Chapter 2 GRAY IS A COLOR
I sit in the back of the car, watching the dark clouds hang low, a heavy weight pressing on my chest. The city seems off, like it’s holding its breath.
Hurricane season. Stormy weather.
Everything’s fine.
But a chill lingers in my bones, the same restlessness shadowing me for the last few months.
At first, I blamed it on my looming thirty-fifth birthday, and while my siblings were all paired off, I was still alone.
I told myself I was missing a passion to spark me from the inside.
But deep down, I knew that wasn’t it.
About three months ago, I got the sense I was being watched.
I thought I was paranoid because every time I’d look around, everything appeared normal.
No strange flowers or voodoo dolls delivered to my doorstep. No shadowy figures lurking about. I still had our security team double-check the cameras and sweep my building.
They found nothing, but the wrongness in my gut wouldn’t leave me.
I shake myself and sip from my water bottle, still tasting the lingering chocolate from the coffee at the café.
The cozy Albanian place—part of my “try a new café each morning” routine—felt out of place in the gritty Lower East Side. But the coffee was excellent and the rich chocolate was divine.
I might break my rule and go back for a second visit—until the image of the douchebag owner threatening Leanne, the server, sours the thought. I hope she’ll text me if she runs into problems. Women have to stick together.
So, probably not a second visit unless someone comes with me.
I scroll through my calendar and review my schedule—three press releases to draft, a meeting with my brother Rex about the upcoming boutique hotel launch, investor calls.
Dinner tonight with Chicago Memorial Hospital’s PR team who just flew in—they want to organize a joint press tour to thank us for our one billion dollar donation funding their research wing.
In other words, business as usual for my chief of public relations role.
Always busy, never complete.
My phone buzzes, and I smile when I see the caller ID.
Belle.
But instead of her, a toothy grin fills the screen—two front teeth, one tiny bottom tooth, part of a nose, and chubby cheeks.
I know exactly who it is.
“Little Levi! Did you take your mommy’s phone?”
“Nana!” Levi grins and waves, still showing me mostly his mouth.
“Lana. Say it with me, La-Na.” My chest warms. I adore kids, especially my nephew. Now that my siblings are all having babies, there are plenty of little ones for me to love.
Even if I don’t end up having my own.
At thirty-four, according to books and doctors, if I want biological kids of my own, I should find a man and get on with it.
If only it were that easy.
Being an Anderson means people want me for my last name, my money, or my connections. And having four intimidating older brothers definitely doesn’t help.
I shove the thoughts away.
“Give the phone back to Mommy.” Belle laughs.
She appears on the screen—paint smudge on her cheek, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Classic fashion designer uniform.
“I’m reminding you about girls’ night. I know Lexy’s traveling and Millie’s abroad, but the rest of us can still make it. It’s been way too long.”
A grin tugs at my lips. I miss my sisters-in-law, my best girlfriends.
“Well, you know me. Single and ready to mingle. My calendar’s open.”
She grimaces. “I really hope this little guy doesn’t get sick again. Seems like he catches something every month. But I’m really looking forward to it.”
Levi waves a sheet of paper in the background, clearly eager for attention.
“Whatcha got there, Levi?” I ask.
Belle hoists him onto her lap. They show me his masterpiece—a crayon drawing of a dinosaur holding a small gray box.
“What’s the T-Rex holding? A present for Nana? It’s not Christmas yet.” I point to myself, grinning. It’s never too early to celebrate my favorite holiday, though.
“No.” Levi shakes his head. “Uncle E.”
I freeze at the devil’s nickname.
Now, that’s a man who definitely would not celebrate Christmas, a day of magic and joy.
Elias Kent, known to the public as the king of the underworld, is feared by everyone—from the rich to the unsavory. I can see why. The man moves like a ghost. He’s always dressed to the nines, like some gentleman gangster from another era.
But I’d never mistake him for a gentleman.
He works with my family yet makes it his purpose to ignore me or worse, speak to me only in clipped sentences dripping with cold detachment.
“Hi Elias, I love the suit.”
A twitch of his lips.
“Why are you so grumpy?”
He arches a brow. “I’m not. I have no time for small talk.”
The cycle repeats.
The man intrigues and offends me in equal measure. And yet, butterflies stir low in my gut whenever he’s near.
There’s a viciousness in his green eyes, a lethal calmness when he stands still. But there’s also something familiar about him I can’t place.
Either way, he’s bad news. I should stay away.
But that’s like telling someone to ignore the lava bursting out of a volcano.
Impossible.
“Lana?” Belle’s voice cuts in. “You’ve got that frown again. Everything okay?”
“Oh—sorry. Zoned out. A packed schedule.”
“Levi and I are heading to The Orchid later to meet Maxwell.” Belle smiles, her eyes going dreamy-like whenever she mentions her husband, my oldest brother. I’d gag if it weren’t so sweet.
“He’s meeting Elias there.” She purses her lips in contemplation. “I think the mobster’s lonely. I’m inviting him to our next family dinner.”
“You and your savior complex.” I snort. “You just feel that way because he saved your life a few years back.”
“He’s done way more than that!”
I nod begrudgingly. The infuriating man has rescued my siblings from dangerous situations more than once, and for that I’m forever grateful.
Maybe that’s why I have butterflies.
Misplaced gratefulness.
“Elias could use some love and warmth,” Belle says, then gasps. “Levi, put that down! Got to go. Toddler with scissors. Can’t wait for girls’ night!”
She hangs up, and I laugh under my breath.
Soon, the car comes to a stop by my office. The looming skyscraper is my family’s pride and joy.
I step out, thankful the rain hasn’t started yet.
But then something stops me.
The feeling.
Hairs prickle at the back of my neck. Goosebumps bead along my arms.
The distinct sensation of being watched.
I spin around, scanning the crowds of pedestrians on Fifth Avenue, yellow cabs zooming by, horns blaring.
Everything looks normal, yet unease claws its talons deeper into my chest. My jittery fingers find the emerald pendant at my throat and graze the random grooves on the back, imperfections in the handcrafted piece.
Growing up, we were taught awareness and self-defense. Being from one of the wealthiest families in the country makes you a target.
As I head for the entrance, I text Emerson Clarke, my private investigator. I’ve asked him to dig into my suspicions.
Lana
Any updates, Emerson? Same feeling again. Something’s off.
I wait a minute. No reply.
The doorman opens the door. I plaster on a fake smile, my hands still clammy.
Before I step inside, instinct makes me look back. My feet come to a stuttering halt.
A black SUV idles at the curb. A man in sunglasses, cap pulled low, smirks.
Tires screech as the car speeds off, leaving my pulse thundering as the first raindrops descend.