Chapter 2

Rain streamed down Oscar's face and soaked through his clothes, but he felt none of it.

For years, he had given the Chamberlain family everything.

Amara's Chamberlain Group would never have risen to the top of Silverton without him supplying her with intelligence day after day, placing winning strategies on her desk so seamlessly that others believed they were her own.

Bella would not have become the city's youngest superintendent without the leads he planted and the suspects he steered into her path, allowing her to close each case herself.

The third sister, Clara Chamberlain, possessed only modest talent but loved to paint. Behind the scenes, he hired mentor after mentor, refined her technique, and cultivated connections until she could mount a solo exhibition with her name emblazoned across the banner.

The fourth sister, Diana. The fifth, Elara. Did they truly believe their success came from grit alone? Without him, what had given the nine of them the advantage to dominate their respective fields?

And Freya, Giana, Hilda, and Irene?

None of it mattered now.

Oscar closed his eyes. His head throbbed, and his chest ached even more.

"Hey, kid. It's pouring out here. Come inside and get out of the rain."

The voice snapped him back to the present.

Without realizing it, he had wandered into the shantytown of Percham District, a run-down settlement at the edge of the city.

A gray-haired woman stood beneath an umbrella, studying him with open concern. "Poor thing. In rain like this, and you came out without an umbrella?"

She beckoned him toward a small shack and called inside, "Old man, cook some meat pies. This boy's drenched. Let him warm up."

Before Oscar could refuse, she ushered him through the door.

The place was tiny. A single glance took in the bed, the table, and the stove. Rain drummed against the patched tin roof, and stray drops slipped through to tap softly onto the floor.

Even so, the room felt warm.

A 17-year-old girl sat beneath a dim yellow bulb, bent over her homework. From time to time, her brows knit as she wrestled with a problem.

At the stove, a man with calloused hands boiled water. The old woman set a stool beside Oscar and pressed a towel into his hands.

"You fought with your family, didn't you?" she asked gently. "Ran out in a temper, even in a storm like this."

The girl finally noticed him. She glanced up and offered a small, shy smile before lowering her head again.

That brief look stirred a quiet, steady warmth in his chest.

"Thank you. I'm not hungry," Oscar said. "I'll just sit for a while."

"How can that be?" the old woman chided lightly. "Eat something hot. Don't fall sick."

The man brought over a plate of steaming meat pies and set it in front of Oscar. He sat down, pulled a pipe from his pocket, then glanced at the girl and sheepishly slipped it back.

"No family holds grudges overnight," the man said. "Eat. When the rain eases, go home. They'll worry."

Oscar's nose stung. Tears nearly slipped free, but the rainwater clinging to his face concealed the shine in his eyes.

"Thank you."

He ate in large bites. The pastry tasted simple, rich, and honest. As he swallowed, memories of the Chamberlain household crowded his mind.

He had poured everything into them. Yet when he searched his past, he could not find a single moment warmer than this plate of meat pies.

Perhaps they had never truly seen him as one of their own.

"Mister, your cooking's amazing," Oscar said after a moment. "You should open a meat pie shop. It would be packed every day."

Silence settled over the room.

George Miller released a long sigh. "Yeah. Packed every day."

The weight in his voice lingered. Even the girl closed her notebook, as though she wanted to speak but held back.

"What's wrong?" Oscar asked quietly, sensing the shift. "Did something happen?"

"It's nothing. Eat up, kid." George waved the question aside and urged him to finish while the food was hot.

The room gradually fell silent. Outside, the rain began to ease.

"If something's going on, you can tell me," Oscar said after finishing the last pie. He had noticed the strain in the old man's expression.

"Nothing." George forced a smile that revealed yellowed teeth. "We've got food on the table, and the kid can go to school. Life's good."

Before the words fully faded, a harsh shout cut through the damp air. The shack shuddered as if something heavy had slammed against it.

"Old bastard! Thought you could hide here and we wouldn't find you?"

George went rigid.

"Quick. Hide!" He swept the girl's books off the table and seized her arm, scanning the cramped room. There was nowhere to conceal anyone.

Footsteps splashed closer.

In desperation, George kicked the wall behind the bed. The thin wood splintered at once. Cold wind and rain blasted through the opening.

Relief flashed across his face.

"Go. Get out through there!"

He pushed Oscar and the girl toward the gap.

Oscar frowned at the downpour beyond the hole. "What's going on?"

"Don't ask," George hissed. "If you don't leave now, it'll be too late."

The girl, Rebecca Miller, clutched Oscar's sleeve. The calm from earlier had vanished. Fear filled her face.

"Tell me what it is," Oscar said. He did not move. "I can handle it."

He had two years left to live. What did he have to fear?

In Silverton, little remained that could make him step back.

George tried to shove him again.

The front door burst inward under a heavy kick. Several scruffy young men stormed in, baseball bats resting on their shoulders.

"Well, look at that," one jeered. "Everyone's here. And a pretty little thing too."

They laughed and pointed at Rebecca, mouthing filthy words.

"It's over," George muttered, though he stepped in front of her.

Rebecca shrank behind him.

"Mr. Tigren," George began, his voice shaking. "It's only been a month. Give me one more day. I can—"

"Cut the crap." Victor Tigren snorted. "Another day so you can run again?"

He tapped the bat against his palm. "600,000 dollars. Not a cent less. Cash."

George's eyes widened. "It was only 60,000 dollars before. How did it increase?"

Victor barked a laugh. "If it doesn't increase, it isn't loan sharking."

The others joined in.

"Money or the girl." His eyes gleamed. "Pick one."