Chapter 2 - The Scent of Rain and Rosemary
The hallway of the tenement smelled of boiled cabbage, damp plaster, and old radiator steam. Grant walked up the creaking wooden stairs on the balls of his feet, his massive frame moving with the unnatural, silent grace born of a decade in Savannah's violent underworld. He climbed to the third floor, following the faint scent of rosemary and chamomile that cut through the moldy air—a scent that belonged distinctly to Jolene.
Apartment 3C had chipped green paint and a cheap brass deadbolt that wouldn't stop a determined kick from an amateur. Grant paused outside the door. His chest felt constricted, as if the oxygen in the corridor had turned to lead. His thumb hovered over the silver band on his finger, spinning it once, twice, before dropping his hand to his side. He didn't knock like an intruder. He tapped three times in the rhythm he used to use at the carriage house—two short beats, one long.
Inside, complete stillness followed. Then came the soft, dragging shuffle of slippers against linoleum.
""I told you, Mr. Henderson, the rent will be there by Friday,"" her voice came through the wood, slightly breathless, fatigued to the marrow. ""I get paid from the laundry tomorrow afternoon.""
Grant’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it sliced through the hollow wood like a razor. ""It isn't Henderson, Jolene.""
A sharp, audible intake of air sounded from the other side. A plate or a cup clattered against a counter. A long minute dragged out, thick with terror and history. The deadbolt slid back with a dull metallic click.
The door opened four inches.
Jolene stood in the dim light of a twenty-watt bulb. Up close, without the storefront glass between them, the exhaustion on her face was devastating. Dark violet circles bruised the delicate skin under her gray-blue eyes, and her cheeks were hollowed out, making her high cheekbones look fragile. Her auburn hair was tied back in a messy knot with a simple rubber band. Yet her gaze, when it locked onto his, held none of the submission he was accustomed to seeing from people who feared him.
""You shouldn't have come here, Grant,"" she said, her voice steady despite the visible tremble in her fingers holding the edge of the door.
Grant did not ask for permission. He pushed the door inward gently, using just enough pressure to force her to step back, stepping across the threshold and shutting the door behind him. The lock clicked shut under his thumb. The apartment was barely larger than his walk-in closet at the Holloway estate: a single cot pushed against the peeling wallpaper, a thrifted rocking chair, a hot plate on an upturned wooden crate, and three small baby onesies hanging to dry on a line strung across the corner.
His eyes fell immediately to her stomach. The loose sweater hung over a round, heavy mound. She instinctively crossed her arms over her abdomen, shielding the baby from his gaze.
""You're seven months pregnant,"" Grant said, his voice dropping into a register that was dangerously calm. ""And five months ago, my uncle handed me a death certificate bearing your legal name.""
Jolene let out a short, humorless laugh that ended in a shaky breath. ""Your uncle was very thorough. He gave me two choices at gunpoint in that back room on River Street: take ten thousand dollars and vanish from this state, or take a bullet to the back of the head and let the river carry me out to the Atlantic."" She leaned against the edge of the small table, her legs visibly shaking from the strain. ""He told me if I ever contacted you, if I ever showed my face near the Holloway district, he wouldn't just kill me. He swore he’d frame your rival Moretti for it and provoke a street war that would drag your entire family into federal prison.""
May you like
Grant felt a cold, murderous current flood his veins. Every word from her lips was another nail in Desmond's coffin. ""Why didn't you leave the state?""
""I tried,"" she whispered, looking down at her worn sneakers. ""I got to the bus station in Atlanta. But I couldn't breathe, Grant. My mother’s grave is here. My whole life was here. And then... the nausea started. The doctor at the free clinic told me I was eight weeks along. Yours. I had nothing left except this child. I came back under my mother’s maiden name. I took cash jobs behind industrial washers where no one looks at faces."" She looked back up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ""And now you're marrying Monica Langford in three weeks. It’s all over the society papers. The savior of the Holloway empire. So why are you standing in my kitchen?""
