The rain fell in sheets across the grand circular driveway of the St. Regis Chicago, hammering against the dark pavement and bouncing off the gleaming hoods of idling luxury cars. The warm, amber glow of the hotel entrance did little to cut the freezing wind blowing off Lake Michigan.
Charles stood frozen on the wet asphalt, oblivious to the storm ruining his four-thousand-dollar bespoke suit.
In his left hand, he held his own pocket watch. Heavy, solid gold, perfectly polished.
In his right hand, he held the watch that had just rolled out of a homeless man’s torn canvas bag. The metal was scratched, the chain was missing, and mud caked the delicate hinges. But the engraving on the lid was unmistakable, illuminated under the harsh white glare of a nearby streetlamp.
A wolf holding a rose.
There were exactly two of these watches in existence. His father, the legendary founder of Vanguard Equities, had them commissioned in Geneva thirty years ago. One for his eldest son. One for his youngest. A private symbol of the bloodline, a guarantee of succession that only the family knew about.
His father was dead.
And William, his older brother, had died twenty years ago in a horrific fiery car crash on a coastal highway.
Charles’s lungs seized. He couldn't breathe. His vision tunneled, the edges of the world blurring out until all he could see was the shivering, filthy old man sitting in a puddle at his feet.
The man had a thick, matted gray beard, hollow cheeks, and eyes that looked like they hadn’t focused on anything clearly in a decade. He was clutching his ribs where Charles had just kicked him, gasping through the pain. His oversized, ragged coat was soaked through, sticking to a frail, emaciated frame.
This couldn't be William. William had been twenty-four, brilliant, arrogant, the golden child of the family. The rightful heir to seventy percent of the empire.
“He burned in the car, Charles,” his mother’s voice echoed in his head, a memory from twenty years ago. “There wasn't enough left to identify. It's done. Vanguard is yours now. All of it.”
But as Charles stared down, really stared, the panic clawed its way up his throat. Behind the dirt, beneath the lines of premature aging and extreme poverty, the bone structure was there. The sharp line of the jaw. The distinct, deep-set pale blue eyes that matched their father’s perfectly.
"Give it back," the old man wheezed, breaking Charles’s paralysis.
The homeless man tried to push himself up, his worn, taped-together boots slipping on the slick pavement. He reached out a trembling, bruised hand toward the gold watch in Charles’s right grip.
"Please," the man begged, his voice carrying a pathetic, reedy desperation that William never would have possessed. "It's all I have. Please, sir."
Charles stepped back, his leather sole splashing violently in a puddle. The sudden movement caught the attention of the hotel’s head of security, a broad-shouldered man in a dark raincoat who had been hanging back under the awning.
"Mr. Sterling? Is everything alright?" the security chief called out, jogging down the steps.
"Get him away from me," Charles snapped, his voice cracking on the final syllable. He shoved both watches deep into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "The man is a thief."