(Chicago, 1920)
Smoke poured between Silas Marino's lips. His black vest was buttoned beneath his tailored suit, his leather shoes propped casually on the desk before him. He had taken over his father's operation at just twenty-four and had grown accustomed to wielding some of the strongest power in the city.
Silas heard word that his car had arrived. He placed his gray newsboy's cap on his head and checked his pocket watch—right on time. His shoes clicked against the granite floors as two men opened the golden double doors for him. He stepped out to take care of business.
When Silas reached the club, a member of security led him through the back entrance. Dim neon-pink lights glowed against the carpet, and the low buzz of customers drifted through the halls. Silas set his hat on the bar, and the bartender slid a glass of whiskey toward him.
Silas had grown up in the South before his father brought the family to Chicago to build his empire. Though the work wasn't ethical, it paid the bills. Since moving north when Silas was ten, he remembered watching his father vanish for nights at a time, only to return in the early hours with a briefcase in hand. Once, Silas had opened it himself—inside were stacks of cash.
Now, it was his turn to honor the family name.
Silas had been forced into the role of man of the house after losing his father at eighteen. One night, his father claimed he was leaving on business. Two days later, they found him slumped in an abandoned factory, a pistol beside his head. He'd buried himself in debt, owing dangerous men more money than he could repay. Suicide had been his escape—leaving the mess for his family to clean up.
Silas never forgave him.
Every morning, he stared into the mirror, swearing he would be better. Stronger. Untouchable. Money and power were the only things that mattered now. He clawed his way into the Mafia, dealing in a myriad of sins to restore what his father had destroyed.
Silas swirled the ice in his glass, scanning the room to be sure everything was in place.
A woman slid onto the stool beside him.
She looked up at him with wide brown eyes, twirling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers as she smacked her gum softly.
That sound drove Silas crazy.
"I overheard you from across the bar," she said.
Silas glanced at her, unimpressed. "Your accent—you're from the South?"
"Yes, sir. Moved here when I was ten." He finally turned to face her.
The woman leaned back, momentarily stunned.
"I'm Charlotte," she said, offering her hand. "Charlotte Williams."
Silas smiled, rolling a toothpick between his teeth. "Silas Marino."
He shook her hand.
And that was all it took.
Before he knew it, Silas was walking Charlotte back to his house. She missed the steps and nearly tumbled forward, barely catching herself. Only then did Silas realize just how drunk she was.
That would make this easier.
He waited until she reached his room. Charlotte shoved him onto the bed, fooling herself into believing she was in control. Silas traced the lace of her dress, his eyes locked on her cherry-red lips.
"You're perfect," he whispered.
The door opened.
A man in a suit stepped inside.
Charlotte yelped and scrambled backward.
"Well," Silas sighed, shaking his head, "just when things were about to get interesting."
Charlotte's eyes darted between the two men.
"So?" Silas gestured toward her.
The man approached, inspecting Charlotte as if she were an object—cataloging every freckle, every curve. She had never felt smaller.
Silas reached into his coat, checking his pocket watch before withdrawing a small bag.
"Two-for-one deal," he said, tossing it to the man.
The man squinted, stepping away from Charlotte. "I'll take the blow, but not her. I'll see your offer next week."
Silas scoffed, falling back onto the bed. "Really? C'mon—look at her."
Charlotte shrank against the wall.
"I can't do blondes," the man replied.
"The cops are starting to catch on, Ben," Silas warned. "Too many girls going missing."
Ben paused. "Then be more careful who you pick."
He handed Silas an envelope and leaned in close. "Next week—bring me a brunette."
Silas rolled his eyes as the door shut.
He turned back to Charlotte.
She trembled beneath his gaze.
Silas grabbed her wrist and shoved her against the wall. "Such a waste," he muttered.
Charlotte cried out as pain shot through her body.
Silas pulled his revolver free and pressed the barrel against her stomach.
What terrified Charlotte most wasn't that she was about to die—it was the look in his eyes. There was no remorse. No hesitation. Only a grin stretched wide with anticipation.
The gun fired.
Charlotte felt nothing—only peace.
Blood seeped into her dress as she looked up at Silas, his face alight with violent exhilaration. Her knees buckled—
The front door exploded inward.
Through splintered wood stepped a man, his black hair slicked back, his suit dusted with white soot from the doorframe. His crystal-blue eyes flicked from Charlotte to Silas.
Silas staggered back, scrambling toward his desk.
Charlotte remained silent, clutching her wound as her vision faded.
The man didn't look at Silas—not yet.
He knelt beside Charlotte, pity flickering across his face. She deserved more than this. He couldn't give her the life she wanted—but he could give her time.
Not like this, he thought.
He gently sank his fangs into Charlotte's neck.
She screamed as agony ripped through her body. The man tried to be gentle—he had never harmed a woman before, nor had he ever wanted to. He lifted her carefully and laid her on the sofa.
When he turned back, his expression hardened.
Silas stood frozen.
The man advanced.
Silas raised his gun and fired. The bullets did nothing. The man didn't flinch. He ripped the revolver from Silas's grip and hurled it across the room. Grabbing Silas by the collar, he slammed him into the brick wall.
Silas's skull cracked against it. Blood poured down his neck.
One punch sent flesh tearing from Silas's face.
"Silas Marino," the man whispered into his ear, "prepare yourself for an eternity as a Soluditorian."
Silas would spend eternity banished to the swamps of New Orleans—never allowed to leave. If he ran, the Supremes would hunt him down. He would live among exiles forever.
The man stayed beside Charlotte all night in the Cathedral in New Orleans.
When she awoke, she gasped, reaching for the wound that no longer existed.
"Why am I here?" she croaked.
"Because you deserved more time," the man said softly.
She shivered as he offered her a jacket, careful not to touch her.
"I don't understand."
"Well," he said gently, "let's start here. I'm Lucian Corvus. And you're—"
"Charlotte Beaux," she replied.