Chapter 8

Knox’s POV

Monday has always been that kind of universally fucked-up day everyone hates.

Not because of a boring 9-to-5 or any mundane corporate nonsense, but because of him. How the hell did I let that bastard play me like this? Did he really think—fuck.

I raked my hair backward, muttering a dark curse under my breath as I shoved open the heavy mahogany doors of the office suite.

I slumped into a leather chair, not even sparing the potbellied, sweating piece of garbage sitting across the desk a single glance.

“Who the hell are you?” his voice shook, vibrating with pure, jittery irritation.

I had originally planned to lean across the desk, whisper a few psychological tortures into his ear, and make him sweat out a confession. But looking at him? I realized I just didn't have the patience today.

Without breaking stride, I reached beneath my jacket, drew my silenced Glock, and fired two clean bullets straight through his skull. I watched lazily as his lifeless body slumped forward, crashing hard against the desk before sliding to the floor.

I calmly tucked the weapon back into my shoulder holster, stood up, and brushed some invisible dust off my chest as I walked out.

Reaching the company's underground exit, I swung my leg over my bike. Half a dozen private security guards suddenly rushed toward me, brandishing long-barreled tactical rifles. 

Seriously? Rifles in the middle of a corporate park? What is this, a low-budget action movie? I let out a dry scoff, revving the engine until it let out a deafening roar.

I aimed the front tire straight at the cowards blocking the exit. Seeing a six-hundred-pound motorcycle hurtling toward them at fifty miles an hour apparently cured their bravery; they scattered like panicked toddlers, diving out of the way with wide, terrified eyes.

Amateurs. They made it way too easy. Once I hit the highway and put some distance between myself and the carcass I’d just left behind, my phone buzzed sharply in my pocket.

I pulled over to check it. I had explicitly asked that fucker for target details, so where the hell was the intel?

Instead, the screen lit up with a bunch of useless bullshit about Theo’s latest college blowout, an irrelevant party I had zero intention of attending. I killed the engine, tossed the phone back into my pocket, and zoomed off toward the city.

Reaching my penthouse, I punched in the security code and walked straight down the dim hallway to my bedroom. I stripped off my shirt and went straight for a freezing cold shower.

Once I was clean, I pulled on a fresh black top and matching black pants. Black would forever be my uniform. Every other color on the spectrum was just too loud, too blinding for my eyes.

As I walked out into the open-concept living space, my gaze caught a subtle, shifting silhouette lurking near the kitchen island.

Another amateur hour ambush. Who even sent these pathetic morons anymore? I didn't break stride, casually walking into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of black coffee.

I took a slow sip, picked up a digital tablet, and strolled back into the living room, pretending I hadn't noticed a damn thing.

Suddenly, a shadow lunged from behind the sofa, a heavy hunting knife flashing viciously in the dim light, aimed straight for my spine.

I waited until the last possible fraction of a second. As the blade descended, I whipped around, caught his wrist with bone-crushing force, and swept his legs out from under him. He crashed hard into an armchair, dropping his weapon.

Before he could gasp, I pinned his arm behind his spine, snatched up the dropped knife, and drove the flat of the blade directly against his throat, cutting off his air supply.

“Did an unknown fucker send you, or did I wipe out someone close to you? Pick one,” I asked in a bored, monotonous tone.

His eyes bulged, locking onto mine with a mix of terror and sudden, blinding rage. Why is he telegraphing every emotion on his face like an open book? It was honestly pathetic. Completely boring.

I didn't wait for an answer. I slit his throat with a quick, clinical flick of my wrist and stood up, stepping over the twitching body.

A trusted associate walked out from the private elevator just in time to step over the mess. “Get someone to clean this trash out of my living room,” I muttered, glancing back at him.

“Another ambush? Why the fuck don't you lay low and leave this safehouse if every hitman in the tri-state area knows you're squatting here?” he snapped, crossing his arms.

I let out a cold scoff. “Live a boring life?”

“What part of your chaotic existence is even remotely boring, Knox? You're treating daily assassination attempts like an extreme sport! You get death threats texted to your encrypted phone before breakfast, for fuck's sake!” he fired back, exasperated.

I raised a single brow, taking another sip of my coffee. He let out a heavy breath, rubbing his temples, and muttered a quick, unapologetic curse before shifting gears.

“Word came down about Nora Brown. Her parents' file was sealed. The cops fed her some cover story about a random gang hit, but the whole thing was bought and paid for. Someone high up in the underworld orchestrated the whole cover-up.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re telling me you’re dense enough not to see what that means?” I scoffed.

It all pointed to one unavoidable truth: the Browns weren't just some innocent, happy family caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those lying bastards had skeletons buried deep beneath the polished facade of their life.

“You think they faked their own deaths?” Rook asked, his eyes narrowing.

“The walls have ears,” I smirked, turning on my heel to walk back toward my bedroom as a familiar, throbbing migraine began to form behind my eyes.

“Theo’s party tonight,” he called out as I reached the doorway. “She’s going to be there.”

I froze, my hand pausing on the doorframe. I needed to get that twitchy fool alone. Her parents screwed me over years ago, and now, by sheer, awful luck, the girl had caught me in the middle of a hit and even went ahead and blabbed everything to her little burnout friend.

I had some very important, very loud talking to do with Miss Nora Brown.

Without a word, I pivoted toward my closet, grabbed my heavy leather jacket and bike keys, strode out to the garage, straddled my machine, and roared out into the dark.