This is a rewrite of the flashback scene in my novel, which can be found in Honor #3. If you're interested, tell me whether you prefered this rewrite over the original.

Thanks!

Thrity years earlier

Voices.

Guttural, bargaining notes of music that stumbled to the floor and stained the carpet like droplets of blood. The voices were talking cryptic, esoteric words. Words that radiated cigarette smoke and dark alleyways. That whispered of exotic countries and exotic clientèle. They were angry, too. Raised voices, raised fists. Something important was being examined here. Something dangerous and profitable and sweet-tasting all at the same time.

The boy knew.

Booker knew.

After all, his father's temple – this study nested at the base of the house, swirling with inky shadows and pulsating with intimacy and classified dealings and thoughts – was the mecca for so many men and women. There were always important people meeting there. And shrouded dealings were always being tossed around. The ground was holy, the priest – Jin Lee – was respected, and the walls had practically been saturated with trapped prayers and decaying confessions.

And what was more.

Booker knew his mother would kill him if she found him there.

Making his father's temple, the study, even more attractive.

Besides, Booker was confident that the things being discussed here, at that moment, surpassed the importance of anything else he'd heard before, crouching at the door, with his eye pressed against a crack. A crack which dribbled light like oil and screamed to be stopped up with a witness. Booker had lost count of the times he had watched his father executing his priestly duties. He had lost count of the times money had exchanged hands. Of the guns examined. Of the words that bled from the visitors' mouths and stained the carpet.

The carpet was crimson.

Booker knew no one else saw it.

The words, poisoned words, were always dead before they hit the ground.

His father was talking. Drawling. “Regardless, Vincent, you're taking advantage of us.”

A man in a piano-key white suit – his skin the color of boiling oil – laughed. “Like hell I am. You obviously don't know a deal when you see one.”

“This isn't a deal. This is robbery.”

Another laugh. Like bullet shells tinkling against granite. “Then I'm a thief among thieves.”

“The services should be enough.”

Vincent leaned forward. “Here's how I see it. I'm running a monopoly. You do what I tell you. Besides, I can't think of any other farm who would sell you this much snow for such a...reasonable price.”

Another man – a suit – leaning against Jin Lee's desk snorted. “Reasonable? A mil plus services. Jeez, I'll never hear the end of this.”

“Very reasonable.”

Jin Lee smirked, tapped a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro's, and placed it between his lips. Booker stared at the bleached finger bone hanging from his father's mouth and felt his throat turn raw. Hell, he wanted one. Smoking a cigarette was adulthood manifested in wrapped paper and tobacco like loose soil. It epitomized self-empowerment. Even at seven, Booker knew the importance of that nimbus of cigarette smoke groping the ceiling. He knew it meant respect.

The nicotine called to him.

Lighting up, his father exhaled, smoke staggering from his mouth. “Two hundred and fifty, Vincent. And the services.”

“I don't think you're in a position to negotiate, Lee,” Vincent laughed, crossing his legs.

The suit shook his head. “Who else do you think you could get to cap your ambassador, huh? Who else would keep their mouth shut?”

“Billions of others. I snap my fingers and,” oil colored sticks fractured, “the bastard's dead.”

“Then why us?”

“Let's just say I'm feeling altruistic.”

“Yeah, and all the money we make is going to Saint Mark's.”

Vincent shrugged.

Booker leaned forward a little further, shifting onto the ball's of his feet. Sounds crept on wraith-like footsteps down the hallway, whispers and groans broadcasted from the heart of the house and down the hallway. Electrifying him. Subjected to his mother's anger, he was pretty sure he'd end up six feet underground with a lot of loose soil suffocating him. Leaking down his nostrils and burrowing through his teeth. His mother was beautiful. And with great beauty came cataclysmic anger.

Zeus.

Her words, her grip were a trillion jagged lightning bolts; disciplinary javelins.

He couldn't get caught.

And so he listened. Out of one ear, his father's study – to the mellifluous crack-dusted sermon – and through his other ear, for his mother.

Leaning forward.

For a better vantage point.

“Does your wife know about this, Lee?” Vincent asked.

“I'm sure she has suspicions. She's not stupid.”

“Not bad looking either.”

Jin Lee laughed. “Why do you think I sleep with the whore?”

“A night with her and I cut the price by half.”

A pause. The room was baptized in silence. “This isn't Columbia, Vince.”

“Of course not.”

“And our relationship hasn't been the picture of to love and to cherish lately.”

“All the more reason – ”

Jin Lee shook his head and leaned forward. “She wouldn't go for it. She's not a prostitute.”

“A whore who's not a prostitute. The picture of maternal morals.”

Again, Jin Lee started to laugh. Rasping bells that shattered the air like bullets. Coarse sand paper sounds. The laughter mounted, blossoming, before cresting at a roar. Booker's father slapped the table and put his cigarette back to his mouth, chuckling. He exhaled heavily, bleeding corrupted ghosts. “You'll get your million, Vince.”

“And the ambassador?”

“And the ambassador.”

The suit was shaking his head.

Booker was smiling.

His father's laughter made him smile.

Nearer this time, and not so wraith-like, crashing sounds invaded the hallway, shoving Booker forward, igniting his heart in frantic palpitations. He gasped and glanced over his shoulder – searching for his mother – and lost his balance, spilling into the door.

Which swung forward, sighing.

Admitting him.

With a grunt, he tumbled to the floor. The voices ceased – as if by a conductor's baton – and all three heads turned to stare at Booker. Vincent uncrossed his legs, the suit hid a soap-bar white brick behind his back, and Jin Lee smiled.

A smile scarred by gauzy tobacco.

Booker scrambled to his feet.

“I – I'm sorry – ”

“How nice of you to join us, Booker.”

“Mom's gonna find me.”

“Your mother doesn't need to know anything,” he crushed the cigarette on a ceramic plate at his desk, ashes freckling ivory, and ethereal fingers gasping for air. He smiled again. Tightly. “Booker, let me introduce you to my associates. Vincent, this is my son.”

“Pleasure.” Vincent grinned, his mustache twisting upwards like the arms of a marionette, like bristling hands reaching for his eyes. Which were black and sharp. Obsidian chunks puncturing his face.

“And this is Tsao a...co-worker of mine.”

The suit crouched and offered his hand to Booker, who took it limply. “You're a lucky kid, Bookie. Your dad's going places.”

Another tight smirk from Jin Lee. He motioned towards Booker and slipped a second cigarette from the pack of Marlboro's. A cigarette. Rolled respect. Booker felt his mouth go dry as he moved towards his father and rested his hands on his thighs. Jin Lee flicked a match across the desk – it's head blooming into carnation flame – and lit the cigarette.

“Would you like to try one, Booker?”

“Me?”

“Then again, it is an acquired taste.”

Vincent and Tsao were smiling.

Lots of smiles in his father's temple. Booker liked it here.

But a cigarette.

Hell, he wanted one.

“I guess not,” Jin Lee sighed.

Booker shook his head. “No. Let me try.” He reached forward, his fingers bleeding desire.

Jin Lee handed it to him. Grinning, smelling the dusky scent reverently, Booker watched the embers breathe – exhaling shards of crimson – and then placed it between his lips, like he'd seen his father do. The smiles in the room widened. Glances were tossed around.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Textbook simplicity. Booker closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drawing the ghost fingers down his throat and into his lungs like water through a straw. For a split second, he felt ten feet tall. He felt invincible and wise and omniscient.

And then he felt his throat catch fire.

Flaming gasoline all the way down.

His eyes ripping open, hemorrhaging tears, Booker exploded into a storm coughs. His head felt like it was going to collapse, his throat felt like raw hamburger. Forgotten, the cigarette fell to the ground, followed by laughter from Booker's father, the suit, and Vincent. Laughing hard while Booker coughed violently on the floor. His father pounded him on his back. Booker groped for air, which pooled into his lungs like a trillion razorblades.

The room was painted red.

Then, the laughter stopped abruptly, voices tense and strained. Hissing, swearing, Tsao had tossed the white brick – snowing something like talcum powder – to Jin Lee who stuffed it inside of a drawer.

Booker coughed again.

Footsteps.

And then the door erupted inwards, rebounding against the wall, revealing Claire Lee – Jin's dearly beloved and Booker's mother – whose face had been twisted into a masquerade mask. Inflamed with fury. Burning with fury.

Her breasts heaved.

“Jin, you bastard, what the hell do you think you're doing?” she screamed.

The tears that had been dribbling down Booker's face were returning and he shrank into the corner. Hellfire and brimstone. It radiated from his mother like the embers of a cigarette.

Just one cigarette.

Which was considerably overrated, Booker decided, watching his mother confront Jin Lee, her neck protruding, her lips snarling, crumpled.

“I'm teaching him.”

“Teaching him what? Teaching him how to get stoned. What kind of a monster are you?”

“I'm his father.”

“You make me sick.”

Jin Lee smirked. “Good riddance.”

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, snapping it shut like some kind of guillotine blade. She glanced at Booker – met his gaze, giving him a sip of ferocity – and then at the cigarette smoldering on the ground, coughing smoke in chorus with Booker.

Then she laughed.

A short, derisive snort.

“Jin, I'm leaving you.”

Booker's father was silent, fingers steepled.

“And I'm taking Booker with me.”

Jin Lee smiled. Unrestrained and spontaneous. His entire face crumpled under the smile – involved with it – and he shook his head.

In a hiss, “No, he's not.”

“And who the hell do you think the courts'll give him to when I file, huh? You? You've got plastic bags of crack stuffed in the bread basket, for God's sake! You're sick, you're twisted, and you can bet your ass that I'm going to the police with every ounce of dirt I've got on you!”

Jin Lee was still smiling.

Claire laughed again, razor-edged with hysterics, whipped around and marched out the door.

The smile vanished from his father's lips and he slowly glanced down at his hands. Vincent recrossed his legs and Tsao stared in Claire's direction.

“Jin,” he said.

“I know.”

Jin Lee shook his head and then looked up at Tsao, while Booker whimpered in the corner, shell-shocked. He nodded.

Tsao, the suit, his jaw rusted shut and rigid, stood up, and followed Claire out of the room. Shapely and delicate, a gun was pulled from his pocket and cocked. A sound that tasted like blood.

As if in prayer, Jin Lee lowered his head and waited.

And then shouting erupted several rooms down. The walls rattled and Booker heard his mother scream. Instinctively he moved to find her, but Jin Lee caught him by his arm. He shook his head.

There was a gun shot.

And all was silent.