The Angel And The Bastard

Chapter 2 - Damien

Damien

New York, they say, is the city that never sleeps.

It's also the city that never shuts up, where ambition hums through the streets like electricity in a faulty wire—buzzing, crackling, always on the edge of shorting out.

It's a city where even the shadows seem to hustle for a promotion.

It's nothing like London, where at least the rain has the decency to make things quiet every now and then.

I've been here for two months, and already I know a few things about the place: everything's for sale, and everyone's pretending it's not.

In London, they'll stab you in the back with a smile; here, they'll do it with a handshake.

It's almost refreshing, if you ignore the smell of trash and desperation that wafts up from the subway grates.

I slip through the revolving doors of a bar called The Bitter End—how charmingly American—and claim a corner booth.

It's dimly lit, full of suits loosening their ties, clinking glasses over deals that will probably end in some poor bastard getting fired.

The bartender eyes me like I'm the sort who might ask for a martini, then complain it's too dry.

He's not wrong, but I'm not in the mood tonight.

"Whiskey, neat," I say, my accent curling around the words.

It's a trick, really—lean into the British charm, and Americans will tell you anything.

I settle back, letting the dark wood of the booth press against my shoulders.

The whiskey arrives, and I raise it to my lips, savoring the burn.

New York isn't London, but I can make it work.

I have to make it work.

See, when you're the illegitimate son of an English earl, there are only two ways to live.

You can play the part of the grateful mistake, smiling politely while they pretend you don't exist, or you can take that little chip on your shoulder and sharpen it into a knife.

I chose the knife.

So here I am, in the land of opportunity, looking for a chance to carve out a piece of this city for myself.

The thing is, there's a sort of freedom in being a nobody.

It means people underestimate you. It means you can move through the world like a ghost—unnoticed, unbothered—until you decide you want to be seen.

It's a game, really, and I've always been quite good at games.

Tonight's game is reconnaissance. I've been poking around the city's underbelly, learning who's in charge, who's sleeping with whom, and which deals are worth slipping a knife into.

I'm aiming for something more substantial than petty crime or penny stocks.

Something with stakes.

Something that would make my father choke on his scotch if he ever bothered to pay attention.

I take another sip of my whiskey, letting it warm me from the inside out.

Across the room, two hedge fund types are laughing too loudly, slapping each other on the back like they've just cured cancer.

One of them looks over, catches my eye, and hesitates.

I give him a smile—a real teeth-baring one that's all polite menace. He looks away, mumbling to his friend about "weird Brits," and I raise my glass in a silent toast.