The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

2. Nora

Nora

Kings kill

A lley’s text arrives a few minutes after I’ve climbed into the taxi. The drop-off spot is in the same part of downtown as the art gallery I plan to visit tonight. I mutter off the address to the driver before pulling out my phone and playing my stupid supermarket simulator game.

The thirty-minute drive is mostly silent as Port Manaus’ twin bays race past us. Halfway into the drive, I’m staring out the window, my phone discarded in my lap. The bays are shaped like the number three, one for the haves, and one for the have-nots.

Clear Bay—large and prosperous with white sandy beaches, amazing restaurants, and incredible architecture—is where I, a have , live. Hell’s Basin—small, filthy, its beaches wrecked with treacherous rip tides and its neighborhoods polluted by the smokestacks from nearby factories—is where the have-nots live.

The Basin was far off on the distant horizon, in the opposite direction of where I’m headed. But a chill prickles my spine when my eyes land on the flat expanse of land bracketed by the soaring, jagged peaks of the mountai n range Port Manaus is known for.

Hell’s Basin. The name is appropriate because the circular arrangement of the mountains bordering it makes it look like a basin of sorts. And the hell part, that’s less about geography. The Basin is split in two. At the foot of the mountains, in the basin itself, is The Flats. Dotted with hundreds of apartment buildings; the low-income housing project inspired so much hope fifty years ago. Today, it’s where hope goes to die.

Crawling up the face of the mountain are thousands of shacks and small, brightly painted cinder block houses—Dahlia Heights. Or just The Heights if you’re local. It’s one half of the ‘hell’ that defines life in The Basin. Home to murderers, rapists, gun runners, drug dealers, and the people unfortunate enough to live amongst them. A weary sigh slips out of me as I turn away from the window, away from the rapidly shrinking view of Hell’s Basin.

With dusk settled in so soundly, seeing those houses is now impossible. But I’ll see them tomorrow; from the deck outside my bedroom, I see them every day. A quietly menacing reminder of my sins.

Ricky has always insisted that Hell’s Basin is strictly off-limits to me and yet, I have a very specific role to play in maintaining the pervasive culture of violence that defines life in The Basin.

“We’re here.” The taxi driver's gruff voice dissolves all thoughts of Hell, and its Basin as we pull up outside a seedy dive bar. The Bernato Hotel… God, it looks like a crime scene waiting to happen. After grabbing a handful of bills from my purse, I thank the driver and climb out.

The heavy wooden door is shut and when I heave it open, the stench of stale cigarette smoke, beer, and unwashed bodies assaults me. Heads turn as men leer at me, an d a prickling sense of awareness rushes through my body. Nodding at some of them, I walk over to the booth on the far left, just as Alley instructed. After shimmying into the cracked pleather seat, I pull my phone out and text Alley.

Nora

I’m here. This place is a dump.

Alley

Shit, sorry, the Michelin-star restaurant I wanted to book was full.

They’re a few minutes away.

“You ordering something or just taking up space?” An elderly man appears at the end of the booth with a notepad in his hand. How extensive did he think my order would be, I wonder?

“Just a beer, please. No glass.” I smile politely.

“Any beer?” He lifts his eyebrow as curiosity clouds his eyes. “You don’t got a preferred brand? Most beer drinkers got a brand they like, Miss.”

“I don’t have a brand,” I say, making the kind of eye contact I’ve seen Ricky use when he’s done with a conversation. Having a mob boss godfather comes in handy sometimes.

I watch him walk back to the bar and turn as the door opens. Two men, maybe in their fifties, walk in. They’re wearing turtlenecks and jackets that look way too thick for the heat of the day, but despite the winter wear, I recognize them immediately from their I.D. photos. Trying to be as subtle as possible, I wave, watching as they share an indecipherable look before walking over to me.

“Hi,” I murmur as they scoot into the seat opposite me. “So, well, Alley was busy. Sorry.” I ca n tell by their amused faces I’m being weird and not cool, calm, and collected like fake I.D. sellers should be.

“Yeah, she said. That’s okay. We won’t take up too much of your time. We’re just here to collect… you know.” He nods to my bag.

“Yes, sure.” I agree before reaching into the inside pocket of my handbag, and pulling out the folded manilla envelope. “Here you go. Good luck, I guess?” I offer. They nod somberly, watching me move out of the booth. The three of us share one last look before I drop some money on the table for the beer I had no intention of drinking and rush out of the bar.

M y second taxi for the night stops outside the gallery. It’s already teeming with people, and I spend a second standing on the sidewalk, simply marveling at the size of the crowd. It’s not unusual for a Thursday night in Port Manaus, it’s just unusual for me. Like a magnet drawing me closer, I move, walking through the huge glass entrance doors and into the massive exhibition area.

I’m still close to the front of the open plan gallery, aimlessly moving from one painting to the next when my entire body freezes.

"Did you hear about the kid they gunned down in The Heights today?"

It takes every scrap of my self-control not to snap my head in their direction. Three men stand huddled around a painting just to the left of me.

The gallery’s surprisingly poorly lit for an establishment that relies on its patrons’ vision to keep them in business. But tonight, with my survival instinct demanding I remain invisible, the dimly lit gallery works in my favor.

Taking a deep sip of the warm white wine clutched in my hand, I turn toward the men. They look out of place in a way that’s impossible to ignore. I know they don’t belong here because I don’t belong here either. But unlike me, they stand out. To everyone else, it might be their casual, well-worn clothing that marks them as other . To me, it’s the signature knife with a broken blade tattoo stamped on their necks, branding them as members of the Devil’s Knights—the most notorious street gang in the city.

Their violent auras saturate the air, like a gruesome kind of osmosis. Their presence is a reminder that the thin layer of peace everyone in Port Manaus hangs onto is fragile and porous.

The three Knights standing next to me hadn’t come alone. In fact, I’d go so far as to say the bulk of the attendees here tonight are members. Looking around now, it’s easy to pick them out between the well-dressed patrons sipping wine.

"Yeah, fuck. Shot in the back. Whispers in The Basin say it was a Cartel bullet," one man says.

My face burns with shame as his words sink in.

The Court Cartel.

If someone wrote a story about my nightmares, that would be the title. Named after the infamous low-income housing project in Hell's Basin, that locals called ‘The Courts’, and an unhealthy obsession with South American drug cartels. The Court Cartel is a close runner-up to the Knights as far as dangerous street gangs go in this city.

And Ricky runs it.

Rick y is The Court Cartel.

He started the gang when he was just ten years old with my father and my father’s best friend, Gracious Jackson. My parent’s death meant that Gracious and Ricky are the closest thing I have to family. If Ricky and Gracious—and the three men beside me—take daily deep dives into the sticky violence of Port Manaus’ underworld, then I paddle above it on a canoe made of lies every other week.

I love Ricky, but it’s been a long time since I last felt safe around him. His world, the violence, the crime, the lies, are closing in around me, suffocating my hopes. Everything that used to be easy to ignore now feels impossibly heavy.

"I heard the kid’s mom works for the Knights." The man’s hushed words send ice rippling through me. If that’s true, if the young son of someone affiliated with the Devil’s Knights was killed, retaliations are coming.

My anxiety surges. Ricky has no kids to retaliate with. He only has me.

Dodging my security detail to sneak out suddenly feels painfully shortsighted.

Ricky does his best to shelter me from the ugliness of his world. Of our world. But his best is so good that now, at twenty-five, my close-knit circle of friends is made up of exactly two people. Joy is as abundant in my life as water is in a desert. Tonight’s exhibition opening was the only event that sparked my interest. Because art makes me happy and because there was almost zero chance of anyone here recognizing me. But being here now, eavesdropping on these men… Genuine fear races through me. This isn’t the crowd I expected.

Moving away from the men, I beeline toward the small bar in the far corner of the gallery. My pa nic is irrational, they don’t know me. If they look, they’ll see a privileged woman in an expensive dress. They’ll see a carbon copy of me in every other woman here tonight. Which is completely by design; I’ve spent my life being a ghost of Ricky’s creation, all in the name of safety. And tonight, for the first time, his paranoia fills me with gratitude. Because if these men know, if they even suspect, that standing next to them is the de facto daughter of Ricky Nash? There are zero people in this gallery who would save me.

My heels click across the high-gloss concrete floor as the bar slowly appears in front of me. But the vibrant colors and intricate details brought to life in each painting dance in my peripheral vision. The elegance of the building, the art, the people—all of it is distractingly breathtaking. This part of the city has always captured my heart; ancient buildings making you feel the weight of history brushing against your senses. The gallery is the perfect example of that, old and steeped in the past on the outside, crisp and modern once you step through the heavy glass doors. Right now, its open flow gives me an unobstructed view of the three mezzanine levels above the ground floor.

Reaching into my purse, in search of the event flier, my eyes scan the list of exhibiting artists. They’re all unfamiliar to me, but one name stands out. I don’t recognize it, but the brief biography under the name heralds him as a rising star from Dahlia Heights. The same area where the child was killed.

Curiosity has me gnawing on my lip. According to the signs in the gallery, his work’s displayed on the first mezzanine level. Glancing up to the first floor, the glow of bright spotlights streaming from a partially visible alcove draws me in. My journey to the bar is a distant memory and, turning away from the growing crowd on the ground floor, I move toward the fancy glass staircase. There’s a bar upstairs; I’ll grab wine there.

Halfway up, a prickling sensation starts, intensifying along the curve of my spine.

I’m being watched.

Stopping on the first-floor landing, I chance a glance over my shoulder. The gallery’s crowded with people, but none of them seem interested in me. The creepy feeling of that phantom stare is quickly eclipsed by my need for more wine and, after picking up one of the glasses at the bar, I down it immediately, cringing slightly as it clatters on the counter.

That uncomfortable feeling wanes into a dull but persistent niggle. Being perceived against my will, coupled with the dress that now feels too tight and the wind racing through my system, all fuels my anxiety. Tugging my dress down, I turn toward the alcove. The silk fabric crept up my thighs, climbing the staircase, and it’s past the point of being annoying. The figure-hugging dress is entirely out of my comfort zone. But after seeing it in Fawn’s vintage clothing store a few weeks ago, I had to have it. And the way the stunning, deep emerald fabric licks at the warm brown tones of my skin is perfect. Which is a rare feeling for me to have about a dress.

Doing my best to subtly shimmy it down, my hands move along the slight curve at the bottom of my belly. I’m plump, and tonight it makes me smile. My soft arms, round hips and boobs that have always felt too big once made me feel less than. A large chunk of my late teens was spent obsessing over my appearance. Time has changed my relationship with my body, thank God. If only I’d known then that loving my body is infinitely easier than forcing it to meet a beauty standard set by men and the media.

Rick y’s my biggest cheerleader when it comes to working out. My past insecurities told me it stemmed from him needing me to meet his idea of perfection, but a few years ago, he got drunk and told me he worried I wouldn't be able to run away or defend myself if someone tried to hurt me. I should’ve pointed out that for either of those scenarios to happen, I actually had to be allowed out alone.

Fuck it. After tossing back my third glass of wine, and grimacing at the warm sickly sweet taste, my feet carry me into the warmly lit alcove. Fuzzy thoughts fog my mind as the wine rushes through my system.

A massive painting hangs against the back wall, highlighted by a single long spotlight. It’s the only piece in this room. It’s incredible.

A street scene that evokes a sense of nostalgia for a life I haven't lived. Painted at dusk, the colors in the sky are a mix of rich pinks and almost purples. The artist must’ve used a palette knife to create the clouds dotting the skyline; their textures are so rough and vibrant, my fingers itch to touch the canvas.

My eyes move down to the power lines and washing strung up to catch the last rays of a slowly dipping evening sun cluttering the middle ground of the painting. The silhouette of the makeshift houses synonymous with The Heights fills the mountainous space in the background. Those telltale brightly colored paint jobs of the houses creep up the face of the near-black mountain. The artist even captured the snaking concrete staircases that weave through the dense cluster of homes perfectly.

Down in the painting's foreground, children are caught, suspended in time, as they play in the streets waiting for the streetlights to come on. One of those streetlights commands the central focus of the entire painting. Its pa le gray concrete base rises out of a mixture of sand and dirt and weeds, coming to a curve at the top. There, just beyond the curve, is a noose of thick rope. In the noose is a man, bloody and beaten, hanging like a carcass in a butcher shop. Undignified in death, a trophy, he hangs on display for the entire neighborhood to see.

Stepping closer, this violent work of art draws me into its orbit.

‘King’s Kill – 2020, Oil on canvas’

The artist’s name appears below the title. Instinctively, I know this man hanging from the streetlamp is supposed to be Ricky. I know his killer is supposed to be ‘King’.

Like me, King’s another one of Port Manaus’ ghosts. Leader of the Devil’s Knights; no one other than their top members know his real name or what he looks like.

Ricky guessed his age to be around forty or fifty years old based on when whispers of him began in Hell’s Basin. The media says he’s responsible for 50 percent of the murders in the city; claiming Ricky’s responsible for the other 50 percent. I’ve never put much stock in that, Ricky’s yet to be arrested or even brought in for questioning about any murder. I’m not delusional though; Ricky’s another kind of evil. I’ve seen and done enough for him to know that in this world, the world in the painting, our world, he’s no hero.

"What do you think of it? Incredible detail and such violence, right?" The husky, feminine voice has me spinning in her direction. A woman around my age stands just behind me, a pensive expression flickering across her face for a second before her eyes meet mine.

Shaken by the painting, I didn’t notice her arrival until the sound of her voice pierced the quiet area. My gaze falls on her. Sharp green eyes assess me as a slightly amused smirk tugs at her lips. It’s almost condescending, but not quite, like a sneer trying to look friendly. She’s dressed in designer clothes and heels. Like me, she’s a have .

“I think stylistically it's remarkable.” I smile at her. “It reminds me of the old masters in the way he’s depicted the scenes.”

“Something so similar to Georgina Klitgaard,” she interrupts me. I nod politely in agreement.

“The subject matter disturbs me,” I continue, looking back at the painting. “The artist’s attempt to normalize gang culture through his work really underscores how far it’s entrenched itself into our society. It's concerning that we’ve created a platform for this sort of violence, however beautiful it might seem in this form.”

The smile she offers me in return is tight. After glancing back at the painting once more, she moves to the next collection of street scenes on the opposite end of the mezzanine level.

Maybe I should buy this for Ricky. He’ll find it amusing. But explaining how it came to be in my possession will land me in a world of restrictions and even more rules than I currently endure.

Deep in thought, considering the painting, a shiver of unease again slithers down my spine. But this time, it’s warranted. The air around me shifts as someone comes to a stop behind me.

I hesitate for a moment, then turn around to face them.

"Did you mean what you just said about the painting?"