Chapter 13 #3
“I’m bored,” Alistair announces loudly. “The Vane drama peaked too early. I need to escalate.”
“Escalate to what?” I ask. “Nuclear option?”
“Scorched earth,” Alistair agrees. “I’m going to propose a toast to Frederick’s hairpiece. It’s not a hairpiece, but by the time I’m done, everyone will think it is. It’s a psy-op.”
“I do not wear a hairpiece!” Frederick shouts.
“It’s a weave of lies!” Alistair shouts back.
The room goes silent.
Alistair straightens his tie. He looks at the Archbishop.
“Your Eminence,” Alistair says. “Ten to one odds I make Frederick cry?”
The Archbishop slams Meredith’s hand down onto the tray. “Victory!” he declares. He checks his watch. “I’ll take that action, Alistair. But make it quick, the buffet closes in twenty minutes.”
Alistair grins.
“Run,” he advises us. “Extract yourselves. I’ll provide covering fire.”
He marches toward the microphone.
“Go,” Max orders us. “He’s going to do it. The blast radius will be significant.”
“We’re bugging out,” I say, grabbing Luke’s hand. “Exfil is the side door.”
“Wait,” Luke stops. “The crab cakes.”
“Leave the cakes, Luke! This is a hot zone!”
We run. We weave through the crowd, dodging Aunt Meredith who is demanding a rematch. We slip out the side door just as Alistair taps his spoon against the glass.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! A toast to my brother Frederick! A man who proves that money can buy hair, but it cannot buy dignity!”
The door clicks shut, muffling the chaos.
We stand on 5th Avenue. It’s quiet.
“Your family,” Luke says, exhaling. “Max and Jax… they’re the only sane ones, aren't they?”
“They’re the survivors,” I say. “And now, so are we.”
Luke laughs. He pulls me in by my lapels and kisses me.
“Let’s go home,” he says. “I want to take this jacket off.”
“To the Penthouse?”
“No, to Queens. I’m craving pizza and your drafty window.”
As we hail a cab, I get a text.
From: Jax
Target destroyed. Frederick threw a bread roll. Alistair is singing ‘My Way.’ Max is hiding in a plant. The Archbishop won $500. Mission accomplished. You owe me pizza.
I smile.
“Driver,” I say. “To Queens. We need rations.”
There is no Cattleya orchid in Sal’s Pizzeria. There is, however, a neon sign that buzzes like an angry hornet, a faded poster of the 1986 Mets, and a smell of yeast and garlic that is honestly better than any perfume my mother owns.
We are the only two people in the shop. Sal is ignoring us to watch a telenovela on a tiny TV mounted in the corner.
Luke slides a paper plate toward me. It creates a grease stain on the Formica table that is shaped vaguely like Italy.
“Pepperoni,” Luke announces. “The great equalizer.”
I look at the slice. It is floppy. It is greasy. It is the size of my head.
“I am wearing a seven-thousand-dollar tuxedo,” I note, picking up a plastic fork.
“Don’t you dare,” Luke warns. “If you eat pizza with a fork in Queens, Sal will ban us. Use your hands, York. Fold it.”
“It’s a structural nightmare, Luke. The cheese integrity is compromised.”
But I do it. I fold the slice. I take a bite. It burns the roof of my mouth, and it is magnificent.
Luke watches me eat, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. He has taken off the velvet jacket—draping it carefully over the back of the booth—and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He looks less like a Prince now and more like the guy who saves lives for a living.
“So,” Luke says, taking a massive bite of his own slice. “The Gala. On a scale of one to ten, how normal was that?”
“For a Friday night? Solid six,” I admit, wiping my mouth with a rough napkin. “We didn't have to call a lawyer, and no one was arrested. The Russian bots were a new touch, but otherwise, standard operating procedure.”
Luke shakes his head, chuckling. “Your brother… Max. I always thought he was just, you know, the Ice King. Robot Surgeon. But tonight… watching him lie about the soup spoon? He’s actually funny.”
“Max is hilarious,” I correct. “He just hides it deep down under layers of repression and classical music. It’s a defense mechanism.”
“Against what? Alistair?”
“Against the chaos,” I say. “Growing up, Max was the Heir. He had to be perfect. Which meant I, as the Spare, had only one job.”
“Which was?”
“To test his blood pressure,” I grin. “I was a menace, Luke. When I was eight and Max was twenty-one and back from school for the summer, he went through this phase where everything had to be labeled. He had this label maker he guarded with his life.”
“Let me guess,” Luke says. “You stole it?”
“Better. I re-labeled everything in his room. I labeled his biology textbook ‘Nerd Bible.’ I labeled his cello ‘Sadness Box.’ But the coup de grace was the cat. We had a Persian cat named Baroness at the time. I put a label on her forehead that just said ‘Dog.’”
Luke bursts out laughing. He nearly chokes on his crust.
“He didn't notice for three days,” I continue. “But when he did? He chased me through the East Wing shouting about ‘taxonomy.’ It was beautiful.”
I take another bite of pizza.
“That’s my role, Luke. I poke the bear. I break the tension. Max builds the empire, and I make sure he doesn't stroke out while doing it.”
Luke smiles, but his eyes go soft. He traces the rim of his soda cup.
“Must be nice,” he says quietly. “Having a brother to chase you around the house.”
The mood shifts.
“You’ve never talked about your dad,” I say gently. “I know about Mama Ortiz. But Mr. Silva is… absent from the record.”
Luke shrugs. It’s a tight, practiced movement.
“He’s not dead,” Luke says. “He’s just… gone. He was a lot like Alistair, actually. Loud. Charismatic. He loved to gamble. But Alistair has a trust fund. My dad just had the rent money.”
Luke looks out the window at the empty Queens street.
“He’d bet on anything. When I was ten, he bet his paycheck on a Knicks game. They lost. He didn't come home that night. Or the next. My mom waited up for a week.”
“Luke, I’m sorry.”
“It clarified things,” Luke says firmly. “I realized chaos isn't funny when you can’t afford it. Someone had to be the grown-up. So I became the man of the house. I help pay the bills, got a part time job, tried to pay my way as best I could. I made sure my sister did her homework.”
He looks at me.
“That’s why I get so annoyed with you sometimes. When you treat the hospital like a playground. It reminds me of him. The flashy gestures.”
I put my pizza down. My appetite is suddenly gone.
“I get that,” I say softly. “And I know I’m… a lot. I’m the garnish, Luke. Max is the steak. I’m just the parsley. Decorative, but unnecessary.”
Luke reaches across the table. He grabs my hand. His fingers are warm and calloused.
“Hey. Don't do that. You think parsley could have taken down Harrison Vane tonight?”
I blink. “No.”
“Exactly. You didn't just annoy a billionaire, Preston. You protected me. You saw a bully, and you didn't back down. My dad ran away from problems. You? You ran toward the fire.”
He squeezes my hand.
“You’re not the Spare, Preston. Not to me.”
I swallow hard. I feel a burning sensation behind my eyes. I will not cry in a pizza place.
“God,” I choke out. “You’re ruining my brand. I’m supposed to be the shallow one.”
“Too late,” Luke says softly. “I see you.”
He stands up, grabbing the velvet jacket.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Luke lives in a fourth-floor walk-up. I have climbed these stairs twelve times in the last month, and I am convinced the building grows an extra floor every time I visit.
“My glutes are going to be tighter than my mother’s facelift,” I complain as we hit the third landing. “I need oxygen. I need a Sherpa.”
“You need to do more cardio,” Luke says, unlocking his door. “You’re winded and you’re twenty-three. It’s tragic.”
He pushes the door open.
We step inside. The apartment is small, warm, and familiar. It smells like the cedar-wood candle I bought him and the lingering scent of the pepperoni we just consumed.
I walk in like I own the place—because, technically, I own the most expensive appliance in it. I head straight for the kitchen counter, shrugging off my tuxedo jacket and draping it over the breakfast bar next to a stack of medical journals.
“I’m making coffee,” I announce, checking the Breville machine. “Do you want some? Or do you want me to figure out how to use the steam wand to make a nightcap?”
“Preston,” Luke says.
“I think we’re out of the good beans,” I continue, opening the cabinet where I know he keeps the mugs. “I’ll have the courier drop some off tomorrow. And maybe some biscotti. Your pantry is depressing, Luke. It’s just protein bars and sadness.”
I turn around, holding a mug.
Luke hasn't moved from the door. He’s leaning against it, watching me. He isn't smiling. The playful vibe from the pizza place has vanished, replaced by something heavier. Something predatory.
“What?” I ask, setting the mug down. “Is there spinach in my teeth? I told you, leaf vegetables are a trap.”
Luke pushes off the door. He crosses the small living room in three long strides.
“You’re really making yourself at home,” he says softly.
“Well, I did pay for the coffee maker,” I tease, leaning back against the counter, though my heart rate just spiked. “And I have a toothbrush in the bathroom. I think that gives me squatters’ rights.”
Luke doesn't laugh. He steps into my personal space, crowding me against the counter. He places his hands on the Formica on either side of my hips, caging me in.
“Stop performing,” Luke says.
My smile falters. “I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You’re doing the ‘Preston York’ thing. The jokes. The deflections. You’re filling the silence because you’re nervous.”
He leans in, his nose brushing mine. He smells like soap and the faint, metallic scent of the city.
“Why are you nervous, Preston? You’ve been here before. We’ve done this before.”
“Not like this,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can catch it. “Before, it was… casual. It was fun. Tonight felt real.”