The Deluge

The sky over St. Jude’s Academy wasn't just raining; it was trying to wash the city of its sins.

Sarah Miller gripped the steering wheel of her 2008 Toyota Camry, her knuckles white. The windshield wipers were fighting a losing battle, slapping frantically against the glass in a rhythm that matched her racing heart.

* Thwack-squeak. Thwack-squeak.*

"Come on," she whispered, tapping the gas pedal. "Don't do this. Not today. Not in front of the Range Rovers."

The car sputtered. It gave a heave, a groan that vibrated through the floorboards, and then died. The dashboard lights flickered and vanished. The heater cut out, replaced instantly by the creeping damp of the storm.

Silence fell inside the cabin, immediately broken by the aggressive, long blare of a horn behind her.

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. "No. No, no, no."

She checked the rearview mirror. Behind her sat a line of impatient luxury SUVs—Porsches, BMWs, Mercedes G-Wagons. She was the clog in the artery of the elite. She was the scholarship mom, the waitress who worked double shifts, the woman who didn't belong, and now she had proven it by breaking down in the most humiliated way possible.

She looked out the window. Her daughter, Lily, was standing under the school awning, hugging her backpack, looking for the grey car that wasn't moving.

Another horn honked.

Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt. She had to get out. She had to push it, or wave them around, or just dissolve into a puddle on the asphalt. She opened the door and the wind ripped it from her hand, soaking her blouse instantly.

She stepped out into the deluge. The rain was freezing. She slipped slightly on the slick pavement, grabbing the doorframe for balance.

"Hey!" a voice shouted from the Lexus behind her. "Move it, lady!"

Sarah wiped the hair from her eyes, shivering. She opened her mouth to apologize, to explain, but the words stuck in her throat.

Then, the world went quiet.

Or rather, the rain stopped hitting her.

A shadow had fallen over her—a massive, dry canopy. Sarah looked up. A black umbrella, large enough to cover a small patio, was held aloft by a hand clad in a leather glove.

She followed the arm down the sleeve of a charcoal bespoke suit, past a silk tie, up to a face that looked like it had been carved from marble and trouble.

Alessio Conti.

Everyone at St. Jude’s knew him. They called him "The Prince." He was the father of Leo, a quiet boy in Lily’s grade. He was a widower. He was rich in a way that made the other rich parents look middle class. And he was terrifying.

"Signora Miller," he said. His voice was low, a smooth baritone that cut through the noise of the storm without him having to raise it.

"Mr. Conti," Sarah stammered. "I... my car. It died. The alternator, I think. I'm so sorry, I'm blocking the—"

"You are soaking wet," he interrupted gently.

He shifted the umbrella, ensuring she was completely covered, even though the movement exposed his own shoulder to the rain.

"My driver, Marco, will handle your vehicle," Alessio said. He gestured with a slight nod.

A massive man got out of the driver’s seat of the Rolls Royce Phantom parked two cars back. He didn't look like a chauffeur; he looked like a linebacker who strangled people for a living. Marco marched toward the Toyota.

"Oh, no, I can't ask you to—"

"You didn't ask," Alessio said. He looked down at her, his dark eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her knees feel weaker than the cold did. "It would be an insult to my honor to leave a lady and her child in this weather. You will ride with us."

"But—"

"Marco will have your car towed to my mechanic. He is excellent. And discreet." Alessio turned toward the school awning. "Leo! Lily!"

The two children, seeing their parents, sprinted through the rain. Alessio effortlessly expanded the umbrella’s coverage to catch them as they arrived.

"Get in the car," Alessio commanded, opening the rear suicide door of the Phantom. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order wrapped in velvet.

Sarah looked at her dead Toyota, then at the warm, glowing interior of the Rolls Royce. She was shivering. She was defeated.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Alessio placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her in. The heat of his palm seared through her wet blouse.