bChapter /bb230 /b

    MARCUS’S POV

    The moment the car rolled to a stop in front of the police station, my driver was already out of his seat and rushing around to open my door. I stepped out with the slow, deliberate elegance of a man who knows exactly who he is and how much attention hemands. The bte /bafternoon sunlight glinted off the polished ss fa?ade of the station, catching in the gold ents of my cufflinks, I adjusted the bpels /bof bmy /bcharcoal suit, feeling the perfect weight of the fabric settle across my shoulders.

    The air here had that faint, metallic scent of the city–fuel fumes, the tang of hot metal from car engines, and the faint whiff of burnt coffee drifting from somewhere inside. It wasn’t the kind of ce I normally liked to be. But today wasn’t aboutfort. Today was about information–about pulling a single thread until Adrian Westwood’s entire life unraveled.

    Police officers milled around the lot and entrance, some with files in their hands, some deep in conversation. I didn’t miss the way a few of them looked at me–quick nces, lingering stares, muttered whispers. Recognition. It was inevitable. My name carried weight in this city, and my return to New York after so many years was news in certain circles.

    I smiled. Let them look. Let them wonder what I was doing here.

    With my head held high and my stride slow, measured, I walked toward the entrance. My leather shoes clicked against the tiled floor as I stepped inside the station. The ce smelled of paper and ink, faintly oveid with disinfectant.

    In the waiting area, a cluster of people sat in stiff chairs, eyes zed with boredom or tension. Some held papers or man folders to their chests; others kept ncing at the clock like it might hurry time along. They were all here for the same reason–to see themissioner. They would be here for hours, maybe days, if they were lucky enough to even get that meeting.

    But not me.

    People like me didn’t wait in lines or sit on stiff chairs. I could see whoever I wanted, whenever I wanted. That was one of the perks of being

    Marcus Beaumont.

    I walked past them without so much as a nce, my assistant Evelyn following two steps behind. My hand closed around the handle of the

    Themissioner was behind his desk, going through a stack of papers. At the sight of me, his head jerked up in surprise, and he quickly

    rose to his feet.

    “Mr. Beaumont,i” /ihe said, a practiced smile stretching across his face as he came around the desk to shake my hand.

    “Commissioner,” I replied, taking his hand firmly. “It’s been a while.”

    “Yes, it has,” he said, the faintest flicker of unease in his eyes. “You didn’t tell me you wereing.”

    I smiled easily. “This visit wasn’t nned. I had… an emergency, and I thought it would be best to speak with you personally. This isn’t something I could trust with phone calls or middlemen.”

    “In that case,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs in front of his desk, “please, have a seat.”

    I sank into the chair, crossing one leg over the other, letting my movements exude the kind of casual control that always made people underestimate just how dangerous I could be.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Evelyn moving toward the couch in the corner of the office. She was almost seated when bI /bnced bsharply /bat her. Just one look, and she froze mid–motion, straightening up instantly. She stayed standing, hands sped in front of her.

    Good. She needed that reminder. Evelyn was useful, efficient even, buttely she had been pushing boundaries she bshouldn’t /bbeven /bbe

    b1/2 /b

    18.48 bved/b, 13 Aug

    bapproaching/bb. /bbSitting /bdown while I was seated? As if we were equals? Uneptable. She’d learn her ce soon enough bafter /bbthis /bbmeeting /b

    Themissioner settled back into his chair, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting bon /bthe desk. “So,” he saidb, /bb“/bbwhat’s /bbthe /bbemergency/bb? /b

    bI /bgave him ba /bpolite nod. “As you probably know, I just returned to town.”

    “Y’ve heard,” he said cautiously.

    “And I’m sure you’re also aware,” I continued, my voice lowering just slightly, “that Adrian Westwood and I have a… history. bAn /bbunpleasant /b

    one.”

    His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking briefly to a stack of files on the corner of his desk. bI /bcould almost hear bthe /bbwheels /bturning in his head.

    “Yes, I’m aware,” he said carefully.

    “Well,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “when I got back to New York, I learned something interesting. Adrian Westwood was arrested recently.” I paused ito /iwatch the faint tightening of his jaw before going on. “And then, as if by magic, I woke up the next day to find every single trace of that arrest wiped clean. The media reports vanished. The police blotter entry is gone. Even the rumors dried up overnightb.” /b

    I let the words hang between us for a moment.

    “In this city,” I said softly, “there’s only one man who could make that happen.”

    His hand went to his tie, adjusting it in a gesture so small most people wouldn’t have noticed it. I noticed.

    I leaned forward now, resting my forearms on his desk, closing the distance between us. “So tell me, Commissioner… Why was Adrian Westwood arrested?”

    He gave me a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Beaumont, I don’t iknow /iwhat you’re talking about.”

    I chuckled under my breath. “Don’t lie to me. I didn’t expect you to blurt it out immediately–I’m not na?ve. I’m sure Adrian offered you something to buy your silence. Money, favors… who knows? But I assure you, you can tell me.”

    “Where are you getting all of this from?” he asked, his voice just a little too defensive nowi. /i“Mr. Westwood was never arrested.”

    And that’s when I saw it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. It was the same ilook /ipeople got when they were trying to sell a lie they knew the other person wouldn’t buy.

    My lips curved into a slow smile. I could see the truth hiding behind his denial.

    He was lying through his teeth.

    AD

    18:48 Wed, 13 Aug J

    approaching. Sitting down while I was seated? As if we were equals? Uneptable. She’d learn her ce soon enough after this meetingb. /b

    Themissioner settled back into his chair, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk. “So,” he said, “what’s the emergencyi?/ii” /i

    I gave him a polite nod. “As you probably know, I just returned to town.”

    “I’ve heard,” he said cautiously.

    “And I’m sure you’re also aware,” I continued, my voice lowering just slightly, “that Adrian Westwood and I have a… history. An unpleasant

    one.”

    His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking briefly to a stack of files on the corner of his desk. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

    “Yes, I’m aware,” he said carefully.

    “Well,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “when I got back to New iYork/i, I learned something interesting. Adrian Westwood was arrested recently.” I paused to watch the faint tightening of his jaw before going on. “And then, as if by magic, I woke up the next day to find every single trace of that arrest wiped clean. The media reports vanished. The police blotter entry is gone. Even the rumors dried up overnight.”

    I let the words hang between us for a moment.

    “In this city,” I said softly, “there’s only one man who icould /imake that happen.”

    His hand went to his tie, adjusting it in a gesture so small most people wouldn’t have noticed it. I noticed.

    I leaned forward now, resting my forearms on his desk, closing the distance between us. “So tell me, Commissioner… Why was Adrian Westwood arrested?”

    He gave me a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Beaumont, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    I chuckled under my breath. “Don’t lie to me. I didn’t expect you to blurt it out immediately–I’m not na?ve. I’m sure Adrian offered byou /bsomething to buy your silence. Money, favors… who knows? But I assure you, you can tell me.”

    “Where are you getting all of this from?” he asked, his voice just a little too defensive now. “Mr. Westwood iwas /inever arrested.”

    And that’s when I saw it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. It was the same ilook /ipeople got when they were trying to sell a lie they knew the other person wouldn’t buy.

    My lips curved into a slow smile. I could see the truth hiding behind his denial

    He was lying through his teeth.