Corrupt Kingdom

“Please.”

“Listen, Trent. I appreciate you being here. I love to see you, but I think I can handle Dad.”

“It’s just—”

“No,” I cut him off, lifting my hand. “You aren’t here. I am. I deal with him. His mood. I have done a good job raising myself, regardless. But as much as I appreciate your concern, I need to take care of Mom, and right now, that means getting her garden ready.”

“She’s not getting better?”

“Her depression is worse in the winter, but when the sun comes out, she does.”

He looks down and then looks off in the direction of the pile of dirt I’ve made.

“I love you, sis.”

“I love you too, big bro. Now let me get back to this. It will be dark soon.” With one last nod, he leaves.

I can’t help but think something is wrong with him. He said he’s not using drugs, but I’m not sure I believe him.

Sometime later, when I’m about to stand and head inside, I hear noises. The sound of a car door. Footsteps. From the corner of my eye, I see a shadow. My body pivots to see who’s coming toward me. My mom? My dad?

Maybe it’s Trent again.

But when I’m fully turned in the direction of the noise and shadows, no one is there.

I fight off the foreboding feeling that I’m being watched. As my fingers pull at the remnants of last summer, I swear I see movement. As if the world around me feels it too, the sky darkens.

I can smell the rain before it starts. The damp, musty air infiltrates my nostrils.

I should move, but I don’t. Instead, I wait.

I wait for the crack in the sky, and then I wait for the first drop. Most people don’t enjoy being in the rain, but I love it. It invigorates me. It reminds me of the beginning of spring.

Rebirth.

3

Cyrus

Last night was a shitshow.

It wasn’t until early this morning that I finally went to bed. I lost track of how much money traded hands, not that it matters. All I really care about is how much money I made.

Taking a rake will do that.

Sure, it’s illegal, but not one motherfucker who comes into my house will open their mouth to complain. Not the patrons, and certainly not the staff.

That move would sign their death certificate.

But no matter how much money I skimmed from the pot, last night was not successful. The objective of the night was never met. We never got any information from Boris that we could use in order to take down the organization he works for. We are no closer to finding Alexander, and that thought pisses me the fuck off. All the information my men have collected have ended up as dead ends. No one knows where he is, where he lives, or how to get in touch with him. The only man that can provide that intel is Boris, but he would die before giving up his boss.

My phone vibrating next to my bed has me lifting my arm to grab it. It’s an unknown number. The clientele I work with don’t have numbers that are trackable.

“Speak,” I bark into the line. Everyone who knows me knows not to bother me. Period. Especially in the morning. What time is it, anyway?

With the phone next to my ear, I glance at the clock. The red glow of the numbers reflects off the pitch black of my room.

It’s like a tomb in here.

It’s like hell.

My own personal hell.

Eleven fucking a.m.

“Cyrus,” the familiar voice says. It’s Z, my right-hand man.

“What number is this?”

“New one.”

He doesn’t have to clarify. We go through burners like candy, depending on new clientele and whatnot.

“Why are you calling this early?”

“It’s almost noon.” He chuckles, but I don’t respond to his comment. It doesn’t matter what time it is; unless it’s an emergency, I don’t like to be bothered when I’m sleeping. When he realizes I’m not going to respond, he continues. “It’s about Trent Aldridge. From the game last night. You know who I—”

“I know who you’re talking about,” I cut him off. I know exactly who he is. His father was a degenerate last night. Z has known me for years, has been my most trusted man for most of them, so the fact that Z would bother me over something to do with him makes me move to the edge of the bed, place my feet on the floor, and stand. “What about him?”

“He’s demanding you speak to him,” Z says, and my head shakes.

Un-fucking-believable.

“No one demands anything of me.” My voice is calm, but there’s no mistaking the anger in my tone. It’s deadly.

The phone line goes quiet.

Very fucking quiet.

The silence stretches between us, and I know the truth is there. I let out a long-drawn-out breath.

When the game ended, Trent’s father, Ronald Aldridge, owed Boris a fortune. What happens with the collection of said money isn’t my problem. They know the rules, so I’m not sure what he wants.