Chapter 3 - The Cold Pavement of Queens
The snow was coming down heavier now, turning the streets of Astoria into a blinding, swirling white tunnel.
Brendan slammed his fists against the scarred wooden door of my old Queens apartment building, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. His designer overcoat was soaked through with slush, his hair matted to his forehead, and his face twisted into a mask of frantic, unhinged fury.
"Cassidy! Open the damn door!" Brendan screamed, his voice cracking as he kicked the base of the door with his Italian leather shoe, only to cry out in pain as the hard wood refused to budge. "I know you're in there! Open up right now, you ungrateful little bitch!"
Windows on the second and third floors flickered open. Irritated neighbors poked their heads out into the cold night air.
"Hey! Shut the hell up down there!" a gruff voice yelled from above. "Some people have to work in the morning! Call the cops or I'm dumping water on you!"
Brendan looked up, his eyes wild and desperate. "Do you know who I am? I am Brendan Morrison! My family owns half of—"
"Your family owns a jail cell if you don't shut your mouth!" the neighbor shouted back before slamming his window shut with a deafening bang.
Brendan stood panting in the freezing hallway, his hands trembling violently as he pulled out his phone. He dialed my number for the hundredth time that night, pressing the device to his ear with desperate hope.
It went straight to voicemail.
“The subscriber you have reached is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
"Pick up! Pick up, damn you!" Brendan sobbed, his voice finally cracking under the weight of sheer panic as the reality of his situation began to sink in.
His cards had been declined at the highway toll booth twenty minutes ago. His corporate email access had been severed with a security wipe that erased every file, contact, and bank ledger associated with his name. His father was currently sitting in a holding room at a downtown precinct answering federal investigators' questions about missing pension funds. And he—Brendan Morrison, heir to nothing, prince of dust—was standing in a freezing tenement hallway in Queens with three dollars in his pocket and snow melting down his neck.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Brendan gasped, lifting the screen with frantic fingers, praying for a lifeline.
It wasn't me. It was a text message from his bank: ALERT: Your checking account balance is $0.00. All credit facilities have been permanently revoked.
Brendan let out a primal scream of rage, throwing his expensive smartphone against the concrete wall of the hallway where it shattered into a dozen plastic pieces.
"Ruined," he whispered, sliding down the scarred wooden door until he sat in the slush and melting ice on the floor. "She ruined everything..."
From the shadows at the end of the hallway, two men in sharp black suits stepped silently out of the gloom. They didn't make a sound as they approached him. Brendan didn't even notice them until a heavy, leather-gloved hand gripped his collar and hauled him violently to his feet.
"What—what are you doing?!" Brendan stammered, thrashing weakly as the security officers pinned his arms. "Let go of me! Do you know who my father is?!"
"Your father is currently answering questions about wire fraud," one of the guards said coldly, his voice like grinding stones. "And you, Mr. Morrison, are trespassing on private property."
"Private property? This is a dump!" Brendan shrieked.
"This building was acquired by Vanguard Global Enterprises thirty seconds ago," the guard replied smoothly. "And our employer has explicitly instructed us to clear all trash from the premises."
Before Brendan could process the words, he was hauled bodily out of the doorway, dragged down the four flights of stairs, and tossed unceremoniously out into the freezing Queens snowbank.
The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.
Brendan scrambled up out of the slush, coughing and freezing, wiping dirty snow from his face as he looked up at the darkened windows. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, lonely shadows across the empty avenue.
May you like
He was completely, utterly alone.
And miles away, sitting in the seventy-floor penthouse overlooking the glittering skyline, I watched his pathetic exile unfold on a high-resolution security monitor, feeling the last cold knot in my chest dissolve into absolute, serene peace.
