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Chapter One
Victor Stone
"Victor! Victor Stone!"The voice pierces through the clamor like a bullet. I don’t even need to turn to know a sea of microphones and cameras is cresting toward me as I step out onto the steps of City Hall. They’re like sharks, scenting blood in the water—the blood being any snippet they can twist into a headline.
I pause, pivoting on my heel to face them. It's part of the game, after all. "Yeah?" My voice is cool, detached—just another day at the office for Boston’s latest property magnate with something to prove.
"Can you tell us a little about the new development you’re proposing?" one reporter fires off, shoving his mic into my space.
"Sure." I give them my best practiced smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. "It’s the future of urban living—shops, apartments, condos. This project’s going to breathe new life into an area that’s been begging for it."
"Victor, what about the protests?" another reporter chimes in, her finger directing my gaze across the street. I follow her indication, noting several determined faces behind colorful placards. Dissenters to my grand plan. Annoying, yes, but not unexpected.
"Look," I start, sliding my hands into my pockets and leaning back slightly, projecting confidence. "Whenever there’s change and progress, there are always those who’ll oppose it. It’s natural."
"But—" she tries again, but I’m already turning away. My ride’s here, black and sleek against the curb.
"Sorry, gotta run." I leave their questions hanging, unanswered, in the crisp autumn air.
As the door of my car swings open, I catch one last glance at the crowd. Among the sea of disgruntled faces and cardboard chants, her eyes snag mine—fierce, unyielding. They’re a warm brown, set in a face framed by untamed chestnut curls that spill over her shoulders. She’s beautiful, infuriatingly so, considering she’s brandishing a sign that reads, "Victor the Vulture, Scavenging Our Future."
It rhymes. Clever.
"Let’s get out of here, Marcus,” I mutter, sinking intothe leather seat. Marcus, my driver, is a stout man with hands like ham hocks and a steady gaze that rarely shows surprise. His nod is all the acknowledgment he gives before the engine purrs to life, and we glide away from the scene.
The city blurs as we merge onto the freeway, and I fish my phone out of my pocket. Three new texts, each a jab at my televised moment of glory.
Lawrence
Saw you dancing with the wolves. Don’t let them bite!
Roman
Victor Stone, Worcester’s most eligible bachelor and now, public enemy number one!
Sebastian
Making friends, I see. Your PR should be fun tomorrow.
I can’t help but smirk; those guys always know how to drill into the thick of it. We met in the foster care system, a band of misfits tossed around until fate threw us together. It was Giovanni Maldonado who took us under his wing, showed us the ropes in the business world. When he decided to trade skyscrapers for palm trees, he left his empire to us, each taking a piece. Trustfund kids we are not, but we’ve managed to carve out our own kingdoms nonetheless.
They might be teasing, but deep down, their words help ground me, a reminder that in this cutthroat world, there are still a few people I can count on.
My thumbs fly across the screen, a futile defense in the making.
Victor
Trying to bring some class to Worcester. That’s all.
Lawrence
Class or ass?
The way those signs are personalized, you’d think they know you better than we do.
Roman
Maybe you should sign one.