Kian
Past: Chicago, Twenty Years Ago
The first time Isaw her, the rain had teeth, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.
The grandfather clock inside the antique shop had chimed like it was mocking me.
“Kneel, pretty boy. That’ll teach you not to steal. Be lucky that’s all you’re doing.”
I shivered as the storm drenched me. The rain came earlier this year. Chicago was freezing in late March, especially with wet clothes sticking to my body. My fingers were sore, smelling of machine oil. The whine of sewing needles rang in my head long after my shift ended at the garment shop. Little Beatrice’s milk money sat in my shoe, but I couldn’t spend it. She needed it more than I did.
Mom would be mad when I got home since I’d make her late for her night shift. Instead of asking a neighbor to babysit, Mom would always wait for me to come home because our family was paranoid.
Dad had three rules: don’t open the door for strangers, don’t tell others details about our family, and be gone when people started asking questions.
You’d think we were spies instead of a family of five with barely enough money to keep the lights on, holed up in a tiny, crumbling apartment in the middle of mob territory.
As the wet pavement bit into my knees, I scoffed, thinking about what Dad had said before.
“We Lestes are proud people. Old, respectable lineage. Your grandfather was one of the richest men from Albania until he lost everything.”
Right. Pride and lineage did diddly squat. And you’d have to hit me over the head with a baseball bat to convince me we were ever rich to begin with.
Lightning split the sky, thunder rumbling after. I snuck another glance at the pendant through the store window.
A fucking dare got me into this mess. That and hunger. Always hunger.
“Go to the antique store. Snag the emerald pendant. They don’t keep it locked up,” my high school bully said. My reward? Twenty extra dollars.
Easy, my ass. Shoplifting from a store owned by the mob was a stupid decision, really. The man was right; I’m lucky I’m only kneeling as punishment.
Not losing a finger or a hand.
And who was I fooling? I stuck out like a sore thumb in my tattered jeans and busted-up backpack. My bleached hair—a glaring shade of blond instead of my natural dark brown—was another poor choice. I was caught within minutes.
Lightning splintered across the sky again, and the rain drummed harder. A gust stabbed my face as I swayed on my knees.
Shit, it’s cold.
The gravel dug deeper into my knees, and my stomach growled.
As I mulled over my poor life choices, the rain suddenly stopped.
I froze, then looked up, first spotting the bright red of the umbrella.
Then I sawher.
She didn’t look real. She looked like a lone sunflower blooming among decay.
She cocked her head and stared at me with her large gray eyes. I suddenly forgot how to breathe. Her hand fiddled with a dark-brown braid, some twisty thing I’d seen my younger sister, Sofia, attempt at home.
“Why are you kneeling?”
“For fun, obviously.”
Her lips twitched. She stepped closer. My heart stopped working.
My body heated from her near presence. Fuck, I was burning up. I raked in a greedy inhale—roses, she smelled like roses. She smelled like everything I was not.
