He would be a convicted felon, stripped of his wealth, his men, and his territory.

The Detroit faction would swallow what was left of his streets before the snow melted in the spring.

Marcus reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his heavy silver fountain pen.

He unscrewed the cap with slow, deliberate movements.

“Marcus,” I said.

He stopped, his fingers resting on the silver barrel of the pen.

He looked up at me, his dark eyes searching my face for something I had spent months hiding from him.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said, though we both knew it was the only way he survived the night.

“Yes, I do,” he said softly.

He turned the page of the agreement, skipping past the dense paragraphs of legal jargon to the signature line at the bottom.

The paper made a sharp, dry sound as he turned it.

He pressed the nib of the pen to the white sheet.

I watched the dark blue ink flow onto the paper, forming the sharp, elegant letters of his name.

*Marcus Vale.*