Chapter 4 A MEMORY OF RAIN
The sleek skyscraper of glass and chrome dominates Fifth Avenue even as storm clouds and drizzle render the world a muted gray.
I’m meeting Maxwell and Rex Anderson, two of Lana’s four older brothers, at The Orchid, Fleur Entertainment’s crown jewel.
Here, all dreams can come true—from the best restaurants to the specialty sex and strip clubs on its Rose floors.
But for me? It’s a playground. Plenty of secrets to go around in those darkened halls.
Years ago, I couldn’t have stepped through its doors. But I rose from the ashes and engineered my way in.
Bishop Seb
It’s done, I presume. Don’t need to bail you out, do I?
My lips hitch up in a half-smile at Sebastian McEntyre’s text message. The Syndicate’s resident psychopath never wastes time.
Rook Elias
I’m surprised you care.
Bishop Seb
I don’t. Emotions are meaningless. But if you were caught, it’d make my job difficult.
Rook Elias
Right. What’s an Irish mob lawyer without leverage? I thought you were a one-man show.
Bishop Seb
Professor and lawyer. Only the stupid rely on himself and not use the people around him. Remember what happened in Sri Lanka?
I arch a brow. We never talk about Sri Lanka.
Bishop Seb
You’re alive. That’s all I need. Talk when you’re in Chicago.
John guides the town car to the curb. I peel off my coat, unfortunately ruined by whiskey and blood spatter from the café mishap half an hour ago.
The local news reports it as an explosion stemming from a gas leak.
A quick call to the FDNY fire chief took care of that.
After all, I saved his kid from a kidnapping two years ago. A favor for a favor.
Calmly, I fix my hair, taming the dark strands and lock away the monster.
“Mr. Kent, welcome back to The Orchid.” The doorman bows when I exit the car.
I flick off lingering ash from my suit jacket. Then I notice a crimson stain on my white, invisibly hemmed shirtsleeve.
Fucking ?elas, nuisances alive and dead. Another suit I’ll have to burn tonight—a waste that makes the boy I used to be wince.
The drizzle comes down harder.
Footsteps pound the pavement as New Yorkers escape the sky’s wrath, the rain quickly becoming a deluge.
“Here you go, sir.” Someone hands me an umbrella, and I look up.
It’s red.
A singular spot of color in the world of gray, just like another day long ago.
Rocks bite into my knees. Rain cuts into my eyes. My short, sixteen-year-old frame shivers from the cold.
Hunger carves a relentless hole in my stomach.
Then a red umbrella—vibrant and unforgettable—just like the girl holding it.
The beautiful girl from worlds away who smells of roses.
The only person to stand between me and the storm.
The sudden crack of thunder jolts me back to the present. I straighten to my full six-foot-three height and thank the footman. Puberty caught up, along with scars, blood, and everything else.
These memories? They escaped their damn box again.
Useless scraps of my past. I need to work on reining them in.
Twenty-eight minutes. They’re only allowed to roam free for twenty-fucking-eight minutes a day.
No more, no less.