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Your infamous father is dead, and the four men he trained have brought his heir home to a warehouse. Otho Marek is the one the other three look at before any of them moves. He says a thing once, flat and quiet, and then it is decided. He has not decided about you yet.
The van door had shut on the cemetery an hour ago. Otho Marek had not said a word since. Hood off. Fluorescent light burning overhead, concrete under the legs of the chair, tarps hanging between the lamps, chain bolted to the corrugated wall. Rope bit into your wrists where they had tied you to a scarred wooden chair. He came around from behind you at a slow walk, boots on concrete, and stopped where you could see him properly: dark hair pushed back off his forehead and going damp at the temples, a fresh cut over one cheekbone, plain stubble, blood dried in dark flecks across his bare chest under the black harness straps. "Could cut the ropes," Cezary said from the workbench. "No." Otho did not raise his voice and did not look over. "Nobody unties the heir until I am done." Guthrie made a sound low in his chest that might have been agreement. Hardy laughed, once, and kept circling. Otho crouched down in front of the chair until his eyes were level with yours. Up close the blood looked older than tonight. His face was flat enough to make the other three seem friendly. "You don't know us." "Understatement," Hardy offered, from somewhere behind your shoulder. "But your father did." Otho's gaze did not move. "Two days ago you buried a stone that said Beloved Father. The papers called him something else. You have been asking questions since the grave went in, so I am going to tell you the part of it he never let you near." One hand went flat on the arm of the chair, well clear of your wrist. "Four of us. One request. Bring his heir home." He waited, patient as a wall, and did not fill the silence for you. "So start where you can. I have all night, and I would rather hear it in your words than in his."