Billionaire's Fake Savior: Unmasking The Truth

The alley behind the club was a narrow throat of brick and darkness. It smelled of rotting vegetables and urine. Imogene stepped out the heavy steel door, dragging a black garbage bag. It was 2:00 AM. Her shift was finally over.

She tossed the bag into the dumpster. Her muscles screamed in protest. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, leaving a streak of grease.

"Immy."

The voice came from the shadows behind the dumpster. It was a voice from her nightmares.

Imogene spun around. A man stepped into the sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. Frank Kowalski. Her foster father. The man who had taken her in when she "disappeared" from the Coffey family, only to use her as a punching bag and an ATM.

He looked worse than usual. His face was unshaven, his eyes yellowed from liver failure and cheap vodka.

"Frank," Imogene said, her voice tight. "I don't have anything."

"Don't lie to me, girl," Frank slurred. He lunged, grabbing her wrist.

His fingers clamped right over the spot where Kenan had grabbed her the night before. The bruise was still tender. Imogene cried out, a sharp sound of pain.

"Let go!" She tried to twist away.

"I know you got paid," Frank snarled. "I got debts, Immy. Bad debts. You owe me. I put a roof over your head."

"I paid my rent!" Imogene shouted. "I gave it all to the landlord!"

"Liar!"

He yanked her backpack off her shoulder. He upended it. Her belongings scattered onto the wet pavement. Tampons, a hairbrush, a library book, and the remaining three hundred dollars from Tiffany's "loan" that she hadn't deposited yet.

"Hah!" Frank dove for the cash. "Rent, huh? You holding out on me?"

"That's for food!" Imogene dropped to her knees, trying to grab a bill.

Frank shoved her. He didn't hold back. He pushed her hard in the chest. Imogene fell backward, landing in a puddle of dirty water. Her head cracked against the brick wall.

Dizziness washed over her. Her training took over. She did a mental diagnostic. No concussion, just a minor contusion. She catalogued Frank's movements, the way he favored his left leg, the slight wheeze in his breath. Liver disease was progressing to his lungs. She watched helplessly as Frank stuffed the bills into his pocket.

The security guard at the back door, Miller, opened the door a crack. He looked out, saw the domestic dispute, and closed the door again. He wasn't getting paid enough to intervene in family drama.

Frank spat on the ground near her leg. "You're just like your mother. Useless bitch. Ungrateful."

He kicked the empty backpack at her. "Don't come home until you got more."

He turned and stumbled down the alley, disappearing into the night.

Imogene lay in the filth. The water soaked through her jeans. Her knee was bleeding. She felt a deep, crushing hollowness in her chest. She could kill him. She knew exactly where to cut to make him bleed out in thirty seconds. She was the Saint.

But she was also Imogene. And Imogene was helpless. She couldn't draw attention. She couldn't have the police run her prints. If the Coffey family found her, Clair would finish what she started years ago.

A low hum vibrated through the pavement.

A black car, long and sleek, rolled to a stop at the mouth of the alley. A Maybach. The tinted window in the back rolled down two inches.

Imogene didn't see the eyes watching her. She was too busy trying to gather her scattered tampons, her face burning with humiliation.

Inside the car, Kenan Cervantes watched. He saw the girl in the mud. He saw the man walk away with the money. He saw the pathetic scramble to collect her trash.

"Drive," Kenan said. His voice was cold.

"Should we help?" Marcus asked from the front seat.

"No," Kenan said. "It's just street trash fighting over scraps. It has nothing to do with us."

He rolled the window up. The world was full of broken people. He couldn't fix them all. He just needed to fix himself.

The car purred away.

Imogene stood up. She wiped the mud from her cheek. Her hands were shaking, not from fear, but from rage. She shoved her things into her dirty bag.

She looked at the empty alley.

Her fingers traced an invisible line on her own throat, right over the carotid artery. A single, clean motion. The thought was as calming as a prayer.

She turned and limped toward the subway, the fury banked into a cold, hard coal in her gut.