The city stretches out beneath me like a kingdom I never asked

to rule.

From the sixty-fourth floor of the Greythorne Tower penthouse,

Manhattan looks untouchable-glittering spires piercing a sky

heavy with storm clouds, the streets below stitched together

in ribbons of gold and red. The illusion of perfection. From up

here, you can't hear the horns blaring, the sirens wailing, the

desperation of people clawing for a taste of what my family has

always had.

I press my forehead against the cool glass and exhale.

Another charity gala. Another night where power moves in

whispers and fortunes are secured over glasses of Dom P