The Secret King of River City: Heir to the Trillion-Dollar L

Chapter 3: The Call of Destiny

"Tell him that the new owner does not like the smell of trash in the lobby, Jenkins. Tell him I want the Presidential Suite cleared out in ten minutes. I do not care who is in there or what they are doing. Get them out."

"It will be handled immediately, Young Master. The manager is already on the line. He is quite literally shaking in his boots."

Ethan stood in the freezing rain, his hand trembling as he held the cracked phone to his ear. The weight of the world had shifted in a single heartbeat. One minute he was a loser with nothing but a broken heart and a wet delivery bag, and the next, he was the master of the very city that had tried to crush him.

"This is real, isn't it?" Ethan asked, his voice cracking. "You are not just some guy pulling a sick joke on me? Because if you are, I might just walk into the river right now."

"I assure you, Ethan, this is the furthest thing from a joke. Your father, the late Silas Avery, was a man of extreme vision. He knew that growing up with a silver spoon would make you soft. He wanted you to know what it felt like to be at the bottom, to be looked down upon, and to be betrayed. He said that only a man who has tasted the dirt can truly appreciate the view from the peak."

Ethan let out a dry, jagged laugh. The rain felt different now. It didn't feel like a punishment anymore. It felt like a baptism.

"Well, he got his wish, Jenkins. I have tasted plenty of dirt. I have been treated like a stray dog for three years. I have been dumped by the woman I was going to marry because I could not buy her a fancy dinner."

"Then the timing is perfect," Jenkins replied, his tone smooth and lethal. "The test is officially over. Every account has been unlocked. Every property has been transferred. The Avery name is yours to carry, and the power that comes with it is absolute. Do you see the cars yet?"

Ethan looked down the street. The lights of the city were reflecting off the wet asphalt in a kaleidoscope of neon and gray. Out of the darkness, five sets of headlights emerged. They were moving in a perfect V formation, cutting through the storm with an intimidating grace. 

They weren't just cars. They were armored obsidian monsters. Rolls-Royce Phantoms, each one worth more than the entire neighborhood Ethan had grown up in. 

"I see them," Ethan whispered.

"Good. They are your personal security detail. The lead man is Marcus, a different Marcus than the one who currently occupies your hotel. This one is a professional. He will be your hands when you need things done. He will be your shield when things get ugly."

The fleet pulled up to the curb, their engines purring with a low, deep vibration that Ethan could feel in his bones. The tires came to a halt exactly six inches from the sidewalk. The doors opened in perfect sync. 

Ten men stepped out. They were giants, dressed in charcoal suits that looked like they cost five figures. They didn't have umbrellas for themselves. They didn't seem to notice the rain at all. 

They walked toward Ethan, their footsteps heavy and rhythmic on the pavement. Ethan instinctively stepped back, his old delivery bike clattering to the ground behind him. The thermal bag spilled open, and a cold container of pasta rolled into the gutter. 

The men stopped. They didn't say a word. Instead, they all lowered their heads and bent their bodies into a deep, ninety degree bow.

"Young Master Avery," they shouted in unison.

Their voices were so loud and full of conviction that it felt like the thunder itself was answering them. 

The lead man, a tall guy with a jagged scar across his jaw and eyes like flint, stepped forward. He held out a massive black umbrella, shielding Ethan from the downpour. With his other hand, he presented a small, velvet lined tray. On it sat a black titanium credit card and a set of keys.

"Your transport is ready, sir," the man said. His voice was a low growl of respect. "My name is Marcus. We are at your command. Where would you like to go first?"

Ethan looked at the black card. It had no numbers on the front, only the silver embossed crest of the Avery family. It was a card that could buy a skyscraper or an island with a single swipe. 

"Jenkins, are you still there?" Ethan asked, his eyes fixed on the card.

"Always, Young Master."

"How much money is in that account? Exactly."

"It is an unlimited line of credit backed by the Avery Foundation’s primary holdings, sir. But if you are asking about your personal liquid balance, it currently stands at one point two billion dollars. That is your spending money for the week. If you need more, you only have to ask."

Ethan reached out and took the card. It felt heavy. Cold. Like a weapon. He tucked it into his soaked pocket and looked back up at the Grand Imperial Hotel. The golden lights of the eighty eighth floor were still glowing. Stella was up there. She was probably laughing. She was probably letting that prick Marcus Thorne touch her while they joked about the delivery boy who cried in their doorway.

"I have a lot of things to do, Marcus," Ethan said, looking at the man with the scar. "But first, I need to change these clothes. I cannot walk into my own hotel looking like a drowned rat."

"The second car is equipped with a mobile wardrobe, Young Master," Marcus replied, gesturing toward one of the Phantoms. "Bespoke suits in your exact measurements. A stylist is waiting inside."

"How do you have my measurements?" 

"We have been watching you for three years, sir. We know everything. We know what you eat, how you sleep, and exactly how much you have suffered. It is our job to make sure that never happens again."

Ethan nodded, a cold, hard resolve settling over him. The sadness he had felt only ten minutes ago was being incinerated by a rising tide of fury and ambition. He had spent his life being the nail. Now, he was the hammer.

He started to walk toward the car, but a sudden, high pitched roar of an engine made him stop. 

A gold-wrapped Lamborghini Aventador came screaming around the corner. It was driving way too fast for the wet conditions, fishtailing slightly as it sped toward the hotel entrance. 

Ethan knew that car. Everyone in River City knew it. It was Marcus Thorne’s pride and joy. 

As the Lamborghini sped past the curb, it hit a massive puddle of standing water. A wall of dirty, oily street water erupted, flying through the air like a wave.

Ethan didn't have time to move. Marcus, the lead guard, tried to shift the umbrella to block it, but the splash was too wide. The disgusting water slammed into Ethan, soaking his face and his already ruined clothes with the filth of the gutter.

The gold car slowed down just enough for the window to roll down. 

Marcus Thorne leaned his head out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He saw Ethan standing there, surrounded by the men in suits, but he didn't even notice the luxury cars. He only saw the delivery boy.

"Still here, Ethan?" Marcus Thorne shouted, his voice full of drunken mockery. "I told you to get lost! You look even more like a loser now that you are covered in sewer water. Go home and cry to your bicycle!"

Beside him in the passenger seat, Stella leaned over, her face illuminated by the car's dashboard lights. She looked at Ethan with a sneer of pure disgust.

"Seriously, Ethan, have some dignity," she yelled over the engine. "You are pathetic! Stop hanging around like a stalker! You are embarrassing me!"

Marcus Thorne laughed, revving the engine so hard the exhaust spat blue flames. He didn't even look at the five black Phantoms or the ten men who were currently tensing up like predators about to spring. He just floored it, the Lamborghini screaming as it peeled away toward the hotel's valet stand.

Ethan stood perfectly still. The dirty water was dripping off his chin. He wiped a streak of mud from his cheek and looked at his hand. 

"Young Master," the guard Marcus said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating whisper. "Should I have them stopped? I can have that car crushed with them still inside it if you wish."

Ethan looked at the gold Lamborghini as it pulled up to the hotel's red carpet. He saw the valet rushing out to open the door for Marcus and Stella. 

"No," Ethan said. 

His voice was different now. It wasn't the voice of a delivery boy. It was the voice of a man who had just realized he owned the world.

"Do not stop them. Let them go inside. Let them get comfortable. I want them to have one last drink. I want them to feel like they are on top of the world for another ten minutes."

Ethan turned and stepped into the back of the second Rolls-Royce. The interior was a sanctuary of white leather, polished wood, and the scent of expensive sandalwood. A man in a crisp tuxedo was waiting with a glass of vintage scotch and a selection of silk shirts.

"Marcus," Ethan said, looking out the tinted window as the door was closed with a soft, expensive thud.

"Yes, sir?" the guard asked, leaning into the window.

"The manager of the hotel. Did Jenkins get a hold of him?"

"Yes, sir. He is currently clearing the lobby and waiting at the entrance. He is terrified."

"Good," Ethan said, taking the glass of scotch. He drained it in one go, the fire of the alcohol matching the fire in his veins. "Tell him I am coming through the front door. And tell him to make sure that Stella and Marcus Thorne are…"