— Chapter 56 —

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A few nights earlier...

"Get up," I hissed to the man in the black suit. "We'll finish this conversation elsewhere."

Midas laughed.

"Alright, then," he said. Getting to his feet, he asked rhetorically, "After all... who am I to disagree with a Kato?"

It was my request that led us to a small, closed-off section not far from the stage. I realized that Midas wasn't alone—he had two bodyguards with him, both certainly concealing weapons beneath their jackets. They observed my movements just as much as I observed theirs.

Midas picked up a glass of neat whiskey lying on the glass table and passed me a conniving smirk.

"One-on-one time with you?" He teased, a gold tooth peeking out from his grin. "What have I done to be so fortunate, hm?"

Disgust rippled through my core, making me burn hot with annoyance.

"Enough of this," I said. Balling my fists in the pockets of my jacket, a deep scowl solidified on my face. "Whenever you show up in Boston, it's never for the right reasons. The faster you stop with the games and tell me what you're doing here, the faster I can have you leave."

He pouted, tracing his finger around the rim of his glass. "Such an icy reception. Am I not allowed to have fun here anymore?"

"Your definition of fun involves several felonies and the occasional murder, so no."

Midas laughed and shifted his weight.

"What a shame," he sighed. Holding the glass to his lips, he spoke in a beguiling murmur, "I thought you of all people would be the one to miss me most."

The look in his eyes combined with the suggestiveness of his tone made me cross my arms defensively. A sick feeling poisoned the pit of my stomach.

He offered a wry smile. "Your friend grew up quite handsome. Elliot, was it? You were so protective of him back in the day. Nice to see some things don't change."

I could feel the fury simmering in my veins. Elliot's name didn't deserve to be spoken through the cursed lips of a monster like Midas. And if it was, the monster didn't deserve to keep his teeth.

"He's a fragile thing, don't you think?" the gangster continued to provoke. "And rather beautiful. My, I almost thought he was a woman!" He laughed brazenly. "In all honesty, I wouldn't mind having hi—"

I snatched the lapel of his suit, seething with a fiery rage as a result of the sick implications that he'd laughed into the air. I could see my reflection in his shadowed eyes. My face was contorted into a venomous snarl, the look in my own eyes nothing short of wild and explosive. Every muscle in my body contracted—though I couldn't decipher whether it was from the adrenaline or the anger.

For a moment, I could've sworn my sudden outburst allowed fear to break through Midas's confident exterior. The warning I spoke to him was cold and calculated, spoken truthfully in hateful conviction.

"If you ever lay your filthy hands on him... I swear to god I'll cut them off from your wrists."

Midas hesitated.

A slow, wry grin came to curve his lips. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

My breath caught in my throat. "Shut your fucking mouth."

"Is it because you know he'd never forgive you?" he laughed anyway. "Or was I really so persuasive back then?"

"You took everything from us."

Forcing a dry smile on his lips, the man chuckled and pried my grip from his collar. And he pushed me back. He pushed me back until I fell onto the club sofa, and lodged his knee between my legs. Cupping my chin, he stared at my lips and hovered his face close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his putrid breath.

There was something disgusting in the way his focus trailed over my features—he licked his lips, forced my face into his meaty grip, and breathed heavily as he spoke.

"Never could take responsibility, could you?" He asked, tone like a blade coated in poison. "See James, you made the choice to lose everything. You could have just as easily let him die. Nobody was forcing you to keep your mouth shut."

"I was being forced the second you put a threat on his life." My hands curled into fists. "There was no choice to make!"

I would have lost him either way.

Midas purred, "And yet you still don't understand—love is a weakness, child. Can't you see how easy it was for me to manipulate you back then? I told you to leave the city and keep your mouth shut. You obeyed... and it was you who cost yourself everything. Was it not you who decided those secrets were worth keeping?"

I went to strike him. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

Midas caught my arm mere inches from his face. I watched every muscle of his face constrain into a broken smile, some kind of wheezy laugh being forced from his throat. His face was too close to mine. Dry lips grazed the curve of my cheekbone.

"Watch yourself, little Kato," he whispered, chipped nails digging into my wrist. "You may carry that last name... but don't ever forget your place."

My place, I remembered.

Beneath him.

Midas licked his lower lip. I felt his knee digging between my legs and felt like a child again. A shattered child backed so far into a corner, violated, screaming and crying and thrashing for help—only for desperate pleas to fall on deaf ears. It was the same scene that still haunted my dreams and nurtured my anger.

Finding satisfaction in my fear, Midas let out a triumphant huff and finally let me go.

"By some coincidence—or perhaps a sick twist of fate—you and I have found ourselves back in this city," he uttered. "But I'm no better than I was five years ago, and I promise you, James... if you do anything to get in my way... Elliot Taylor will die."

My stomach churned as his words settled deep in my core. Midas turned to his bodyguards and smiled.

"I'm bored of this place," he decided. "Let us leave."

And for a little while after they left me alone there, I was still disoriented with the terror of the only man who was able to make me feel so hopelessly weak. Because that's all I was.

Just the weak shell of a child that everyone had neglected so many years ago.

And no matter how much rage boiled within me, or how big of a facade I put up to hide it, Midas knew exactly how to break me down again. All it took was a little nudge in the right direction.

The memory of our meeting left me in a bitter mood as I stared out the tinted window of a black SUV. The pink sunset in the distance, and the buildings glittering as a result of the rain from earlier on in the day, were something worth admiring.

I'd been to countless different cities in the last few years, but never found a home in any of them. No matter how much time I spent away or the bad memories that I had of the place, my homesickness for Boston never left. I grew up here. I knew the place like the back of my hand. And I missed it.

Or maybe it was never Boston I was homesick for.

"Your parents will be at the top of the carpet by the front doors," said a female publicist in the passenger seat of the front row. "Jayden and his fiancé won't be far behind. There'll be politicians and donors there, but you'll be one of the last to step onto the carpet. That'll give you enough time to speak with reporters and have a few photos taken."

I pursed my lips.

"I told you that I wasn't going to deal with reporters."

She looked up from her iPad and sighed. "You know the terms your father set in this arrangement. I understand that you don't want to be interviewed, but all we're asking you to do is—"

"All you're asking is that I make a clown of myself and sell people the lies his campaign's shoved my throat," I finished for her. "Yes, I know. Anything for the polls, right?"

She leaned back in her seat and didn't address a reply to the words. Instead, she questioned, "You remember what to say?"

I passed her a flat look. "Hard to forget. His lawyers sent me four itemized pages of topics that can and can't be discussed—alphabetized and color-coded. It was incredibly thorough."

"Well, as long as you make sure to cover what we rehearsed, you'll be fine. And who knows—maybe you'll even find a way to have fun."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. The only fun will be in leaving.

When we finally pulled up to the venue, the first thing I noticed was how bustling it was. People were everywhere—mobbing around a red carpet while cameras flashed relentlessly in every direction. There was a TV crew off to the side with the prime position to broadcast everyone arriving onto the carpet. And I just happened to be next.

"Remember what we rehearsed, James," the publicist noted for the umpteenth time as I opened the door to the SUV, her voice hardly louder than all the noise of the carpet.

Camera flashes burned my retinas the instant I stepped out of the car.

I'd always loathed red carpets.

They were a place where people of any wealth or status would go and flaunt their successes to those stuck down in the real world. Red carpets were a colossal waste of time. A fantasy. An excuse for paparazzi to ask prying questions about shit you wouldn't confess to your own mother. But for politicians like my father, red carpets existed to sell lies to the people that his campaign claimed to so diligently support.

In reality, it was no different nor better than a circus act. All of it was just one big joke—and tonight, I just happened to be the punchline. Might as well make it one hell of a show.

With a straight posture and my chin held high, I walked in a confident stride onto the velvet carpet, pushing back the nerves ravaging my mind. Paparazzi fought for my attention the second I stepped into their line of sight.

They called my name. James, James, James... over and over again. Their cameras were in competition for photos of me, building a wall of flashing lights in my vision.

"James!"

"James, James—look this way!"

But between the mess of photographers and reporters, I had no idea where to look. All I could do was stand there, let them take their photos, and move on. Within a short while, I was finally close enough to spot my family up at the top of the carpet.

Between conversing with reporters and other celebrities on the carpet, it took some time before I was finally allowed to meet with the oh-so-mighty Kato family. Questions seemed to follow me as I ascended the carpeted stairs, like incessant buzzing in my eardrums. Why are you back in Boston? Any new music coming? And most persistently, Why did you emancipate from your father?

My father.

Tanjiro Kato. I could finally see him now.

He and my mother were surrounded by the most paparazzi. Standing together on the carpet, the two were having their photos taken while engaging in conversation with reporters. My father was smiling—it wasn't often you saw him smiling unless he wanted something. And right now, he just wanted attention.

Look at him, I thought to myself. Standing there, so presentable and powerful and perfect, covering up the secrets of his past with a fake smile and some confident charm. It made me sick.

Sick, because these people loved him. They were eating out of his hand, laughing along with him and asking questions as if he were something to be admired. And he was basking in it—their adoration. It was fuelling his ego and driving that god complex he tried so hard to hide.

If only people knew the truth about what happened behind closed doors. They'd run away screaming... like I did.

Jayden was standing with his fiancé when I approached them on the carpet, only I left our greeting limited to a familiar handshake so as to not interrupt his conversation with the reporters. His warm smile managed to comfort my tensions.

I continued to walk the carpet, someone calling from the sidelines, "James! Look here, James!"

Though I didn't reply to them, the sound of my name alerted my mother a few paces away.

I think seeing her hurt the most. Because she didn't smile at the sight of me—not even for the cameras. I should have counted myself lucky that she looked at me in the first place, considering that she could never stand being in my presence otherwise. But when I finally stopped before her and my father, she and I shook hands anyway.

Even in the spotlight, she still won't embrace me.

"James," someone called.

My father, holding his hand out for me to take. I felt my heart stop at his attention, an ill feeling plaguing my stomach.

But he smiled. He plastered on his picture-perfect grin, closed the gap between us, and forced my hand into his.

"I'm glad to see you," he said. "Thank you for coming."

I barely listened, knowing it was just pure filth meant to satiate the cameras. But I shook his hand anyway. It was my first time seeing him in five years, and I shook his fucking hand. After everything he'd done to me, I was here again, playing his games once more. Whatever hostility we had for each other was made invisible under the eyes of spectators.

"The three of you look fantastic!" Someone commented. "James, will you be staying in Boston for the foreseeable future?"

One reporter questioned, "How does it feel see your parents again?"

I drew in a breath, calming my rapid nerves. My focus turned to the cameras.

"It's nice to be back," I spoke, microphones pointed at my face. "I've really missed my family, so meeting them here tonight is... incredibly overwhelming. I'm very happy to see them."

Lies. Lies, lies, lies.

It was as if someone's hands were gripping my throat, suffocating me beneath the attention of the crowd. A sick tension built in my stomach. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be in Elliot's arms again, listening to the gentle sounds of his voice as he comforted me from the Hell in my head. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

But it was my own fault, in a way. I made the choice to show my face at the benefit because there was no saying no to someone like my father. You did as he told you, and if you didn't, he crushed everything you loved under his merciless fist.

Why am I even playing along with his whims? Because I'll get a favor?

Please. I needed his favors about as much as I needed a hole in my head.

One of the reporters caught my attention a few paces away. Holding a notepad, they spoke clearly, "You emancipated yourself from your father six years ago and haven't been present at any of his functions since. Why have you decided to support him now?"

Remember what you rehearsed, the publicist's voice echoed in my head. Tanjiro's stare carved into my skull, dumping unnecessary pressure on my shoulders.

"My emancipation had nothing to do with my father," I said firstly. "I've been making music with quite a few artists over the years, so I haven't had much time, but... it's a relief to be back in Boston again. My father's got this city's best interests at heart and I couldn't bring myself to say no to his invitation. Tonight is an opportunity to give back to the community I grew up in. And I'm proud to be here... supporting my father."

Liar, liar, I cursed myself. You never lie. Why are you lying?

"Why did you get emancipated from him?" Another reporter inquired.

The question made me lightheaded.

"I... I'd always wanted to be financially independent," I forced out, hiding my sweating hands. "I made that choice for myself when I was young. Like I said, it had nothing to do with my father—I'm truly very proud of my family."

Camera flashes blared in my eyes as I stood with my parents, listening to them entertain the crowd while we had our photos together. And I suffered through it, hoping the cameras wouldn't pick up how nauseous I was in the moment.

I'd had enough of this, the photos, the questions, and my father's god-forsaken games. I just wanted to get out of the spotlight. It was making me nauseous.

So I turned to Tanjiro and shook his hand... but not before whispering something by his ear.

His eyes widened briefly. His hand tightened in my own, calloused skin pinching my fingers. But I found satisfaction in the way he faltered at my words, witnessing the imperfections in his overconfident exterior.

That's right, you pretentious old fuck.

I pulled my hand away while he was distracted, protecting my pride with an emotionless countenance. Turning a glance to the crowd, I fixed my posture and spoke clearly.

"Thank you all for the questions."

The benefit was hosted within an expansive art gallery near the heart of Boston. It was a beautifully minimal space, even more beautiful in the nighttime. Pale wood met with crisp, white walls, and white lights illuminated the countless artworks above gold nameplates for people to admire.

The largest space was a hall in the middle of the building. It wasn't too large in size, but had the space for an exquisite stage and well-decorated tables for seating. At the front by the microphone was a singer named Tracy May, whom I'd talked with earlier on the carpet. She was busy belting the lyrics to the song I'd produced for her.

She's not as good as Elliot.

The thought continued to plague my mind as I watched her perform to the crowd of beautiful people listening down below.

She was an incredible singer, no doubt about it. One of the best I'd heard since moving to California, even. She had a smooth voice, strong and stable, the kind meant for dancing to. But... it just felt like something was missing.

The stage she was standing on was illuminated by several white spotlights that made her sequin-studded dress glitter like diamonds. Offering her audience a big smile, she put on a show that served well in entertaining the rich socialites parading through the benefit. And behind her on the stage, a piano I'd be performing on later.

Tracy didn't sing in the way Elliot did, I couldn't help but think.

Elliot was the kind of singer whose music could bring you to tears in mourning for your own profound experiences. Because when he sang, he stitched pieces of his soul into his performance. He showed the rawest parts of himself, fuelling his lyrics with passion and lamentation... all in hope that someone out there could relate to his pain.

And for a long time—perhaps even now—I was that someone.

Maybe it was that quality of his that made him stand out from everyone else. Because looking at Tracy now, she just appeared so... boring. Flashy, but boring.

She was missing Elliot's passion. Emotion. Substance. There was nothing heartfelt or meaningful about her performance at all. She had a beautiful voice, yes, but nothing about it managed to leave an impact. Or maybe I just wasn't her intended audience.

I sighed. What I'd give to hear Elliot sing again.

Hidden behind the curtain of the stage, I fixed up my cufflinks and took some calming breaths. Jayden stood beside me with his hands folded behind his back, admiring the talent of the singer on stage.