Bound by the Cartel (Nightshade Wolves #4)

Chapter 1

Norri

In the grimy, rain-soaked streets of New Haven, I shuffled along the cracked sidewalk, my threadbare coat doing little to keep out the chill that seemed to seep into my very bones. The neon signs above flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows on the damp pavement as I made my way home, or what passed for it.

Home was a cramped, mold-stained room in a boarding house run by Mrs. Hargrove, a woman whose face bore more lines than a well-worn map. The place was a dump, but it was all I could afford with my meager earnings from the factory. My life was about as exciting as watching paint dry - if the paint was gray and the wall was already covered in peeling, chipped paint.

Every morning, I'd wake up to the sound of Mrs. Hargrove banging pots downstairs, the smell of burnt toast wafting through the thin walls. I'd stumble out of bed, my body aching from another night spent tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress, and start getting ready for another thrilling day at the mill.

The factory was a monstrous beast of steel and smoke, its chimney spewing black clouds into the sky like some sort of industrial dragon. Inside, it was always hot and loud, the clatter of machinery drowning out even the loudest thoughts. I worked the graveyard shift, which meant I spent my nights surrounded by the constant hum of machines and the dull glow of harsh fluorescent lights.

My days off were no better. They consisted mainly of wandering the streets, trying to find something - anything - to fill the endless hours until I had to report back to the mill. I'd window shop, staring at things I couldn't afford, or sit in the park feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons. Anything to avoid going back to that dismal room.

Food was whatever I could scrape together from the market. Most days, it was a hunk of hard cheese and a stale roll from the bakery. Sometimes, if I was feeling flush, I'd treat myself to a bowl of stew from the soup kitchen down on Third Street. It wasn't much, but it filled the hole in my stomach and gave me enough energy to trudge through another day.

Alone. Always alone. No family, no friends. Just me and this godforsaken city, stuck in this never-ending cycle of work and sleep and work again.

And then there were the dreams. Or rather, the lack thereof. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw were shadows dancing on the backs of my eyelids. No vibrant colors, no exciting adventures. Just... nothing. A vast expanse of emptiness where dreams should have been.

But hey, at least I had my pride, right? Not much else, but I still had that. And sometimes, late at night when the city was quiet and still, I'd let myself dream just a little bit. Dream of a world where I didn't live paycheck to paycheck. Where I didn't spend every waking moment exhausted and hungry. Where maybe, just maybe, someone would look at me and see not just another faceless cog in the machine, but a person worth knowing.

But those were just pipe dreams. This was reality. And reality sucked.

As I lay awake in my cold, creaky bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, my mind wandered back to a time that felt like a lifetime ago. Ten long years had passed since I'd stood on the cobbled streets of Boston, fresh-faced and eager, ready to embark on my year abroad at Harvard University.

I'd been selected as part of an exchange program between our small island nation and the United States, a rare opportunity given only to a handful of students each year. My parents had been overjoyed; they'd scraped together every penny to send me across the ocean, their only child, their hope for a brighter future.

The campus had been a world away from the grimy streets of New Haven I now called home. Lush green lawns stretched out beneath towering brick buildings adorned with ivy, while students clad in sweatshirts bearing proud emblems hurried between classes. It was a far cry from the dilapidated factories and crumbling tenements of my everyday life.

My roommate had been a lanky kid named Tom from some small town in Kansas. He was outgoing, friendly, with a laugh that could fill a room. We'd bonded over shared meals in the dining hall, late-night study sessions fueled by pizza and caffeine, and weekend trips exploring the city together. For the first time in my life, I'd felt like I belonged somewhere.

Academically, it had been challenging but exhilarating. My classes were taught by renowned professors who pushed us to think critically, to question everything we thought we knew. I devoured books like they were oxygen, staying up until the wee hours engrossed in works by authors I'd only ever read about before. It was invigorating, intellectually stimulating, and utterly exhausting.

But perhaps what I missed most about that time was the sense of possibility it offered. In America, anything seemed possible. People talked openly about their dreams, about changing the world, about making a difference. Back home, such talk was often met with scorn or derision.

One evening, towards the end of my stay, Tom invited me along to a party hosted by some of his friends from our dormitory. The house was packed wall-to-wall with people laughing, dancing, and drinking. As I looked around at all those faces - so young, so full of life - I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy.

Then I saw him. Across the room, leaning against the mantelpiece talking animatedly to a group of people clustered around him. His name was Jamie. He had shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes, laughter lines etched into the corners of his mouth, and a smile that could light up a room.

We locked eyes briefly before he turned back to his conversation, but that fleeting moment sent a jolt through me unlike anything I'd ever experienced. From then on, I found excuses to linger near him, hoping to catch another glimpse of his smile, another snippet of his laugh.

Over the next few weeks, we grew closer. We'd meet up after class, grab coffee together, and take long walks along the Charles River. He listened intently when I spoke about my passions, challenged my thoughts respectfully, and made me feel seen in a way nobody ever had before.

And then came the night under the stars. We'd been studying together in his dorm room when suddenly, inexplicably, we were kissing. Soft lips pressed against mine, tentative at first before deepening into something more urgent, more passionate. When we finally pulled apart, breathless and grinning foolishly at each other, I knew without a doubt that I loved him.

But fate is cruel sometimes. Just days later, I received news that my mother had taken ill back home. With heavy hearts, Jamie and I said our goodbyes amidst promises to keep in touch, to write letters, to make plans for when he came to visit me next summer...

But life intervened. My mother recovered slowly but surely, though she never regained her former vigor. Upon returning to New Haven, I found work at the factory to help support our family. Days blurred into months which blurred into years. Letters stopped being replied to, phone calls went unanswered. Eventually, Jamie stopped trying altogether.

Now here I am, ten years later, stuck in this cycle of monotony and despair. A shell of the hopeful young man I once was. Sometimes I wonder if that boy still exists somewhere inside me, waiting for a chance to break free again.

But then I remember the harsh reality of my situation, and I know that dream is dead and buried. Just like my dreams of a better life with Jamie. All that remains are echoes of what might have been, haunting me like ghosts in the night.

So yes, things used to be different. Better even. But those days are gone now, lost forever in the mists of time. And all I'm left with is this...this empty shell of a life I lead today.