The Duke and the DJ (The Rebel Royals 3)

Lark snatched it from his grubby hands with a polite smile that belied her true feelings. “Nice doing business with you.”

"Lark," Spin tsked when they were out of the room, "You promised to use your powers for good."

"All bets are off when I'm hungry. Besides, he’s a chauvinist. He pays the male DJs more than you. He’s lucky I didn’t change the combination of his safe after emptying it."

“It has a lock and key now.”

“Child’s play.” Lark handed Spin the wad of cash as they exited into the warehouse that had been converted into a club.

Most of the places Spin played were such converted places. A cool breeze greeted them as they stepped outside the sweat-drenched club and into the night air of Nice, France. Being near the water, the nights always turned a bit cold. As the two friends began to go down the list of possible places there was to eat, a rustling sound came from behind the garbage can.

They froze. But they saw a gruff shoe poking out from behind the overflowing dumpster. It was a woman. Her face was covered in smudges of dirt. She clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. She held onto the similarly grubby hand of a child in the other.

The child was a bit cleaner with somewhat nicer clothes. She held a burger patty with no bread. She chewed quickly as she eyed Lark and Spin, as though she was afraid they’d take her last bite of food away.

Spin took careful, slow steps as she went over to them. The mother pushed the child behind her. Spin peeled off the one hundred Euro note and handed it to the mother. The woman's eyes grew wide.

Without waiting for a thanks or any praise, Spin turned and continued on her way with Lark in tow. She didn't hear anything from her friend. They'd both known that particular struggle.

"Thanks for getting me all that I was due,” Spin said. “You were right, I needed it."

Spin pressed her hand to her heart, finding all the security she needed in the cold gem she found there. She knew money was necessary. But holding on to it only brought bad things. Money behaved best when it was put into service for someone in need.

Chapter Three

The office looked as though a tornado had passed through and took a bird bath. Papers were everywhere. File drawers were opened and gutted. Shelves were divulged of books. Still, in the chaos, Zhi had found nothing to save them. There was no path to turn around what his father had torn asunder. For years, Zhi had tried to put the estate back together piece by piece, dollar by dollar, stone by stone.

When he was younger, he lived oblivious to the chaos his father created. He'd been in the calm of the eye, left to run wild with Prince Alex and Carlisle, the son of the Baron of Balansya. Being born the son of nobility, each of the boys had rarely seen their patrons. The king, duke, and baron had preferred their boys be out of sight, which had been fine for the boys, none of which had ever lived up to their old man’s expectations.

Zhi had stayed out of sight but not so far that he hadn’t known of his father's temper and tantrums. He knew his father hadn't always come home at night. He never saw or heard his mother cry, but he knew that she did. She would always cover her sobs with one of Chopin’s nocturnes.

Zhi had set his path in life to be nothing like his father. He never raised his voice. He never drank more than one glass of spirits even when at home. He only gambled on silly wagers like foot races between his friends and pie contests with the prince.

He had his fun but at no one else's expense. He'd never made a woman cry. He'd never put anyone out of work. That would all change very soon. The house would be empty of staff if he didn’t find a solution. The halls would only echo with the sad chords from his mother’s fingers as she covered her sobs with a sad serenade in D major.

Zhi slumped in the ornate chair. The decades' old upholstery coughed up dusk as his head collided with the wingback fabric. The dust burned his eyes, but no moisture leaked from them. He was his mother’s son. He might have to visit the music room himself later this evening for his own pity party.

Nian Zhen, the duchess of Mondego, came into the room on silent feet. The ancient door didn’t dare creak at her presence. The floorboards hushed under her slight weight. The only reason Zhi knew his mother was there was because of the ruffle of the papers at her feet.

She looked down at the discarded heap of parchment. It was another of her husband’s messes. So, of course, she thought it her duty to take care of it. Even at the age of fifty, Nian sank gracefully down to her knees and began tidying up.

"Stop that," Zhi shouted. His voice was harsh, and she flinched. Zhi felt like the dregs in the pool out back. But he was brimming with disgust like those foul waters. "It's not your mess to clean up."

"It's not yours either."

His mother's voice was so soft. It always had been. He'd never once heard her raise it in all his life.

Not when her husband berated her after her wealthy family cut off his access to their accounts. Not when Diego Sr. came home after days—weeks—of being absent with another woman’s perfume on his jacket. Not even when fists were slammed into walls when they were alone behind closed doors.

Zhi wasn’t sure if any of those jabs connected with his mother’s flesh. If they did, Nian hid them well. Their one-sided arguments could be heard from any wing in the house. But the former duke never put his bad behavior on full display.

In all his years, those were the first critical words his mother had ever said against her husband. Zhi rose slowly from his chair. The dust held its breath as he did so. He crossed the room in two strides to come to his mother’s side.

"I can't fix this, muqin," he said, using the formal Chinese word for mother.

Though his mother grew up in Spain, the daughter of first-generation immigrants to the country, his grandparents still held to many of the old ways.

"There is nothing left,” he said, taking the papers from her delicate hands. “He's lost it all. No one will loan a peso or pence or a cent to anyone with the name of Mondego."