April 8th Year 1948
The war may have brought great destruction, but Great Britain is thriving—The smoke's barely cleared, yet the city hums again. Deals are being made. Fortunes are rising. And at the heart of it all is one name that keeps showing up in the papers and whispered over cigars: Azrael Hawthorne.
Adopted son of the iron-willed tycoon Ronald Hawthorne, Azrael is London's golden boy. A sharp mind in a tailored suit. The orphan who clawed his way up from nothing to sit atop an empire. To the world, he's a miracle—proof that even ashes can give birth to kings.
But Azrael knows better. Behind the curtain of grandeur and applause, hidden beneath polished floors and gilded smiles—lurks a truth far darker than the world dares imagine.
Within the shadowed halls of the Hawthorne mansion, an eerie stillness hung like a shroud. Candle flames trembled in the drafty corridors, their dim light clawing at the darkness. Then—suddenly—a scream, raw and unearthly, ripped through the silence. It echoed off marble walls and vanished into the rafters like a soul torn from the flesh, swiftly followed by the echoing crack of a gunshot reverberating through the halls with a finality that felt like a death knell.
Somewhere deep within the house, footsteps faltered, and a door creaked open, as if the mansion itself were stirring from a long and malevolent slumber.
.
.
.
—×—Azrael—×—
"The charity event will start soon, Mr. Hawthorne," my assistant, Carl, announced as he stepped into the office.
"Doesn't seem like you're in much of a hurry," he added with a chuckle, catching sight of me calmly reading a document at my desk.
I didn't look up.
"Why rush? Those parasites can wait."
Carl might be my assistant by title, but he'd been tethered to me ever since Ronald took me in. His loyalty, though laced with sarcasm and unsolicited humor, was unwavering. He knew I tolerated his antics—perhaps too much. And because of that, he took liberties… like cracking dad jokes at my expense.
"Yeah, right. You're the main event," he quipped with that infuriating, smug grin.
God, how I wanted to wipe that look off his face.
But could I blame him? He wasn't wrong. Being the heir to the Hawthorne Empire came with certain undeniable truths—one of them being that I was the show.
"Did you take care of it?"
I kept my eyes on him, voice even, tone cold. Instantly, his grin faded. The shift in his posture told me all I needed to know.
"Yes," he said, all trace of humor gone. "I oversaw everything myself. The police won't suspect a thing."
I raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling my lips.
"Oh?"
His eyes narrowed, the familiar flicker of offense flashing across his face.
"What's that 'Oh?' supposed to mean?" He jabbed a finger toward himself. "You doubt the Almighty Carl Lawson? This—this—handsome Carl?"
His theatrical flair would be the death of me one day. I rolled my eyes.
"Cut the drama."
With a sigh, I stood and adjusted the collar of my custom-made velvet suit. Deep crimson, tailored to perfection. The kind of suit that said: I own the room.
"Let's get going."
Hawthrone Foundation Gala
Grand Amaranth Hotel
New York City, 1948
The Packard rolled to a stop outside the Grand Amaranth Hotel, its polished chrome gleaming beneath the gas-lit street lamps. Outside, a crowd of pressmen loitered behind velvet ropes, flashbulbs popping like gunfire as the city's elite stepped out one by one in their black ties and mink stoles.
Carl stepped out first, adjusting his lapel like he was the one being honored tonight. He offered his hand theatrically.
"Your stage awaits, Mr. Hawthorne."
I ignored his hand and stepped out on my own. The instant my polished shoes touched the carpet, the crowd buzzed louder. They always did. It wasn't admiration—it was anticipation. They wanted to see if I'd fall… or if I'd rise even higher.
"Smile," Carl whispered behind me. "This is a charity event, not a funeral."
I gave them a smile. A calculated, hollow thing—just enough to keep the tabloids happy and the investors comfortable.
Inside, the hall was a cathedral of excess. Chandelier light danced on champagne flutes. The scent of money and ambition hung heavier than any cologne. At the center stood the main stage, flanked by long tables loaded with caviar, oysters, and morally bankrupt millionaires.
I made my rounds. A firm handshake here. A charming nod there. Carl trailed behind, whispering names and reminding me which ones we owned and which ones pretended we didn't.
"That's Charles Willoughby with his wife. Donated a quarter million last year, laundering through 'education reform.'"
"Tell him I admire his patriotism," I muttered.
Carl grinned. "Always do."
Just as I lifted a glass of scotch from a passing tray, a familiar voice slithered into my ear.
"Well, well. The young Hawthorne in the flesh."
I turned slowly.
Lucien Darnell. CEO of one of our lesser rivals. The kind of man who smiled with his teeth but looked at you like a chessboard.
"Darnell," I said coolly. "Didn't think they let ghosts into charity events."
He chuckled, low and venomous.
"Oh, they do—especially when they bring million-dollar checks."
His eyes flicked toward Carl, then back to me.
"Rumor has it you've been cleaning house lately. Certain… operations going dark overnight."
I sipped my scotch, savoring the burn.
"Rumors are cheap, Lucien. That's why you traffic in them."
Before he could reply, the lights dimmed. A spotlight snapped on stage. A woman in a crimson dress took the podium—Esmerald Vaughn, head of the Foundation. Regal. Controlled. Deadlier than she looked.
"Ladies and gentlemen," her voice rang out, honey-laced steel, "welcome to the Annual Hawthorne Gala. Tonight, we gather not just in charity, but in legacy."
Legacy. That word always lingered too long when it came from her mouth.
Carl leaned closer.
"She knows."
I didn't look at him.
"Doesn't matter."
The crowd applauded. I raised my glass, let the warmth of alcohol anchor me.
Tonight was just for show.
Tomorrow, we reminded the city who it really belonged to.