Chapter 1
Chapter
One
BLOODY ROSES
Poe
“Roses are red, violets are blue, love bites, and so do you.” – P
G oodbyes.
How I hated them.
I’ve never been good at them, especially when it meant saying goodbye to my parents. I should be used to it by now. I’ve done it before when I moved out of my childhood home to seek independence and find my place in the world, but this is different.
I moved to another state— New York. It feels almost… final. I can’t explain exactly what it is about this city that feels like home but it does.
“Ugh,” I carried one of the last boxes as I stepped into my new apartment, my boots clicking softly on the hardwood floor. The place it’s not extravagant, but it’s mine—dark, clean, and already brimming with new beginnings. Boxes are stacked in corners, labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting, and the faint scent of fresh paint still lingers in the air.
I took a slow, deliberate turn around my new apartment, letting reality settle over me. It’s quiet, except for the distant hum of the busy city below, but it doesn’t feel empty. The space already has character—dark, moody, and very comforting, like it’s been waiting a long time for me. I loved it. It felt like it could belong to a character from one of my books—mysterious, dark, stylish, and a touch brooding. It fits my vibe. My family’s too. We’re all a little kooky but in the most wonderful ways. In my not-so-humble opinion.
Although I preferred the dark, I liked that the high, arched floor-length windows let in streams of silvery light, softened by the heavy, slate–gray curtains draped to the floor. Mom wanted me to go for blue curtains but I rather gray. My obsession with the color is a secret I’ll take to my grave, but it’s real. Even if the color at times hurts to look at, I still chose it. I’ll always choose gray.
I moved my gaze to the walls that are painted a deep, smoky charcoal, the perfect contrast to the ornate white molding that outlines the ceilings and frames the doorways. A black chandelier hangs in the center of the living room, its twisted arms holding warm, flickering bulbs that mimic candlelight. It looks just like the one Aunt Kadra has in her home. It was a gift from her and so were the bookshelves in my tiny office.
Out of all my aunts— and I love them all— Kadra is the one who has a larger place in my heart.
I looked at the floor now. They’re dark wood, smooth but not polished to perfection, with subtle imperfections that give them character too and didn’t remind me of the most luxurious but pretentious condos on this side of town.
One of my favorite parts was the old fireplace with its blackened stone mantel carved with delicate scrollwork, which sat in the corner of the living room with countless frames with pictures of my family. They’re staying back in Detroit but I placed photos of them everywhere in this apartment to make it feel like they’re always here with me. I love how the fireplace looked like with all of them there.
I imagined how cozy it’ll feel on chilly nights, with a fire cracking and a book or my laptop in my lap while I got some writing done. When I was little, I used to sit in dad’s lap while he wrote his beautiful stories and the fire crackled beside us. Those were some of the memories I treasured the most along with traveling with mommy while she took pictures for her galleries and magazines.
The furniture I brought fits surprisingly well. My black velvet loveseat and mismatched chairs don’t feel out of place against the backdrop of exposed brick on one wall. A vintage mirror hangs above a slim console table, the tarnished silver frame adds a touch of drama. It seems broken somehow and that makes it more appealing to me.
The broken things have the most meaning for me. I treasured them dearly. Those are the things that most people discard because they no longer deemed them perfect. They’re perfectly-imperfect to me.
I looked towards the kitchen next. It’s small but striking, with glossy black cabinets and a sleek marble countertop veined in gray and white. The brass handles and fixtures gleamed faintly, their vintage look tying everything together beautifully.
Then to the far left was my office. It was my favorite place in the entire apartment. It’s not just any room—it’s a piece of home transplanted here, a place where I could write and dream and feel like I’m still connected to my father. The walls were painted in the same deep, inky black as his office back home, their matte finish rich and moody, like a blank canvas waiting for book ideas to spill out. My dad helped me pick the paint, and I remember the two of us standing in the hardware store a few blocks from here debating between shades, him muttering something about “undertones” while I laughed at how seriously he took it. He took even the silliest things seriously when it came to his family. That’s why he’s our rock.
The desk was the hardest piece to get just right. It’s not new—new wouldn’t have worked for me. Instead, Mom found it at a little antique shop, tucked in the corner under a pile of old books. The dark mahogany surface is smooth but worn in places, its edges softened by years of use. My dad spent days sanding and staining it, making sure it matched the one in his own office, down to the smallest detail. Now, every time I sat behind it, it felt like stepping into his world, like I’m borrowing some of his magic while I tried to find my own.
The shelves on the far wall that my aunt got for me are full of books—his favorites, my favorites, a mix of well-loved paperbacks and old leather-bound volumes. Most of them are books he’s written that of course I’ll always carry with. Others are the classics I’ve collected over the years, the spines cracked from being read and reread. I placed a single framed photo on the top shelf: the two of us at his desk when I was a kid, me scribbling in one of his notebooks while he looked down at me in adoration. I sometimes wonder if he realizes we look at him in the same way. Is he aware of just how much I admire and love him? He’s everything I want to be in life.
I know most people would lose their minds if they knew who he really is. The bestselling, award-winning author whose books have been on shelves since his twenties, whose words shaped an entire generation of readers and authors. But no one knows except for his family. Instead, Valentino Nicolasi is known for being the ‘Nicolasi Cleaner’ for our family’s crime organization. He’s always hidden behind his pen name, A. A. Turner , guarding his privacy, the Nicolasi family and everyone from the spotlight this carries subjects him to.
When I decided to pursue writing, I promised myself I’d do it on my own terms. No shortcuts. No riding on his coattails. That’s why I go by Poe James—my first name and my mom’s last name. It’s my way of proving I can make my own way without needing my father’s success, even if sometimes I feel like I’m chasing an impossible dream. Every rejection has felt like a knife to the chest but I’ve never given up on my dream.
When I sit in the home office we built together, I’ll feel closer to him than ever. The gray curtains, heavy and dramatic, are drawn shut, just like he always kept them in his office. The lamp on the desk glowing with a warm, golden light casts shadows across the room. All my notebooks stacked neatly on one side, and an old brass clock he gave me was ticking softly in the corner, its steady rhythm grounding me in the moment and stopping time.
One day, I hope to be half as good as he is. I want to write something that matters—something that leaves people feeling the way his books have always made me feel.
Since I was a teenager, writing has been my escape, my passion, my voice when I was too shy to interact with others outside my family. I started publishing independently, dipping my toes into the world of self-publishing, believing that if I could get my work out there, maybe someone, somewhere would read it and see something special in me—in them. It wasn’t easy—there were plenty of sleepless nights, self-doubt, and moments when I wondered if my words were ever going to mean anything to anyone. But somehow, it happened. I built a small, dedicated and lovely audience, and that was enough for me for a while.
It wasn’t until the beginning of this year, though, that I finally found the courage to send my manuscripts to traditional publishing houses. I thought maybe it was time to take the next step, to push myself further. Mom and Dad kept pushing me to take the plunge and I did. At first, I was excited—maybe even a little naive. But one rejection email came. Then another. And then more. They piled up, each one more discouraging than the last. It wasn’t just that they were saying no. It was the silence, the uncertainty, the creeping feeling that maybe they were right. Maybe my writing wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough and it brought ugly memories back. Memories of feeling small and rejected.
It started to feel almost embarrassing. I’d spent years chasing my dream, but now I couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been for nothing. I started doubting myself. I questioned every line, every chapter I’d poured my soul and bled into. I even thought about giving it all up—walking away from the dream I’d worked so hard for. Maybe it was just a hobby, maybe it was something I could never turn into more. But then, at my lowest point, my family reminded me of why I started writing in the first place. It wasn’t about the rejections, the praise, or the book deals—it was about the stories, the worlds, and the characters that kept me up at night, itching to be brought to life. It was and still is about my readers. If I can make one of them smile and escape their reality for a little while, then I did my job. I didn’t fail them.
So, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and picked myself up. I brushed off the doubts, the embarrassment, and kept pushing forward until two weeks ago when I received an email from one of the publishing houses that turned me down stating that there was a mistake, and they were interested in giving me a three-book deal on a dark romance. I, of course, couldn’t believe it after so many failed attempts and to be able to write a trilogy was beyond my wildest dreams since I’d almost given up on the genre since no one seemed so interested in my indie dark books before.
The offer came out of the blue. One day I was ready to backpack traveling around the world with my friend, Kaizen, and then an email popped up offering me a deal that was impossible to ignore. It’s a dream come true.
Blackthorn Publishing is one of the most successful publishing houses right now and it felt like it was a dream, I really didn’t want to wake up from it.
So, of course, Kaizen and I postponed the trip until I’m done with the three-book deal.
“Where do you want this?” Dad’s deep voice echoed as he hefted a large box marked Kitchen. His dark, cropped hair was damp with sweat, and his sick-as-hell tattoos flex with every movement of his broad shoulders and thick throat. Despite his intimidating build, the sight of him fumbling with the box and muttering under his breath about its weight made me stifle a laugh and my heart squeeze.
Daddy might look like an angry bear most of the time, but he has the softest heart—but just for his family. Everyone else gets the side that my Uncle Enzo loves to poke.
And my Uncle Enzo? He’s the boss of Detroit. They were both born into mafia royalty, as was my Aunt Kadra.
And even though they have seen and done unspeakable things, they’ve never let it touch their families.
They wanted better for their kids, and they sacrificed a lot for it. I still don’t know half of the things they’ve lost, and I’m not sure if I ever will. They don’t share that part of them with us. At least, Dad doesn’t.
“Just... over there,” I said, pointing to the counter. I bit my lip to hide my smile as he nearly knocked over a chair in the process and muttered, ‘ fuck .’
“You have a lot of shit, little witch,” Dad grumbled, setting the box down with a thud. He straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not sure about this ‘moving’ thing. You’re too far away from me. You sure you don’t want to just stay home?”
“Dad, we talked about this,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I need to be here for work.”
Mom glided into the room like a vision, her beauty as timeless as ever—even with tears shimmering in her eyes. She wore fitted mom jeans, a black turtleneck, and white sneakers. Somehow, she looked effortlessly stunning, even in something casual. She was exactly the woman I’d always admired.
But even then, her proud smile couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes.
“My baby,” she whispered, stepping toward me and gently cupping my face. “I can’t believe you’re really doing this.”
Her voice trembled as she brushed a strand of blue hair from my cheek, and I felt my chest tighten under the weight of her unconditional love.
“Mom, it’s not like I’ve moved to another country. It’s just New York,” I said, leaning into my mother’s soft and gentle touch.
Mom sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I know, love bug, but it feels so far away. You’re all grown up now. I just…” She trailed off, her tears spilling over.
Dad, hating to see Mom cry, stepped in, clearing his throat loudly. “All right let’s not drown the kid in sentiment, baby. She’s got boxes to unpack.” He tossed me a wink, though there’s a flicker of emotion in his blue eyes that he quickly masked.
I laughed softly, brushing off the lump in my own throat. “143.”
My parents shared a look—Dad’s eyes softened, Mom wiped her tears but not quite succeeding in composing herself. I stood between them, feeling the bittersweet weight of the moment.
“143.” They both said in unison.
That number means everything to our family.
It meant ‘I Love You.’
And I did.
I loved my parents more than I loved writing, and I loved writing it a lot.
They’ve been my biggest cheerleaders and champions since the day they brought me into this world. Me and my twin brother Vade and baby brother Cassian.
“No more tears,” Dad grumbled, gently wiping Mom’s eyes before pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. He wiped away a tear of his own.
“No more tears,” Mom echoed, giving me a weak smile.
“I’ll call every day, Mommy. I’ll visit as much as I can. Promise.”
Yes, when I was feeling overly sentimental—which was almost never—I called my parents Mommy and Daddy .
“It seems I still hadn’t learned how to let go of my babies,” Mom said, wiping at another tear.
“Please don’t,” I whispered, choking up. “Never let go. We’ll always need you. Always.”
“My sweet girl.” She walked over and pulled me into her arms, giving me a tight squeeze before whispering, “My Poe. I love you till the stars lose their shine.”
“That’ll never happen,” I mumbled.
Mom pulled back and poked my nose like she used to do when I was younger. “Exactly. My love for you, your father, and brothers is eternal.”
“Likewise, Mommy.” I whispered, feeling like the little girl who got her heart broken once and ran to her mommy to make it all better.
She suddenly clapped her hands, the sound echoing through my half-unpacked apartment. “Oh! I almost forgot!”
I glance up, wary. “Forgot what?”
Her face lit up with the kind of grin that usually spelled trouble. “I brought you a little something for Valentine’s Day!”
A groan escaped me before I could stop it. “Mom, no. You know I hate that damn holiday.”
“Oh, I remember,” she said, her tone far too smug. “That’s why I picked these out just for you.”
She strode over to the counter where she’d left her bag, rummaging through it with the flair of someone about to unveil a masterpiece. My stomach twisted. I braced myself for something gaudy—maybe a pink heart-shaped nightmare or a stuffed bear holding roses.
But then she pulled out—wait.
Black lace garlands twined with blood-red roses. A string of little heart-shaped ornaments, each one detailed with bats and skulls, tucked neatly into their design. There was even a centerpiece—an intricate wrought-iron heart with candles shaped like melting black skulls.
I blinked, caught between disbelief and awe. “Is that... a gothic Valentine’s Day set?”
Mom smirked like she’d just won the lottery. “Saw it in a boutique and thought, ‘Now this is something my girl can tolerate.’”
“Tolerate?” I repeated, reaching for the garland despite myself. “Mom, this is... atrocious.”
Her grin widened as she handed me the centerpiece. “I knew it. You’re welcome.” She shot dad a knowing smile, which made him roll his eyes playfully. I studied the decorations, not hating them at all. “Okay, fine. I like this. A lot. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Mom preened, clearly proud of herself, and started helping me hang the garlands along the windows. “See? Even my holiday-hating daughter can appreciate a little festive flair when it’s done right.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”
She laughed, and once we finished setting up the “I Hate Valentine’s Day” décor, she headed out to grab food and coffee. We hadn’t eaten since this morning, when Dad brought turkey sandwiches from a nearby deli.
A soft meow broke the quiet, followed by a gentle brush against my leg.
“Oh, you finally graced us with your presence,” I muttered, glancing down at my snobby little feline companion.
Prince, my cat, strutted into the room like he owned it—his white fluffy tail held high, his almost-white eyes narrowing as if inspecting the place for royal quality. He paused in the doorway, curled his lip slightly, and let out another demanding meow. It was as if he were saying, This is my kingdom. I’ve arrived. Feed me.
“Prince, you really are an asshole,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes as I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a can of tuna, and returned.
Prince eyed me like he still wasn’t convinced the apartment met his standards. But when he spotted the tuna, he turned up his nose and flopped dramatically onto my new velvet love seat—as if it were a throne. His soft paws began kneading the cushions in slow, deliberate circles, preparing his royal seat.
“I swear, he thinks he’s royalty,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head. “He’s lucky I love him. If not, I’d have fed him to Verali’s tigers already.”
Prince gave me an annoyed look before finally turning his attention to the food.
Then it was just Dad and me.
“Who packed this?” he barked, holding up a box with my notebooks poking out the top. “And why is this box labeled ‘poops’?”
“I did,” I replied with a smirk, grabbing it from him. “And it says books , not ‘poops’.”
“My girl, your penmanship is shit,” he grinned.
“Just admit my handwriting is better than yours and that you need glasses.”
He grunted, pretending to be offended, but his lopsided grin gave him away. We’d managed to unpack most of the essentials, and though the apartment still looked like a chaotic mix of half-empty boxes, it was starting to feel like home.
“I’m telling you, it works better on the other wall,” he insisted, arms crossed, tattoos on his forearms—where my little brother’s name rested—shifting as he gestured.
“And I’m telling you, I don’t want it there. It blocks the light from the window,” I countered.
He was about to respond when his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He glanced at it, muttered, “It’s Enzo,” and picked up the call, one hand still on his hip.
“What?” he said, his tone dark and annoyed. Only one person could shift my father’s mood so quickly—his twin brother, Uncle Enzo.
I kept unpacking, but something about the way Dad’s posture shifted caught my attention. He straightened, his expression darkening, his eyes suddenly sharp.
“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice more clipped now. “When?”
I sat the stack of books in my hands down and looked over at him. He turned slightly away, moving toward the window, one hand raking through his cropped hair.
“Is he okay?” he asked. His voice was quieter now, but there was a tension in it I’d only heard a handful of times in my life.
I felt my chest tighten, my body frozen mid-movement as I watched him.
He didn’t say much after that—just a few short, serious responses. Then he ended the call and leaned one hand on the windowsill, staring out without a word.
“Dad?” I asked cautiously, stepping closer. “What happened?”
He exhaled sharply and turned to face me, worry etched into his features. “Your uncle Enzo just called. Your brother is in trouble.”
“What? Vade?” My voice rose in panic, my brain leaping to worst-case scenarios.
“Cassian.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought Vade would be the one to send me to an early grave. Who would've guessed it’d be the little one trying to beat him to it. Damn it.”
Cassie?
But… he had Mom’s heart. He was our little man—even though he stood nearly as tall as Dad. My fingers twitched with the urge to grab my phone.
“I need to call him. I need to find out what’s going on—what he’s hiding,” I said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Dad’s tattooed arm. “Don’t say stuff like that. Not even as a joke.”
He sighed, holding my gaze for a long moment. “I need to go get him.”
I nodded, though my chest ached at the thought of him leaving so soon after helping me settle in. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, baby.” He shook his head firmly. “You’ve got your life here now. You’re just starting out. Your mom and I will handle your brother.”
“But—”
“No buts, Poe.” His voice softened, though the worry still lingered in his eyes. “I’ll keep you updated, okay?”
I nodded reluctantly, my mind already spinning. Before I could say more, he pulled me into his arms, holding me tight, as if afraid to let go.
His scent—faint cologne, mixed with coffee and worn leather—wrapped around me like home. Everything felt still. I closed my eyes, grounding myself at the moment.
“You’re my dream come true, Poe,” he whispered into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. “Everything I’ve fought for, every demon I’ve faced… it was all worth it for this. You, your mother, your brothers—you’re all the best parts of me. Always have been.”
He pulled back to look me in the eyes, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. “I love you, baby girl. More than life itself. Don’t ever forget that.”
God, maybe I was a cynic when it came to love because of my own history with it—but I knew love was real. I knew because I’d seen it. I’d lived it. My father was proof.
A man with a dark past, blood on his hands, and shadows in his mind could still be the best husband, the fiercest protector, and the most loving father.
The lump in my throat made it hard to speak, but I managed to smile, blinking away the moisture threatening to fall. “I love you too, Dad,” I whispered.
He smiled, his usual stern face softening. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then stepped back, brushing his hands down his jeans like he was trying to shake off the weight of emotion.
“All right, enough of that mushy stuff,” he said with a wink. “Call me every day, okay? Text me throughout your day. I don’t care if it’s just to tell me you had a coffee or that you miss me.”
“I will, I promise. And you better text me, too, or I’ll come find you.”
He chuckled. “I will. Don’t stress and take good care of yourself, baby. Remember—your mother and I are only a phone call away.”
“I know, Dad,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “Thanks… for everything.”
He pulled me into one last hug before heading for the door. But as he opened it, he noticed something.
A bouquet of roses lies on the floor.
He bent down, picked them up, and raised an eyebrow. “Is there something I need to know?”
I frowned. Who would send me roses? How would they even know I was in the city?
“Maybe it’s Kaisen?” I murmured, confused. “But he doesn’t know my address…”
He handed them to me. We both noticed—no letter. No card. No name.
Nothing.
His phone buzzed again. Urgent. I could tell it was about Cassian. I urged him to go.
“Love you, baby,” he said, stepping out. “I’ll make sure I have access to the building’s cameras. That way, I know you’re safe.”
“Okay, Dad.” I didn’t love being monitored, but if it gave him peace of mind, I could deal with it.
He nodded and walked out with one last look. The door closed softly behind him.
Silence settled in.
It was just me now.
I glanced down at the roses. They were such a deep red, they almost looked soaked in blood. But something else caught my eye—a thin blue string tangled among the stems, winding through the thorns like a secret.
A chill crept down my spine.
I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t alone.
Not in this apartment.
Not in this city.
A heartless prince had always been there…watching.
Just like he always had.