Romans & histoires Astoria Greengrass House

Anastasia’s POV: The house was smaller than I expected. Lucas had built an empire out of glass towers and seventy floor headquarters, and somehow I had absorbed the assumption that everything connected to him would carry that same scale, but the house on Linden Street was a modest two story brick building with a small front garden gone wild from years of neglect, the kind of house a successful but not yet wealthy man bought for his young family before the world decided he was going to be something larger.

“Susan says you need to keep your energy up. Sitting here worrying about a ghost is only going to drain you further. I want to show you something.” They drove away from the main estate, heading toward the small, charming village of Norwood Green that sat nestled in the valley. The town felt like a page from a storybook, cobblestone streets, flower boxes in the windows, and a sense of community that was entirely absent from the city mansion and estate of the Silver Crescent Pack. Oscar pulled the jeep over in front of an old, two-story building on the corner of the main square. It was beautiful but weathered, with large bay windows that looked out over a small park.

There were at least two thousands in her high school alone, back in New York. The car came to a halt in front of a big house. No. It wasn't a house. It was a mansion and it looked like it belonged in medieval era. The walls were clutched in a strong hold by wisterias and the windows were awning and wide, the front door was red wood with ornate metal knocker with a wolf insignia on the front, and tall trees flocked the driveway paved in cement. Aurora hated it immediately. She got out of the car, her face in a sullen pout as stared at the house her dad had been talking about and her heart flailed. Panic engulfed her.

Ernest may not have a say in anything having to do with Willow pack for much longer. “Do you have the address, Godfried?” I ask my driver, my eyes searching out the window at the street signs as we make our way through the residential part of town. Many of the homes here are mid-sized and look fairly nice. I am wondering if one of these houses might belong to Isla’s parents. “I do, sir,” Godfried says. “It’s 1302 Ash Street.” “Ash Street,” I mutter. “I wonder if that’s over by the factories….” Is it named that because the houses are often covered with debris from the factories?

“Whatever we find, you don’t react. You stay calm. Do you understand?” “That’s my father—” “I know. Which is why you need to stay calm.” His jaw clenched. “Let me handle this.” The car screeched to a stop in front of the rundown building in Astoria. Cracked brick. Broken windows staring out like missing teeth. Overflowing garbage cans spilling onto the sidewalk. The smell of garbage and desperation hung heavy in the air. I’d grown up in this neighborhood, and tonight it smelled like death. Adrian was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. I climbed after him, stubbing my ridiculous gold heels on the cracked pavement as I ran.

The front door of the penthouse opened, admitting Mrs. Greene and a small boy carrying a black trash bag. He stopped just across the threshold. He didn't look at the sweeping staircase or the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked at his shoes—scuffed, velcro sneakers that were a size too big. "Theo," Mrs. Greene said, her voice softer than Aria had ever heard it. "This is Mr. and Mrs. West." Theo didn't look up. He clutched the trash bag tighter. It was half-full, the plastic stretched thin over the shapes of what looked like a few clothes and a single, hard object—maybe a book.

he told the driver. As we drove, the scenery began to change. We left the cramped, grey streets of Astoria and entered a neighborhood that looked like something out of a travel magazine. The houses were set back from the road, hidden behind wrought-iron fences and lush greenery. There were flowers everywhere of vibrant blues and pinks that made the whole area feel like a garden. I could already see myself taking long walks here in the quiet mornings. We stopped at a massive gate. A middle-aged man in a neat uniform came out of a small stone booth and pressed a buzzer to let us in.

Only one thing was certain at this point, Sarah Astor wasn’t going to be my typical client. I had been on the property only once before, and on the drive up I’d been so preoccupied by what I was going to say that my eyes had just registered “rich person’s house.” This time, I made a point of enjoying the lush swaths of lawn, the flowers, the trees, and the perfectly trimmed hedges. I parked near the garage and took a little stroll around the large potage in front of the house itself. No wait. What had Alpha Zane called it? A villa.

“Go on.” He stayed by the door. “Georgia was spotted last night, she met with Lorenzo.” That froze me, I turned slowly, glass in hand. “Where?” “The Grand Astoria Hotel, they met in a private suite, and they stayed for hours. No staff came in or out, my guy said the suite was locked down tight.” Astoria hotel wasn’t for cheap affairs, It was where people who had ulterior motives they didn’t want the world to know about, go. It had privacy, underground access, and secret elevators with codes, It was a nest for conniving people.