Page 30 of King of Violence

FELIX

The idea gnaws at me for days like a persistent itch I can’t scratch. Julian’s story doesn’t add up, no matter how I try to piece it together. A sporting goods store? He says it’s family-owned, yet he’s never mentioned its name, never once shared a story about customers, coworkers, or even the mundane parts of working retail. It’s like a placeholder excuse he keeps hoping I won’t question too much.

But I do question it—because something about it feels wrong. Forced. Manufactured.

By the time I decide to look into it, I’ve convinced myself it’s not about prying into his life. It’s about clearing up my own doubts. If I just confirm the store exists, I can let it go. Right?

I start simple, opening my laptop in the corner of the campus library. It’s quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of papers or muffled coughs, the perfect setting to investigate without distraction. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type:sporting goods stores in Montcove. A list of results appears almost instantly.

A few chain stores pop up first—names I already know. Then there’s a smattering of smaller, independent shops, most with basic websites or Yelp pages. I scan the list, my eyes narrowingas I go. None of them mention being family-owned or even remotely tied to the Greco name. The Greco family seems to own a lot of land: construction sites, empty plots, etc., but no sporting goods stores.

Still, I’m not ready to give up. I try again, this time searching forGreco family-owned sporting goods. Nothing. I addlocal, thenindependent. The results get smaller and smaller until it’s clear that no such store exists.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen. My chest tightens. The lie is undeniable now, glaring back at me in bold, empty search results.

It doesn’t make sense. Why lie about something as simple as a job? If he didn’t want to tell me, he could have said so. He didn’t have to make up a story. What’s the point? The weight of the realization settles over me, cold and heavy. Julian’s been lying to me this whole time, and whatever he’s hiding—it’s bigger than just a job.

My phone buzzes on the desk.

Julian:Sorry for the last minute text, but I can’t make it tonight. Got work after practice. But I’ll make it up to you. ;)

It’s the same excuse he’s used a dozen times before, and each time, I’ve let it slide. Not tonight.

Tonight, I need answers.

After his practice ends, I wait near the parking lot, straddling my bike. The floodlights from the field cast long shadows, and the faint echo of cleats on asphalt carries in the cool evening air. I spot him before he sees me as he jogs toward his sleek black car, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

Before I can follow him, a voice startles me.

“Felix, right?”

I turn to see Cole Andrews, one of Julian’s teammates, leaning against a lamppost. His brown hair catches the light, and his casual smirk tells me he’s been watching me for a while.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

“Just...leaving,” I say, gripping the handlebars of my bike.

Cole tilts his head, his smirk widening. “You sure? Because it kinda looks like you’re waiting for Julian.”

I roll my eyes and try to brush past him, but he steps in my way.

“So, you and Julian, huh?” he says, folding his arms. “Didn’t think you were his type.”

I freeze, my pulse quickening. “We’re not...anything.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Sure. So you’re just here for the scenery?”

I don’t answer, slipping around him before he can stop me. Behind me, I hear him laugh softly.

“Good luck, man,” he calls out, his voice fading as I pedal away. “He has a trail of broken hearts behind him.”

Julian’s car pulls out of the lot, and I follow at a safe distance. My bike tires hum against the pavement and the cool night air bites at my skin. He takes a winding route through the city, weaving through streets I don’t know well, before finally turning onto a narrow road that leads to the industrial district.

I stop at the corner, watching as his car pulls up to a large warehouse. It’s massive, with corrugated metal walls and no visible signage. A few dim lights glow near the entrance, and the lot is nearly empty except for Julian’s car and a few unmarked vans.

He gets out, his movements quick and purposeful, and disappears through a side door.

I stay where I am, my heart pounding. The idea of going inside crosses my mind, but the thought of being caught stopsme cold. Whatever’s happening here, it’s not something Julian wants me to see—and I’m not sure I want to know.

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