Page 5 of Sweet Venom

Goodbyes.

How I hated them.

I’ve never been good at them, especially when it meant saying goodbye to my parents. I should be used to it by now. I’ve done it before when I moved out of my childhood home to seek independence and find my place in the world, but this is different.

I moved to another state— New York. It feels almost… final. I can’t explain exactly what it is about this city that feels like home but it does.

“Ugh,” I carried one of the last boxes as I stepped into my new apartment, my boots clicking softly on the hardwood floor. The place it’s not extravagant, but it’s mine—dark, clean, and already brimming with new beginnings. Boxes are stacked incorners, labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting, and the faint scent of fresh paint still lingers in the air.

I took a slow, deliberate turn around my new apartment, letting reality settle over me. It’s quiet, except for the distant hum of the busy city below, but it doesn’t feel empty. The space already has character—dark, moody, and very comforting, like it’s been waiting a long time for me. I loved it. It felt like it could belong to a character from one of my books—mysterious, dark, stylish, and a touch brooding. It fits my vibe. My family’s too. We’re all a little kooky but in the most wonderful ways. In my not-so-humble opinion.

Although I preferred the dark, I liked that the high, arched floor-length windows let in streams of silvery light, softened by the heavy, slate–gray curtains draped to the floor. Mom wanted me to go for blue curtains but I rather gray. My obsession with the color is a secret I’ll take to my grave, but it’s real. Even if the color at times hurts to look at, I still chose it. I’ll always choose gray.

I moved my gaze to the walls that are painted a deep, smoky charcoal, the perfect contrast to the ornate white molding that outlines the ceilings and frames the doorways. A black chandelier hangs in the center of the living room, its twisted arms holding warm, flickering bulbs that mimic candlelight. It looks just like the one Aunt Kadra has in her home. It was a gift from her and so were the bookshelves in my tiny office.

Out of all my aunts— and I love them all— Kadra is the one who has a larger place in my heart.

I looked at the floor now. They’re dark wood, smooth but not polished to perfection, with subtle imperfections that give them character too and didn’t remind me of the most luxurious but pretentious condos on this side of town.

One of my favorite parts was the old fireplace with its blackened stone mantel carved with delicate scrollwork, whichsat in the corner of the living room with countless frames with pictures of my family. They’re staying back in Detroit but I placed photos of them everywhere in this apartment to make it feel like they’re always here with me. I love how the fireplace looked like with all of them there.

I imagined how cozy it’ll feel on chilly nights, with a fire cracking and a book or my laptop in my lap while I got some writing done. When I was little, I used to sit in dad’s lap while he wrote his beautiful stories and the fire crackled beside us. Those were some of the memories I treasured the most along with traveling with mommy while she took pictures for her galleries and magazines.

The furniture I brought fits surprisingly well. My black velvet loveseat and mismatched chairs don’t feel out of place against the backdrop of exposed brick on one wall. A vintage mirror hangs above a slim console table, the tarnished silver frame adds a touch of drama. It seems broken somehow and that makes it more appealing to me.

The broken things have the most meaning for me. I treasured them dearly. Those are the things that most people discard because they no longer deemed them perfect. They’re perfectly-imperfect to me.

I looked towards the kitchen next. It’s small but striking, with glossy black cabinets and a sleek marble countertop veined in gray and white. The brass handles and fixtures gleamed faintly, their vintage look tying everything together beautifully.

Then to the far left was my office. It was my favorite place in the entire apartment. It’s not just any room—it’s a piece of home transplanted here, a place where I could write and dream and feel like I’m still connected to my father. The walls were painted in the same deep, inky black as his office back home, their matte finish rich and moody, like a blank canvas waiting for book ideas to spill out. My dad helped me pick the paint, and I rememberthe two of us standing in the hardware store a few blocks from here debating between shades, him muttering something about “undertones” while I laughed at how seriously he took it. He took even the silliest things seriously when it came to his family. That’s why he’s our rock.

The desk was the hardest piece to get just right. It’s not new—new wouldn’t have worked for me. Instead, Mom found it at a little antique shop, tucked in the corner under a pile of old books. The dark mahogany surface is smooth but worn in places, its edges softened by years of use. My dad spent days sanding and staining it, making sure it matched the one in his own office, down to the smallest detail. Now, every time I sat behind it, it felt like stepping into his world, like I’m borrowing some of his magic while I tried to find my own.

The shelves on the far wall that my aunt got for me are full of books—his favorites, my favorites, a mix of well-loved paperbacks and old leather-bound volumes. Most of them are books he’s written that of course I’ll always carry with. Others are the classics I’ve collected over the years, the spines cracked from being read and reread. I placed a single framed photo on the top shelf: the two of us at his desk when I was a kid, me scribbling in one of his notebooks while he looked down at me in adoration. I sometimes wonder if he realizes we look at him in the same way. Is he aware of just how much I admire and love him? He’s everything I want to be in life.

I know most people would lose their minds if they knew who he really is. The bestselling, award-winning author whose books have been on shelves since his twenties, whose words shaped an entire generation of readers and authors. But no one knows except for his family. Instead, Valentino Nicolasi is known for being the ‘Nicolasi Cleaner’ for our family’s crime organization. He’s always hidden behind his pen name,A. A. Turner, guardinghis privacy, the Nicolasi family and everyone from the spotlight this carries subjects him to.

When I decided to pursue writing, I promised myself I’d do it on my own terms. No shortcuts. No riding on his coattails. That’s why I go by Poe James—my first name and my mom’s last name. It’s my way of proving I can make my own way without needing my father’s success, even if sometimes I feel like I’m chasing an impossible dream. Every rejection has felt like a knife to the chest but I’ve never given up on my dream.

When I sit in the home office we built together, I’ll feel closer to him than ever. The gray curtains, heavy and dramatic, are drawn shut, just like he always kept them in his office. The lamp on the desk glowing with a warm, golden light casts shadows across the room. All my notebooks stacked neatly on one side, and an old brass clock he gave me was ticking softly in the corner, its steady rhythm grounding me in the moment and stopping time.

One day, I hope to be half as good as he is. I want to write something that matters—something that leaves people feeling the way his books have always made me feel.

Since I was a teenager, writing has been my escape, my passion, my voice when I was too shy to interact with others outside my family. I started publishing independently, dipping my toes into the world of self-publishing, believing that if I could get my work out there, maybe someone, somewhere would read it and see something special in me—in them. It wasn’t easy—there were plenty of sleepless nights, self-doubt, and moments when I wondered if my words were ever going to mean anything to anyone. But somehow, it happened. I built a small, dedicated and lovely audience, and that was enough for me for a while.

It wasn’t until the beginning of this year, though, that I finally found the courage to send my manuscripts to traditional publishing houses. I thought maybe it was time to take the nextstep, to push myself further. Mom and Dad kept pushing me to take the plunge and I did. At first, I was excited—maybe even a little naive. But one rejection email came. Then another. And then more. They piled up, each one more discouraging than the last. It wasn’t just that they were saying no. It was the silence, the uncertainty, the creeping feeling that maybe they were right. Maybe my writing wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough and it brought ugly memories back. Memories of feeling small and rejected.

It started to feel almost embarrassing. I’d spent years chasing my dream, but now I couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been for nothing. I started doubting myself. I questioned every line, every chapter I’d poured my soul and bled into. I even thought about giving it all up—walking away from the dream I’d worked so hard for. Maybe it was just a hobby, maybe it was something I could never turn into more. But then, at my lowest point, my family reminded me of why I started writing in the first place. It wasn’t about the rejections, the praise, or the book deals—it was about the stories, the worlds, and the characters that kept me up at night, itching to be brought to life. It was and still is about my readers. If I can make one of them smile and escape their reality for a little while, then I did my job. I didn’t fail them.

So, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and picked myself up. I brushed off the doubts, the embarrassment, and kept pushing forward until two weeks ago when I received an email from one of the publishing houses that turned me down stating that there was a mistake, and they were interested in giving me a three-book deal on a dark romance. I, of course, couldn’t believe it after so many failed attempts and to be able to write a trilogy was beyond my wildest dreams since I’d almost given up on the genre since no one seemed so interested in my indie dark books before.

The offer came out of the blue. One day I was ready to backpack traveling around the world with my friend, Kaizen, and then an email popped up offering me a deal that was impossible to ignore. It’s a dream come true.

Blackthorn Publishing is one of the most successful publishing houses right now and it felt like it was a dream, I really didn’t want to wake up from it.

So, of course, Kaizen and I postponed the trip until I’m done with the three-book deal.

“Where do you want this?” Dad’s deep voice echoed as he hefted a large box marked Kitchen. His dark, cropped hair was damp with sweat, and his sick-as-hell tattoos flex with every movement of his broad shoulders and thick throat. Despite his intimidating build, the sight of him fumbling with the box and muttering under his breath about its weight made me stifle a laugh and my heart squeeze.

---