Ink and Iron

Iron

I head toward Marco's office, feeling a mix of anticipation and unease. The heavy wooden door looms before me, like a barrier to whatever's about to unfold. With a deep breath, I place my hand on the cold doorknob, turning it slowly as I push the door open.

As I step into the dimly lit room, my eyes immediately lock onto Marco, sitting behind his desk in the shadowed corner, only partially illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp. Papers are scattered everywhere. His dark, unruly hair falls across his forehead, and his chiseled features seem carved from stone. There's an undeniable pull to him, a kind of raw power that makes you wary and fascinated all at once.

As I approach, he looks up. The air between us is heavy, charged with the weight of our past. I break the silence. "Ever thought about pulling back those drapes? Starting to feel like a dungeon here."

"You know I prefer the shadows," he replies, his voice calm. "They keep things... mysterious."

I chuckle, more at the absurdity of it all than anything else. "Yeah, well, I like to see what I'm doing," I shoot back, trying to keep things light. "But hey, to each their own."

With a shrug, Marco reaches for the drapes, yanking them open. Sunlight floods the room, revealing the snow-covered landscape outside. The room feels less oppressive instantly.

"There," Marco says with a hint of amusement. "Better?"

"Much better," I say with a smirk. I take a seat opposite him, cutting straight to the chase. "So, what do you need from me now?"

Marco leans back in his chair as he sizes me up. "I need to know whenever you're meeting with Pascoe," he says, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of demand. "And I want in on those meetings."

Anger flares up inside me at his presumption. "That's not happening," I snap, my voice sharp. "Pascoe isn't your business, and I'm not your errand boy."

"Relax, Chris. I'm not trying to step on your toes. But having Pascoe on our side could open doors we need."

I narrow my eyes, not buying it. "Pascoe hates your guts, Marco. Besides, I've got the same connections he does. You don't need him."

"I know Pascoe hates me, and I know he was the one who helped you out that night. And as for Lily..." He pauses, his eyes narrowing as if he's probing for weakness. "I know she's been in touch with you all these years."

I stiffen, a knot forming in my gut. "So, what's your point?" I ask, keeping my voice steady, though inside, I'm ready to explode.

"My point is," Marco says quietly, "I knew you were alive before Ghost even hit our radar."

His words hit like a punch. The frustration and bitterness I've been holding back bubble up. "I wish you hadn't," I shoot back, my voice filled with resentment. "Would've been better if you thought I was gone for good."

His face remains stoic, but I catch a flicker of something—regret, maybe. "I get it. I know saying sorry doesn't cut it, but I am sorry for what I did."

"You're right, it doesn't cut it," I reply, my voice cold. "And I won't forget."

Marco's gaze meets mine, and for the first time, I see something genuine in his eyes. "I know, but it's all I've got."

"So, what's the deal with this new gang I keep hearing about?" I ask, steering the conversation to safer ground.

His expression tightens, his guard coming back up. "The Black Lotus. New players, but they're making noise."

"And they're moving in on your turf?" I ask intrigued.

He nods. "They've been making moves, but we've held them off. For now."

I let out a low chuckle. "Sounds like you're scared. If they lock down the underworld connections, they'll overpower the Vipers easily."

His eyes flash with anger. "That's why I need you, Pascoe, and every connection we can get. If I can secure the underworld's backing, we'll be untouchable."

"So who's the big fish you're after?"

Marco leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Salvatore De Luca."

"De Luca, huh? That's a risky play." I say my voice neutral, not wanting to give anything away.

He smirks. "Think you can pull it off?"

I let a slow grin spread across my face. "When you're the ghost of the underworld, anything's possible," I say, my voice dripping with confidence. "I've worked with De Luca before. I'll get him to the table."

Marco's eyes light up with a mix of nostalgia and respect. "Feels like old times, doesn't it? Us scheming our next big move."

"Just like the good old days," I agree, a hint of a smile playing on my lips. "But with higher stakes."

Marco nods, a fondness in his gaze. "Some things never change."

"Yeah, and you're still as stubborn as ever," I tease, leaning back.

"Guilty as charged. But you know I've always believed in doing things my way." He smiles softly, almost a sad smile.

"You know, Marco," I start, pausing just long enough to make him curious, "you remind me a lot of iron."

He arches an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Iron? And what makes you say that?"

"Iron's tough, durable. It's strong enough to build bridges, to hold up entire cities. Just like you, Marco. You've always been strong, unyielding, and determined to get what you want. No matter who or what stands in your way."

His expression softens slightly. "But?"

"But," I continue, leaning back in my chair, "iron has its flaws too. It's rigid, inflexible. It doesn't bend easily, and when it's put under too much pressure, it snaps. It shatters. You're just like that, Marco. You're so focused on your goals, so unwilling to compromise, that you risk breaking under the weight of it all. You can be as strong as iron, but if you're not careful, you'll crack when the pressure gets too high."

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes narrowing as he processes my words. There's a tension in the air, thick and heavy, as if he's weighing the truth in what I've said against his own stubborn pride.

Finally, he lets out a low chuckle. "You've got a point, Chris," he admits, his tone surprisingly open. "I've never been one to bend for anyone. But iron doesn't break easily either. It takes a lot of force, a lot of pressure, to crack it. And even then, it's still one of the strongest materials out there."

I nod, acknowledging his point. "True. But the strongest material isn't always the one that survives. Sometimes, it's the one that can bend and adapt, the one that can take the hits and keep going without shattering. Iron can be reforged, but once it breaks, it's never quite the same. You've got to be careful, Marco. Strength is important, but so is knowing when to give a little."

"Maybe you're right," he says quietly, a hint of something almost like regret in his voice. "Maybe I've been too rigid, too focused on pushing through no matter what. But it's who I am, Chris. It's what's gotten me this far."

"And it's what could destroy you if you're not careful," I reply, my tone firm. "You don't have to give up your strength, Marco. Just learn when to use it and when to let it go. Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is to bend without breaking."

He meets my gaze, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe understanding, maybe doubt—cross his features. "I'll keep that in mind," he says finally.

I stand up, ready to leave. "I'll get in touch with De Luca. We'll see where this goes."

"Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it."

I give him a curt nod, then turn and walk out, ready to set the next phase in motion.