Chapter 2: The Oil of Intent
Marcus killed the ignition. The sudden silence that fell over the estate was deafening.
"Stay here," Marcus commanded, his voice tight. He stepped out of the Bentley, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't head for the trunk; he went straight to the front wheel well. He knelt on the pristine stone, ignoring the way his uniform trousers soaked up the grit.
He reached behind the tire, feeling along the hydraulic lines.
His fingers came back wet.
It wasn't water. It was a dark, viscous fluid—brake fluid, pooling in a fresh, glistening puddle on the expensive cobblestone. He ran his fingers further and felt the unmistakable, jagged edge of a cleanly severed line. It hadn't snapped due to wear; it had been surgically removed with a pair of cutters.
He stood up, his legs feeling heavy, like lead. He didn't look at the car. He looked up at the balcony.
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Evelyn hadn't moved. She was still sitting there, but the teacup was now resting on its saucer. She was watching him with a terrifying, absolute stillness. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look worried. She looked disappointed.
Marcus turned to look at Leo. The boy was trembling, tears carving clean tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He wasn't lying. This child had saved his life.
