Traffic on the bridge," Marcus said. "We might be ten minutes late to the terminal."
"Call ahead. Make sure they hold the plane."
"Already done."
Dominic didn't acknowledge this. Sienna glanced up briefly, caught Marcus's eye in the mirror, then returned to her laptop.
That was how they communicated sometimes. Small looks, brief nods. An understanding built over years of shared proximity.
Marcus had been Dominic's driver before Sienna arrived. Back then, the assistant rotation was brutal—three, four people a year, each one burning out faster than the last. They couldn't handle the hours, the demands, the way Dominic expected perfection without ever explaining what perfection meant.
Then Sienna showed up.
He remembered her first week. She'd made a mistake—scheduled two meetings at the same time, a rookie error. Dominic had dressed her down in front of the entire floor, voice flat and cutting, listing every way she'd failed.
Most people would have cried. Or quit. Or both.
Sienna had stood there, taken it, and when he was done, she'd said: "It won't happen again."
And it hadn't.
Marcus respected that. Dominic did too, even if he'd never say it.
---
The flight to Chicago was three hours.
Marcus wasn't on the plane—his job ended at the terminal and resumed when they landed. He used the time to handle things on the ground. Confirming hotel arrangements. Checking the security situation at the restaurant where Dominic was meeting Heller's lawyer. Running background on Margaret Chen, the journalist, in case Sienna's file had missed something.
It hadn't. Sienna's files never missed anything.
He grabbed lunch at a diner near the office, scrolling through emails while he ate. One from his sister, asking about Thanksgiving. One from his ex-wife, asking about the alimony payment that was three days late. One from a number he didn't recognize, which he deleted without reading.
His phone buzzed. Sienna.
**Landed. Car ready?**
**Waiting at arrivals.**
He paid his bill and headed to the airport.
---
Chicago was colder than New York.
Marcus stood outside the terminal, breath fogging in the November air, watching passengers stream through the doors. Business travelers with roller bags. Families with too much luggage. A woman arguing loudly into her phone about someone named Derek.
Dominic emerged first, coat buttoned, phone already at his ear. Sienna followed a step behind, pulling both their carry-ons because Dominic never touched luggage when there was someone else to do it.
Marcus opened the back door. Dominic slid in without breaking his conversation—something about injunctions and court dates. Sienna loaded the bags into the trunk and climbed in after him.
"Peninsula first," Marcus said. "Then the restaurant at seven?"
"Change of plans." Dominic ended his call. "We're going to Margaret Chen's office."
Marcus glanced at Sienna in the mirror. Her expression didn't change, but he caught the slight tightening of her grip on her laptop.
"The Tribune building?"
"No. She works from home on Wednesdays. Sienna has the address."
Sienna pulled it up, read it off. A residential neighborhood on the North Side. Marcus entered it into the GPS and pulled away from the curb.
"Does she know we're coming?" Sienna asked.
"No."
Silence.
Marcus kept his eyes on the road. Whatever Dominic was planning, it wasn't the kind of thing that went through legal. Those plans came with advance notice, scheduled meetings, carefully worded statements.
This was something else.
---
Margaret Chen lived in a brownstone on a tree-lined street.
Marcus parked across the road. The house looked ordinary—potted plants on the porch, a bicycle leaning against the railing, curtains drawn against the afternoon light.
"Wait here," Dominic said.
He got out. Sienna moved to follow, but he stopped her with a look.
"Just me."
The door closed. Marcus watched him cross the street, climb the porch steps, ring the bell. A long moment passed. Then the door opened, and Dominic disappeared inside.
Sienna sat very still in the backseat.
"You know what he's doing?" Marcus asked.
"No."
"Guess?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Margaret Chen wrote a piece three years ago about a pharmaceutical company that was covering up side effects. The company sued her. She won, but it cost her everything—savings, marriage, two years of her life."
"And?"
"The CEO of that company was Richard Heller. David Heller's brother."
Marcus let out a low whistle. "So Dominic's not here to threaten her."
"He's here to give her a better story."
They sat in silence, watching the house. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. A dog walker strolled by, not glancing at the car. A kid rode past on a scooter, bundled against the cold.
At twenty minutes, the door opened.
Dominic walked out. Margaret Chen followed him onto the porch—a woman in her fifties, gray-streaked hair pulled back, arms crossed over her chest. She was saying something Marcus couldn't hear through the closed windows.
Dominic responded. She laughed—short, surprised, not entirely friendly.
Then she nodded. Shook his hand. Went back inside.
Dominic crossed the street, got into the car, and closed the door.
"Hotel," he said.
Marcus pulled away from the curb.
Sienna waited exactly thirty seconds before asking: "Well?"
"She's going to write about Richard Heller instead of me. The pharmaceutical story wasn't finished—she had more evidence but couldn't afford to pursue it after the lawsuit." Dominic straightened his cuffs. "I'm funding her investigation. Anonymously, of course."
"And David Heller?"
"Will find out tomorrow that his brother is about to be exposed for covering up fourteen deaths. He'll have bigger problems than a wrongful termination suit." Dominic looked out the window at the passing city. "The lawsuit will be dropped by Friday."
Marcus caught Sienna's expression in the mirror. Not shock—she was past being shocked by anything Dominic did. Something closer to resignation, maybe. The quiet acceptance of someone who had seen this play out a hundred times before.
Dominic destroyed people. It was what he did.
The only question was whether you were useful enough to stay on his good side.