Chapter Seven Nathan

Hell was coming back to Chinatown.

The sun hadn't yet climbed high enough to chase away the chill of the San Francisco morning as I made my way through Chinatown. Its rays barely skimmed over the tops of tightly packed buildings, casting long shadows on the street where the city woke to the scent of fresh dumplings and the quiet hum of early commerce.

I had business to attend to—family business—and this part of town, with its vibrant markets and hidden alleys, knew the tread of my boots well.

I stopped first at a restaurant that had been under our protection for years. The red and gold sign swayed gently above the door, welcoming me in. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the aroma of spices and soy sauce. Patrons huddled over steaming bowls, their conversations a low murmur against the clinking of porcelain.

"Morning, Mr. Zhou," greeted the owner, a stout man with a ready smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Everyone knew who I was, or rather, who my father was—the Serpent, the head of our little empire. But to them, I was just Nathan, the polite young man who occasionally stopped by to ensure everything ran smoothly.

"Morning," I replied with an easy grin, one that I'd perfected over the years. "How's the family?"

"Good, good," he answered, wiping his hands on his apron. "Business is steady, thanks to you."

I nodded, my gaze sweeping across the restaurant. It wasn't just about intimidation or power; these were people's lives, their livelihoods. And while I might be known for what I could do in the shadows, here, in the light of day, I played a different part.

"Let me know if you need anything," I said, the charm coming as naturally as breathing—a necessary skill when your world demanded you be both a guardian and a threat.

"Will do, Mr. Zhou. Thank you." His gratitude was genuine, even if there was a hint of unease beneath it.

That was the balance we struck—a dance of respect and fear that kept our world spinning.

As I left the restaurant and continued on my rounds, the mask of the charming businessman never wavered. Each smile, each handshake held the weight of unspoken promises. In Chinatown, words were often unnecessary; it was what lay behind them that mattered.

And behind mine lay the full force of the Zhou Triad.

The chime above the flower shop door heralded my arrival, a subtle but familiar jingle that cut through the hum of Chinatown's morning bustle. The kind old clerk, Mr. Lao, looked up from his arrangement of chrysanthemums, a soft smile creasing his wrinkled face.

"Ah, Nathan," he greeted, his voice as warm as the sun filtering through the storefront window. "Back office?"

"Morning, Mr. Lao," I returned the greeting, keeping my tone light. "Yeah, just need to check on something."

I slipped past the vibrant displays and headed straight for the back. Behind a plain door, a secret oasis awaited me—my sanctuary within this concrete jungle. The room was alive with greens and colors, a stark difference to the steel and glass of the city outside.

Picking up the watering can, I let the mask of the mafia prince fall away, replaced by the careful hands of a gardener. The orchids were my pride, delicate blooms that required a precise touch. As I tended to each one, I whispered encouragements to them under my breath, a habit picked up in quieter moments.

Sometimes it was easier to talk to plants than people…and maybe that made me a freak, but there was no one here to judge.

And some silly part of me thought it might make the plants more healthy.

"Grow strong, little guys," I murmured, a faint smile playing on my lips as I worked the soil gently. Here, among the plants, I could almost forget the weight of my last name, the expectations that came with it, and the blood that sometimes stained it.

The leaves of a particularly lush fern needed cleaning, and as I wiped away the dust, it was as if I was clearing the dark images from my mind. The dead man's vacant eyes from my father's basement—no, not now. Not here. In this green haven, life thrived under my care, a sharp contrast to the death my family dealt in.

"Beautiful, aren't you?" I praised a blooming orchid, its petals unfurling like a promise of peace. For a moment, I allowed myself the illusion, the fantasy of a different life—one rooted in nurturing rather than destroying.

Stepping out from the sanctuary of my green haven, the clamor of Chinatown in the morning greeted me like an old friend. The scent of spices and the sound of haggling vendors filled the air, but it was the sight at Red Lantern Coffee that caught my attention.

There she was, the girl from yesterday, her brown hair catching the early sun with hidden ribbons of gold as she cleared a table on the patio.

She was gorgeous.

Much prettier than any orchid.

"Hey," I called out, making my way over with a casual stride. Her head snapped up, a smile blooming across her freckled face. It was astonishing how the heaviness of last night's horrors seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter, almost hopeful.

"Hey, stranger," she greeted, her green eyes sparkling in the daylight. The memory of the dead man, which had clung to me like a second skin, dissolved under her gaze.

"Enjoying your flowers?" I asked, leaning against the railing.

"Absolutely," the pretty waitress said, her hands pausing mid-wipe on the tabletop. "They're amazing. They add so much life to my place. Thank you."

"Anytime," I replied, offering her a hint of a grin. There was a warmth there, something genuine that even I didn't expect. "Flowers should be around someone who appreciates their beauty."

"Then they're in the right place," she quipped, her tone light, matching mine.

"Seems they are."

"I think I owe you something in return, huh?" she asked. "Come on in—how about a coffee on the house?"

I grinned. "Sounds great."

I trailed her into the coffee shop, the clang of porcelain and hiss of the espresso machine filling the compact space. There was a mix of people here—Chinese residents speaking Mandarin, others speaking English. I didn't think my family had money in this restaurant, which made it one of the few on this block that was truly independent.

The girl slipped behind the counter with an ease that spoke of long hours spent here, among the steam and the scent of freshly ground beans.

"What can I get for you?"

"Americano," I said, my voice cutting through the morning bustle. My fingers tapped on the worn wood, a quiet drumbeat betraying a restlessness I couldn't place.

"Name for the cup?" Her question was procedural, but her eyes, those vivid pools of green, held mine with an intensity that felt anything but routine…and the smirk on her lips told me she wanted my name for more than one reason.

"Nate," I answered, flashing her a half-smile as she scribbled on the paper cup with a black marker. "Seems only fair I get your name, too."

"Abby." The way she said it, simple and without pretense, stirred something low in my gut.

"Thanks, Abby." I slid a bill across the counter, more than enough to cover the coffee and the tip.

"You don't have to—you gave me that bouquet for free," she said, reaching out to push it back—but our fingers brushed, a jolt of electricity snapping between us. I pocketed my hands to hide their sudden shaking.

"You keep it," I said. "Consider it a tip."

She bit her lip. "Sure you don't want to write your number on it first?"

I couldn't help but huff out a laugh, surprised at her boldness. But I had to admit…I liked it. I really, really fucking liked it.

"Wouldn't want to ruin the bill," I said. "I want you to be able to spend it."

"Then here—give me your hand," she said.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and held it out, and before I could protest, she was taking it and scribbling her phone number in sharpie on my palm. I peered down at it, cocking an eyebrow.

"Not from around here, huh?" I asked.

"It's a Boston area code," she said. "I came out here for school and…what can I say? I fell in love."

I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within me as Abby's gaze lingered on mine. Her easy confidence, the way she filled the space around her with warmth and charm, it was a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world I usually inhabited. But in that moment, surrounded by the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the soft murmur of customers in the shop, I found myself drawn to her light like a moth to a flame.

As she handed me the steaming cup of Americano, our fingers brushed again, sending another jolt of electricity through me. It was an innocent touch, but it lingered like an echo in my veins, igniting a hunger for something more than the darkness that clung to my every step.

"Well, Abby from Boston, it looks like I'll have to give you a call sometime," I said with a smirk, the weight of my usual responsibilities momentarily forgotten in her presence. She grinned back, a cheeky glint in her eye that made my heart race for reasons beyond the adrenaline of danger.

"I'll be waiting for that call, Nate," she replied playfully, her tone light yet tinged with an undercurrent of something deeper.

The bell rang over my head as I stepped back into the California sun, looking down at my palm. Yeah…I would definitely be giving her a call.

After I'd found the rat in our operation and ended them for good.