Chapter 2 - DANCING WITH MONSTERSThe rain came down in sheets across Manhattan as I pulled up to Nocturne in a matte-black sedan. I wore a plain tailored charcoal suit—no jewelry, no luxury watch. Just the ghost of a man who used to own the air these people breathed.
Two six-foot-four bouncers stood at the VIP rope.
"Private event, old man," one said, resting a hand on his taser. "Move along."
I didn't answer. I reached into my coat, pulled out a small silver coin stamped with a crest of a skeletal raven, and dropped it into his palm.
The bouncer’s eyes went wide. His face drained of color. That coin was a relic of the old syndicate—a pass that meant comply or disappear.
"M-Mr. Reed's private elevator," the bouncer stammered, unclipping the velvet rope immediately. "Third floor."
The bass bumped through the floorboards as I stepped out into the glass-walled VIP loft.
There they were.
Ethan Cole was sitting on a red leather sofa, pouring champagne over a pile of chips. Brandon Hale was laughing, showing his friends a video on his iPhone. Tyler Whitmore was leaned back, spinning a silver ring on the glass table.
They looked so young. So arrogant. So entirely convinced that their fathers' checkbooks made them gods.
I walked straight past the security guards stationed at the door. Before anyone could react, I grabbed Tyler Whitmore by the throat, lifted his 180-pound body off the couch, and slammed him face-first into the thick mahogany bar.
CRACK.
His nose shattered instantly. Blood sprayed across the high-end vodka bottles.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Ethan screamed, jumping up.
Brandon reached into his jacket, but I was already moving. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it back until the bone snapped through the sleeve, and hurled him over the table, crashing into a stack of crystal glasses.
Ethan backed away, stumbling over his own feet, his eyes wild with terror. "Do you know who my father is?! My dad is Arthur Cole! He will destroy your entire fucking bloodline!"
I stepped over the groaning bodies of his friends and grabbed Ethan by his silk collar, dragging him to the edge of the glass railing overlooking the crowded dance floor below.
"Your father builds skyscrapers out of stolen cement," I said softly, leaning into his ear so only he could hear. "I buried three men in the foundations of his first project in 1998. If you ever speak my daughter's name again, I won't just ruin your life, Ethan. I will erase your family from the tax registry."
I shoved him back onto the blood-stained carpet.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors burst open. Six armed men rushed in, guns raised, led by Julian Reed himself—wearing an expensive velvet jacket, looking older, thicker, and deeply terrified.
"Who the hell is touching my VIPs?!" Julian roared, pointing a gold-plated pistol.
I slowly turned around. The dim blue light caught my face.
Julian froze. His pistol slowly drifted downward. His knees visibly shook.
"J-Julian," Ethan choked out, spitting blood from the floor. "Shoot him! He’s a nobody! Kill him!"
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Julian didn't shoot. Instead, he dropped to his knees, his gold gun clattering against the floor tiles.
"Lord Ghost," Julian whispered, his voice cracking with pure, primal horror. "I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know!"
