The rain hadn't started yet, but the sky threatened to split.
Gray clouds hung over Davenport like bruises on an old man's skin—slow-moving, heavy, and inevitable. I lit my third cigarette before I'd finished the second, letting the burnt paper cling to my bottom lip as I stepped out of the black town car.
The funeral was over.
The speeches, the flowers, the pitying looks—done. All of it felt like background noise to a scream I couldn't get out of my chest. No one cried louder than the woman who barely visited my grandmother while she was alive. No one looked more somber than my cousin with his Rolex half out of his sleeve. I stood there in a charcoal suit that cost more than a coffin, watching people bury the only person who ever loved me without expecting something in return.
Now she was dirt.
I pulled in a drag and held it in until my chest ached.
"Mr. King?" my driver asked, cracking the window just enough.
I waved him off. I didn't need a ride. I needed an answer.
Or maybe a reason to burn something to the ground.
The gypsy's wagon sat at the edge of the woods behind my grandmother's estate—now my estate. It had been there for years, tucked between gnarled trees and a crumbling garden path, wrapped in chipped paint and the smell of incense and rot. I used to think it was part of some eccentric phase my grandmother went through. Then she kept inviting the woman back and talking about fate and cards and omens like they were gospel.
I'd laughed. She hadn't.
Now she was dead.
Heart failure, the doctor had said. Quiet and sudden.
Bullshit.
She'd been healthy, sharp, too damn stubborn to die in her sleep. But a week before her heart "gave out," she drew a card the gypsy called The Death Duo—two cards laid side by side on red velvet: the Ten of Swords and the Queen of Spades.
The woman had gone pale. My grandmother had laughed it off.
Now she was in the ground, and the gypsy was still here.
I finished my cigarette, flicked the butt into the mud, and knocked once on the crooked door.
It creaked open without a word.
She hadn't changed.
Same heavy jewelry. Same half-shadowed eyes. Same red scarf knotted around her dark curls like a warning. She sat behind her table as if she'd been expecting me—not that I believed in that kind of thing. Not really.
But I stepped inside anyway.
"You're late," she said softly.
"I buried someone this morning. You'll understand if I'm not exactly punctual."
She gestured to the chair across from her. "The King returns."
I sat down, dry-mouthed and simmering. "You told her about the cards."
"I told her what the cards said."
"She died."
"She was warned."
My jaw tightened. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my engraved brass lighter. Flipped it open. Closed it. Again. A rhythm to keep my hands from doing something worse.
"She said you pulled two cards. Called it the Death Duo."
The gypsy nodded. "It is rare. A powerful omen. It usually means a sacrifice must be made. A life exchanged. A soul released before its time."
"Do you believe that?"
Her eyes didn't blink. "It doesn't matter if I do. The cards are not believable. They are language."
I leaned forward, smoke curling from my lips. "Then tell me what they say about me."
She paused. "Now you care?"
"I need to know," I growled. "Tell me what comes next before I tear this place apart."
She studied me a moment, then reached slowly for the deck of worn cards sitting between us. She ran her fingers over them like they were sleeping animals, then began to shuffle with a grace that felt… old. Ancient. Like her hands had done this a thousand times before.
"Draw."
I hesitated, then reached for the deck. My fingers hovered before pulling two cards and placing them face down.
The air shifted.
She turned the first card.
The King of Diamonds.
"Power. Wealth. Ruthless ambition. This card belongs to men who conquer rooms. Who run empires. Cold hands, sharper minds. You've lived in its shadow for years."
She turned the second card.
The King of Hearts.
My mouth dried.
"Love. Loyalty. Sacrifice. A protector, not just a ruler. A king with a crown in one hand and a family in the other."
"And I'm both?" I asked, almost laughing.
"No." She looked at me, all trace of theatrics gone. "You have both within you. But you must choose. One will rise. One will burn."
I stared down at the cards. Power or love. Business or blood. Empire or connection.
I could already feel which card pulsed hotter beneath my palm.
"I choose diamonds."
She nodded, unsurprised. "So be it. You will have power. And you will lose everything else."
My throat tightened, but I didn't show it.
Then she reached for the deck again.
"One more card," she said quietly. "Your doom card."
I nearly laughed. "What the hell is a doom card?"
"The one thing that can break a king."
She turned it over.
The Queen of Hearts.
A woman in red. Regal. Fearless. Beautiful. Dangerous.
"She will be your downfall," the gypsy whispered. "Hair like flame. A heart you'll try to own—but never will. She will end everything."
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the wooden floor.
"You think I'm scared of a woman?"
"No. But you should be."
I felt it rising in my chest—grief, rage, disbelief. The absurdity of it all. A life reduced to cards and shadows. But I couldn't shake the chill creeping down my spine.
I pulled the dice from my coat pocket. A family heirloom. Weighted just slightly in my favor. My grandmother used to say it always told the truth.
"Let's let fate decide," I muttered.
I rolled the dice across her table.
A seven.
My lucky number.
My grandmother's number.
I turned and walked out.
I didn't set the wagon on fire right away.
I stood outside, chain-smoking in the still silence of the woods, remembering how my grandmother used to hum while trimming her garden. How she'd called me her diamond king long before I knew what that meant. How she'd told me, once, in a voice thick with age and fear, "Don't ever let fate choose for you. If you don't make the decision, it'll make one for you."
Maybe I'd already let it.
I stared at the wagon, at the dim candlelight flickering behind the curtain.
I could walk away.
Or I could mark the end. Burn the bridge. Burn the past. Burn the superstition that wormed its way into my chest and refused to let go.
I removed my black silk tie. The one I wore to her funeral.
I tied it tightly around the wagon's handles, knotting it twice. Like sealing a casket.
Then I struck a match.
The flame caught quick on the edge of the scarf she'd draped over the porch rail. It spread fast—hunger in its purest form.
I didn't flinch.
The Queen of Hearts could burn with the rest of them.
I walked back to the road as the fire lit up the sky behind me. The clouds hadn't broken yet, but they would.
Eventually.
They always did.
And I'd be ready when they did.
Just like a King should be.