Chapter 1
“Yes, Cal, I know. I am waiting for Marcia to bring me the list,” Marcus said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. “She told me yesterday that only the best of the best signed on for the recruitment program. Yes! Of course... just a minute. Let me see. Oh, yes, I found it.”
He pulled the document closer, his dark eyes scanning the text.
“Twenty recruits. Out of those, five will be trained in logistics, five in analytics, and five in combat. Four will be transferred as soon as basic training finishes... and one of them will be trained directly under me. He will be my protégé.” Marcus paused, a muscle tightening in his jaw at whatever she said next. “I am not that old, Cal. I am more than capable of doing my job. I will keep you informed of my decisions. Goodbye, Cal.”
Marcus ended the call with the same attitude he brought to everything else in his life: firm, absolute, and without a shred of hesitation.
In front of him, the desk was cluttered with a scattered array of photographs and CVs. He hated this specific part of the job. It forced him to calculate human variables, to weigh unpredictable outcomes he couldn’t entirely control. He didn’t give a damn about the other nineteen candidates; they were just numbers to be slotted into the machine.
His only focus was the one.
He had to find the single recruit capable of becoming his right hand. They needed to exist in total, flawless sync. One must be able to finish the other’s sentence; one must predict the other’s actions before they even happened. Marcus stared down at the paperwork, knowing bitterly that finding a person that fiercely dedicated would be like finding a drop of gold in a sea of shadows—a once-in-a-trillion shot.
Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, the silver-streaked strands of his dark hair pulling tight against his scalp where his bun was pinned. He picked up the first nineteen files, barely glancing at the faces before sorting them into their designated piles. Logistics. Analytics. Basic combat. They were numbers. Assets to be moved across Callisti’s chessboard.
Then, his fingers brushed against the twentieth folder.
Unlike the others, which were pristine, this one had a slight crease at the corner, as if the person handling it hadn’t cared about protocol. Marcus opened it.
The face staring back at him in the photograph was striking—sharp features, intense honey-brown eyes, and long, wavy blonde hair tied back carelessly. But it wasn’t just the aesthetics that made Marcus pause. It was the absolute lack of fear in the man’s expression. Most recruits looked terrified or overly stoic in their intake photos. This guy looked like he was holding back a smirk.
Marcus glanced down at the name typed on the tab.
Gino Alesik. Age: 25.
Marcus flipped the page to the signature line at the bottom of the recruitment contract. He expected a sloppy scrawl from a kid who looked that reckless. Instead, his eyes narrowed. The signature was immaculate. Every line was perfectly balanced, drawn with a lethal, razor-sharp discipline that completely contradicted the loose, carefree vibe of the photograph.
Interesting.
A firm knock rattled the heavy oak door of his office.
“Enter,” Marcus commanded, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that could freeze a man’s blood.
The door swung open, and Marcia stepped into the room, followed by a shadow that immediately altered the gravity of the space. Marcus didn’t look up right away, intentionally letting the silence stretch to assert his dominance. It was a tactic that usually left recruits sweating.
“Mr. Obici,” Marcia said quietly. “The candidates have arrived for the initial physical screening. But this one... requested to speak with the Handler directly regarding a discrepancy in his assignment.”
Marcus finally raised his brown eyes, his stern, unreadable gaze locking onto the man standing behind her.
Gino Alesik was tall. Exactly 6′3", matching Marcus’s own imposing height eye-to-eye. He wore a dark, well-fitted suit that couldn’t hide the broad, masculine build of his shoulders or the heavy muscle carved into his frame. But what drew Marcus’s immediate irritation, and undivided attention, was the glint of silver. A small, sharp ring pierced the side of Gino’s nose, and subtle metal caught the dim light in his ears.
It was a blatant infraction of the traditional, rigid dress code. A piece of pure rebellion worn right on his face.
Gino didn’t flinch under Marcus’s icy stare. Instead, those honey-brown eyes roamed over Marcus, taking in the older man’s immaculate suit, his stern posture, and the silver in his hair. A faint, amused smile touched the corner of Gino’s lips.
“A discrepancy?” Marcus asked, his voice dangerously smooth as he leaned back in his leather chair, tapping a finger against Gino’s file. “You haven’t even cleared basic training, recruit, and you are already demanding modifications to my order?”
Gino stepped forward, his movements incredibly fast, fluid, and precise, like a predator navigating a familiar cage. He stopped right at the edge of Marcus’s desk, invading his space just enough to break the unspoken boundaries of the room.
“Not a modification, Mr. Obici,” Gino said, his tone light but entirely firm, his voice carrying a rich confidence that filled the quiet office. “A correction. Your paperwork has me slated for advanced analytics. But I think we both know I belong right here.”
Gino reached out, his large, muscular hand coming down flat on the desk. He leaned in slightly, bringing his face close enough that Marcus could see the gold flecks in his eyes.
“I didn’t sign that paper to look at spreadsheets,” Gino murmured, his smirk fading into something intense, calculating, and dangerously stern. “I signed up to watch the back of the second-in-command. I’m the one you’re looking for.”
Marcus’s eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to Gino’s chest, where the top buttons of his shirt were slightly undone, revealing the edge of dark ink scripted across his skin: Primus inter pares.
First among equals.
A thick, heavy tension settled over the room, an invisible cord snapping tight between them. Marcus rose slowly to his feet, stretching to his full height, refusing to give an inch of ground to the younger man. They stood completely face-to-face, a dark wall of absolute order opposing a brilliant wave of precise chaos.
“You like to break the order of things, Alesik?” Marcus asked, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Gino’s smirk returned, sharp, daring, and testing the waters. “Only when the order is wrong, sir.”
A heavy silence stretched between them, thick with a sudden, competitive heat. Marcus didn’t back down, and to his surprise, neither did the kid.
“Okay, boy. You have my attention,” Marcus said, his gravelly voice smooth as ice. Without breaking eye contact with Gino for even a fraction of a second, he raised his voice slightly. “Marcia, bring this young boy a glass of water. And bring me an espresso.”
“Of course, Mr. Obici,” Marcia replied, her voice cautious as she took in the sudden shift in the room’s gravity. “What about the other candidates?”
“Tell them to wait,” Marcus commanded, a dangerous glint entering his brown eyes. “Apparently, as I am told, I have made a terrible mistake. Is that right, Mr. Alesik?”
Gino didn’t even blink. He leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, the silver ring in his nose catching the dim lamplight. “Not a mistake. I would describe it as a misjudgment.”
A low, humorless rumble vibrated in Marcus’s chest. “That is a very kind way of telling someone he is wrong.”
“No,” Gino murmured, his smirk shifting into a look of absolute, unshakeable certainty. “That is just the only way to tell you that I am your guy.”
Marcia returned a moment later, the quiet clink of the porcelain espresso cup and the glass of water the only sounds breaking the heavy silence. She placed them on the edge of the desk, offered a quick, wary glance at the two men still locked in a visual standoff, and promptly left the room, closing the heavy oak door firmly behind her.
The click of the latch sounded like a starting pistol.
Marcus reached down, his large, scarred hand wrapping around the small espresso cup. He brought it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the bitter black liquid, never once breaking eye contact. He set the cup back down on its saucer with absolute precision.
“So, Mr. Alesik,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous purr. “Amuse me. Where was I wrong?”
