Reign A Romance Anthology - Nina Levine Page 0,329

the tradition alive, ensuring a male inherited the bar. And the kicker? The building is under Lorenzo’s financial care until I turn twenty-five.

My father assumed that his wife would have a long, healthy life, and she would, regardless of tradition, name me as the heir to Queenie’s. My father would never have denied his only child’s right to inherit the business because of my gender—tradition be damned. What a lot of pressure to put on a couple to give birth to at least one son.

Mamma did what she thought was best—or Lorenzo convinced her to sign everything over to him. It is something I will never know.

The closer I came to being of age, the more I worried about the lawyer Lorenzo brought in to handle Mamma’s affairs before her death and whether it would be that easy to claim the building when I came of age.

My mother didn’t leave me high and dry. While I was in high school, she had me learning the ropes of her legacy for me to nurture. Kingdom of Wigs is a company she set up in 2032 when she had Lorenzo backing her at Queenie’s, taking the lion’s share of duties and delegation. He graciously freed up her time to set up the business to keep her happy and busy, making him invaluable to my mother.

Mamma was brightening the lives of so many women with high-quality human hair and synthetic wigs of all colors, lengths, and styles, lifting their self-esteem while undergoing treatment, making them feel like princesses and queens.

And now I carry on with her good work: Monday through to Saturday lunchtime I am at the shop and warehouse. I also have a busy online shop. Lorenzo can’t lay a finger on the funds.

I lob the next two bags of trash into the dumpster. Turning back toward the door, I’ve got one more load to go. Then I can head back to bed where it’s warm.

I was only three-years-old when the pandemic started. “The world has changed dramatically,” my mother used to say when I was older, telling me of the time before the pandemic versus the ‘new world’ we were now living in.

The whole sixty-four acres of Old Town isn’t what it used to be. Post-pandemic, crime is higher, and the tree-lined streets aren’t as well-kept as they once were.

Too many families lost breadwinners. Grief turned to depression, and so did the streets of Old Town Chicago, suffering as the humans suffered.

Old Town is one of many areas that have been forgotten—left to fend for itself until our time comes to get money injected into it to revive the colorful life it once led.

I’m now nearly twenty-four and work Friday and Saturday nights at Queenie’s mainly to keep an eye on Lorenzo because my gut tells me not to trust the man.

Queenie’s is a survivor business. It has held its own over the changing years, with the small pub menu boasting the best ribs and burgers around.

The tavern has a lot of character: maroon leather padded barstools of the early century with its original mahogany bar and heavy wooden round tables and booths with matching leather seating.

Still, the interior needs money spent on it. We could raise the bar (no pun intended) on the clientele with an updated look without losing the original wood and brick interior. Now, it represents the dive bar scene nearly ninety years after opening, rather than a cool place to hang out and meet friends. I want more for Queenie’s. I want more for Old Town and its remaining residents.

Usually, my stepfather is around working, but he’s been away since Friday morning and not due back until lunchtime. He expects the bar to be clean and tidy on his return. I agree, but I also plan to sleep through to lunchtime, so getting the jobs done now works well while freeing my bed up.

With the final two trash bags hurled into the dumpster, I’m flipping the lid back down when I get a strong feeling that I am no longer alone. Danger! Danger! Somebody is in the alley with me, lurking in the shadows.

Before I can race to safety, I get slammed from the side into the grimy brick wall beside the dumpster—the air whooshing from my chest on impact.

Gritting my teeth, I attempt to shove away from the hard surface, but in the blink of an eye, a large gloved hand smothers my mouth and pinches my nose, restricting my air intake, while a heavy