When the skinny runner from the corner brought Marcus his egg sandwich and coffee the next morning, a burner phone lay on the tray. He sat up fast, flipping it open with a look of pure focus, and then a cold grin spread across his young face. After catching his breakfast and swallowing the lukewarm brew, he lit a cigarette, taking his time to wash up and change into a fresh tracksuit. Twice he glanced at the screen, which to any regular eye looked like a series of basketball bets on a game in Jersey. But it meant everything to the young mastermind. It meant so much that as he pulled on his sneakers, he chuckled low and whispered:
"I wonder what the old man's next move is? Don't matter. It's already checkmated."
He stepped into the small back room he used as an office, sat at his desk, and got back to work on the digital ledger he was building—a system that, in a year's time, would control the flow of work across the whole East Coast, from the projects to the suburbs. When the afternoon sun hit the window, he stood up, stretched his aching back, and headed down to the kitchen where the family ate. As he walked in, he saw the table where Big Seth and Joan usually sat was empty. He took a seat and waited for her. The food was served, but she didn't show, which caught him off guard. Did she know he was watching? Maybe she stayed away because she felt the heat. Yet he had been playing the "quiet son" role perfectly. How could she know he was the one pulling the strings?
Suddenly, when he was almost finished eating and the rest of the crew had headed back to the block, she came in, acting all rushed and smiling.
"My bad, Marcus!" she cried out. "Don't tell me you finished already. That's good. I was out walking the neighborhood, took me way longer to get back than I thought."
"It's all good, Joan," Marcus said, keeping his voice flat. He was close enough now to act like he cared. "I thought maybe you were eating at the spot on 5th, so I started. Forgive me."
"Always," she said, sitting down and pulling off her leather gloves. She looked dangerous even in a simple white dress and a dark hat. While she ate, she talked fast, full of that fake energy she used to distract the old heads. Marcus knew that only by making her think he was falling for her could he get to the real secret she was hiding from his father. He invited her up to his room, where she crashed into his lounge chair, tossed her hat, and took a cigarette from his pack, letting him light it.
When the room was quiet and the house was still, he stood over her, looking into her eyes with a faked-up look of obsession. He took her hand, acting like a teenager caught in a trance, and leaned down.
"Marcus," she said, pulling back fast. "Stop. We're cool, but keep it at that. Let's just be friends."
"But Joan!" he pressed, grabbing her hand again. "Can't you see? How you got me twisted? How you're the only one who sees me? I'm in deep with you, I swear."
"Love!" she scoffed, her voice going ice-cold. "I ain't got nothing to give you, kid. Drop it. I'm serious."
"I can't!" he pushed, acting desperate, his face pale as he held on, and before she could move, he leaned in and forced a kiss on her.
"You doing this while Seth is out of the house?" she snapped, never guessing he was just playing a part. "That's foul. How am I supposed to trust you when you're moving on me like this? I thought you were a real one, a good friend to me and a brother to my man."
In a heartbeat, Marcus's face shifted. His eyes went small, and his mouth went hard.
"And why should I care about your man, Joan?" he asked in a low, dangerous whisper. "Why should I look out for him when I know how he treats you when the lights are off? All these old-school dudes think they can own a woman like a piece of property. Why should I show him respect?"
"He's my husband, regardless," she replied in a quiet, shaky voice. The way she said it told him everything he needed to know. He pretended to feel bad as he let go of her hand. But he stayed in her space, whispering:
"Joan, I'm tellin' you. I'm the one."
She stood up fast, grabbing her hat to leave. Marcus grabbed her wrist, taking the hat back. His face was a mask of pure intent.
"I'm for real about this, Joan. You gotta hear me out."
"No!" she shouted. "I'm going to my room. This is wrong, Marcus."
"Listen to me—listen to the logic, Joan."
"I'm done listening!" she protested. "I had no clue you were catching feelings like this. I thought we were just cool. You're supposed to be the smart one, the one with the future."
"The future don't mean nothing to me without this," he lied, looking heartbroken. "I'm telling you, I want you."
She looked into his eyes again, her hand trembling in his grip. He felt her shaking and knew that even though she was trying to stay calm, she was falling apart inside. Her dark eyes were shining, and he knew she was losing the battle.
"Can you feel it, Joan?" he whispered.
She shook her head, looking miserable. "Marcus," she said, her voice strained. "You're asking for the impossible. I can't—I won't let myself go there."
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because there are reasons. Real reasons. You can't be with me. Remember who I'm married to."
"I know. But what's that matter?" Marcus asked. "I ain't the first kid to want a boss's woman."
"No. But—I just can't. That's it," she said blankly.
"Tell me why. Give me the real reason."
"It's heavy, Marcus. Real heavy."
"What is it?"
"If you knew the truth," she answered, her voice breaking. "If you knew the dirt I'm standing in, you'd never look at me again." Tears started hitting her eyes.
"What truth? I don't get it. You talking in circles."
"I know. But it's my secret—a secret I gotta keep even from you."
He stayed quiet for a second, puzzled. What secret? He had a suspicion—one he was going to prove using this fake romance as a pry bar.
"You talking about the past?" he asked soft. "Cuz I don't care about that."
"No," she snapped. "It's about right now. But don't ask me again. I——"
"But Joan! I want you!" he cried out, the boy whose name would soon be feared across the city. "Can't we just forget the secret?"
"We can't. I'm telling you, if you knew... you'd hate me."
"Hate you?" he echoed. "Never."
"You would. I'm sure of it," she whispered, sounding like she was in pain.
"You being real mysterious," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Just tell me."
"I can't, Marcus," she said after a minute, the tears flowing now. "Please, just let it go. It's too dark. You're my friend, not my man. Let's keep it like that."
He spent the next half hour playing her, holding her hand and kissing her again, but she wouldn't break. She wouldn't tell him why she was scared, only saying: "Let's just be cool, like we were before the money got big."
Mentioning the old days made him think. He remembered the streets back then, and that night at dinner, he played the "good son" again. He invited her for coffee, but she chose the public lounge, and later they walked by the river under the moon. As they talked, he was shocked by how much she knew about the drug trade. She knew the routes from the coast to the city, from the docks to the stash houses. She knew the game as well as he did.
When they parted at eleven, Marcus hit the bar where two older soldiers were drinking. He joined them, talking street politics and the state of the union.
"There's gonna be a war with the Italians soon," one soldier named Rico said. "Everything's pointing to it. They're moving back into the North Side. Read the papers, look at the blocks. The Commission is losing control. They're stacking guns and soldiers in a hurry."
"When you think it's gonna pop off?" Marcus asked, acting like he didn't care.
"Within a year," Rico said. "The big man told me last week. But they keeping it quiet from the young shooters."
"He's just paranoid," the other soldier said. "The Italians ain't ready."
Marcus listened to every word. If they knew who they were talking to, they would have shut up fast. The argument got heated, and Marcus took mental notes of the names they dropped. When he went to his room, he wrote late into the night, listing the names Rico had slipped.
The next day, he went back to being "friends" with Joan. They spent the morning driving through the city, passing the bodegas and the projects, leaving the high-rises behind. For the next week, they were inseparable, and the whole crew started talking about how the boss's son was always with Joan while George was gone.
One night, Marcus made his move. He stayed up until 2 AM, then grabbed a set of professional-grade lockpicks and an infrared light. He slipped out of his room, moved down the hall without shoes, and headed to Joan's private suite in the other wing.
He knew the room well. The door was locked, but he used a tension tool and a pick, and the tumbler clicked. He stepped inside, switching on his light. The bedroom door was closed. He breathed easy. He hit the light switch, revealing a room filled with expensive clothes and the smell of perfume. He went straight for the desk. With his picks, he opened the drawers and found a stack of letters.
In the middle drawer was a small metal box. It took him a minute to crack the lock. Inside were letters addressed to Joan at a fake name in the city. He read them fast—they were love letters from four months ago, written by a man who signed himself "Othmar." The postmarks were from all over—Miami, Vegas, LA. It was clear this guy was moving money to her behind George's back.
For thirty minutes he went through the stash, getting the proof he needed. He relocked the box, put everything back, and slipped out as quiet as a ghost. He headed back to his room, knowing he finally had the leverage to break her.