Meanwhile at the center of Bone lake city....
Dallion "Black Death" Cross strode through the bustling streets of Bone lake, a place known for its shady deals and underworld connections. The sound of chatter, clinking coins, and distant laughter mixed with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and burning cigars. It was a maze of alleys and crooked streets, a place where power wasn’t just bought with money, but with blood and favors. As his black leather shoes clicked on the cobblestones, men and women quickly moved out of his way, lowering their gazes in a mixture of fear and respect. Mr Cross was no ordinary man. In fact, in the dark underbelly of the city, he was considered more of a myth than flesh and blood. The Black Death wasn’t just a nickname; it was a title he'd earned through merciless violence, swift executions, and a reputation that left most either shaking or dead. He wore a tailored black suit, his muscular frame exuding control and dominance. Trailing behind him was his newest recruit, a lean, eager-to-please man named Victor. He had been trying to keep up with Mr Cross's brisk pace but was always a step too slow, physically and mentally. Mr Cross didn’t care to speak to him, but he tolerated Victor for one simple reason—he was useful. For now. “This place smells like piss and desperation,” Victor muttered under his breath, earning a side glance from Mr Cross, who remained silent, his piercing dark eyes scanning the chaos around them. "Do you always have to talk?" Mr Cross’s voice was low, commanding, and laced with a quiet, deadly threat. Victor quickly shut his mouth. The two of them made their way through the sea of people, passing through makeshift stalls filled with everything from counterfeit designer clothes to stolen firearms and drugs. This wasn’t just the black market; it was the heart of Bone lake, a place where the legal world didn’t dare step foot. They finally arrived at their destination—a rundown speakeasy on the corner of an alley where the real deals were made. This wasn’t a place for amateurs. The patrons inside were the elite of the criminal underworld, where people like Mr Cross ruled. The doors were guarded by a man as big as a mountain, tattoos covering every inch of his visible skin. He nodded respectfully at Mr Cross, allowing him and Victor entry without a word. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the hum of low conversations. Mr Cross made his way to a secluded corner where an old acquaintance sat— “Red” . She was known for her connections in the narcotics trade, but today, Mr Cross had business with her for something more lethal—tranquilizers. "Dallion," Red greeted with a sly smile, her scarlet lips parting to reveal sharp, white teeth. Her red dress hugged her voluptuous figure, and her emerald eyes sparkled with malice. “Long time no see.” Mr Cross didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He slid into the booth across from her, Victor awkwardly standing behind him. “I’m not here for small talk, Alisa Mont. That was the real name of the woman. I need the tranquilizers you’ve been peddling. Now.” She arched a brow, leaning back in her seat as if pondering how much she wanted to play with him. “Straight to business as always, huh? Well, I have one left, Dallion. You’re late. Supply’s low these days. Everyone’s scrambling for it.” “Who did you sell the others to?” Mr Cross asked, his tone even, though the danger in his voice was palpable. Red's smile didn’t falter, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t ask names, darling. You know that. But…” she trailed off, her fingers playing with the stem of her wine glass. “For you, maybe I could try to remember.” Victor shifted uncomfortably behind Mr Cross. He could sense where this was going, and it wasn’t anywhere good. Mr Cross leaned forward, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “You’ll remember now.” Before Alisa Mont could blink, the cold barrel of Mr Cross custom silver pistol was pressed against her forehead. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a cool composure, though there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. The entire speakeasy seemed to hold its breath. “Dallion, darling,” she purred, though her voice lacked its usual confidence. “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.” Dallion cocked the gun, his expression unchanging. “I don’t have time for games, Alisa. Who bought the damn tranquilizers?” There was a long pause before she finally relented, her shoulders relaxing in defeat. “Fine. Fine. It was a man with a beard, black hair slicked back, and… oh, right, his eyes. One was red, the other black. Creepy as hell if you ask me.” Dallion's brow furrowed slightly. He knew of no one with that description, but the details were enough to spark his interest. “How long ago?” “A few days, maybe. Not sure where he went, though. I just sell, Dallion. I don’t track my customers.” Satisfied for now, Dallion lowered his pistol and stood, signaling that their conversation was over. Victor breathed a silent sigh of relief as they left the booth, but Dallion's mind was already working, piecing together what this could mean. As they exited the speakeasy, Victor jogged to catch up with Dallion's long strides. “So, what now, boss?” Dallion didn’t answer immediately. He was thinking, calculating. Whoever this man with the two-toned eyes was, he had something Dallion needed, and that made him a target. “We find him,” Dallion said simply, his tone final. And when Dallion Cross, decided to find someone, they were either dead or begging for mercy. As they walked deeper into the underworld of Bone lake, Dallion's reputation followed him like a shadow. People feared him not because he was ruthless—though he was—but because he was a man of precision. When Dallion set his sights on something or someone, there was no escape. The two of them turned down a narrow alley, away from the lights and noise of the main street. Here, in the dark recesses of Bone lake, the real deals were made. The real blood was spilled. They arrived at another hidden corner, this one much more ominous than the speakeasy. It was a warehouse, and inside was where the real power of Bone lake operated—the syndicate leaders, the arms dealers, and the puppet masters who controlled every illegal trade in the city. Dallion wasn’t here for a meeting, though. He was here to collect information, and there was one person in Bone lake who knew everything there was to know—Vito “The Whisper” Vito was a weasel of a man, thin and rat-like in appearance, but he was invaluable because his information was always accurate. He lived in the shadows, hearing and seeing things no one else could. Dallion found him in the back of the warehouse, hunched over a table covered in papers and files. Vito looked up as they approached, his eyes widening when he saw Dallion. “Black Death… what brings you here?” Vito’s voice was shaky, but he tried to hide it with a forced grin. Dallion didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I need information. A man with two different colored eyes. Red and black. You know him?” Vito swallowed hard, his eyes darting around nervously. “Yeah, I know him. He’s new around here, but he’s making waves. No one knows his real name, but they call him ‘The Phantom.’ Dangerous guy. Not someone you wanna mess with.” Dallion's lips curved into a predatory smile. “That’s exactly who I’m looking for.” Vito shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not wanting to get involved. “Look, Damian, I’m just the messenger. I don’t—” Dallion Cross cut him off, his voice cold. “Where can I find him?” There was a long pause before Vito finally sighed. “He’s been seen near the docks. Rumor has it he’s working on something big. But if you’re going after him, be careful. He’s not like the others. He’s... different.” Dallion nodded, already turning to leave. “Don’t worry, Vito. I’ll handle him.” As they walked out of the warehouse, Victor looked nervously at his boss. “This guy sounds dangerous.” Dallion's eyes darkened. “So am I.”"Alright," came Sherryl Rain's answer, which Dallion couldn't help but raise his brow at. Had the matter been so worrisome that she wanted him to go talk to his sister, the one who had kicked and shamed her in public? Just remembering it, he could feel his blood begin to boil. She scrambled on the bed, pushing the pillow that was in the way to hear and see Dallion raise his hand. "Wait," he said, scooting closer to the center of the bed. He fluffed some more pillows around him. Once he was seated comfortably, his legs stretched long on the bed without crossing them, he saw her move closer to him. One second at a time. Sherryl Rain had agreed to his deal without truly processing what it actually was. But after taking in his simple words, she took a deep breath and moved towards him. The bed was soft enough to have her knees sink deep into it, which almost made her stumble, only for Dallion to catch her hand. "I must say, I haven't seen this worst way of seducing anyone until no
Today the dining room was quiet, not the kind of quiet that soothed anyone but the kind of guilt that scraped against the walls of cross empire.Dallion pulled the chair beside his,tapped it once, and Sheryl sat, this time it wasnot on the cold marble floor she was used to,but beside him, where dignity still dared to breathe.Grace lowered her gaze.His stepmother stirred her glass too long.And his father... just watched,like a man too tired to show his cruelty.Only Rosie’s seat sat empty. She didn't show up for breakfast .Sheryl’s arms were covered in scars that were in deep red, the doctor had given her ointment and was sure it would work pretty fast on her skin.Still, Dallion could feel her stiffness,like she was waiting for a command.Or a slap.Dallion didn't bother with anyone else at the table, he kept giving meals to Sheryl and keenly watched her eat just like his little muse.After her last bite, he rose.She followed without being told.Down the hall, past the p
With Dallion having left the hall and gone back to his room, Lady Fleurance rushed to her daughter’s side. Grace Cross followed her stepmother, stepping close to the chair where her younger sister sat, unmoving, staring into a void of nothing. She looked wrecked—utterly blank. Blood still trickled down from her mouth, staining the front of her designer blouse, crimson against silk. Her upper jaw was visibly marred, the skin there was pale and drying. Lady Fleurance bent down and picked up the bloody teeth that had been torn from her daughter’s mouth, her fingers trembling. “Rosie?” Her voice cracked, too gentle for the weight in the air. She moved to untie the ropes around her daughter’s wrists, the knots still tight around the arms of the chair. When Grace stepped forward to help, her hands raised, Lady Fleurance snapped, “Stop!” The voice cut clean through the tension, sharp and sudden. “Don’t even think of touching her. You and your brother planned this, didn’t you? You
Rose had been warned—and it wasn’t the first time the warning had come down hard on her. Again and again, she had mocked it. Taunted. Dismissed. And now, she had no one to blame but herself. “Would you be kind enough to get the ropes from the attic room,” Dallion said coldly to his sister. Grace Cross—the eldest daughter—stood unsure for a second. Should she wait? Should someone else speak up? But silence pressed down like a loaded pistol on the back of her neck. No protest came. “Yes,” she finally answered. Grace sitting in the chair—cast a final look at the trembling girl and then turned away, her heels echoing down the corridor as she headed toward the attic. Rose looked up at Dallion, eyes wide in alarm. “What are you planning to do?” she asked, her voice cracking just slightly. As Grace Cross walked toward the attic, a weight settled over her chest. She wasn’t stupid—she knew what was about to happen. And yet, no one—not even she—had expected it to escalate like this
The street was quieter than usual, too quiet for a place that fed on sin.Dallion paused by the rusted sign swinging above, its letters faded like the truths buried in this city.He wasn’t planning to step in. Not today.But something pulled at him—some whisper stitched into the air.And when he opened that crooked door, it wasn’t desire that greeted him.It was death.The metallic scent of blood greeted him like an old friend, curling into his nose.There, under the dim red lights, Bathsheba sat slouched, her body was trembling, lips cracked in a smile meant only for ghosts.Clutched in her hand was a blood-stained note."He left this," she whispered."Sheryl’s father... they shot him. He never had a chance to meet her as planned."Then her eyes dimmed, and she fell still—like the silence had come to collect its due.Dallion's guards buried Bathsheba beneath the weeping fig, there were;No hymns. No farewells. Just dirt on bloodied laceand the wind carrying her name into nothing.Sh
Feeling the soft mattress under the palm of her hands, she sighed. No slave would have the luxury she was having right now. She wasn't an idiot to not understand. While many girls trapped in the underworld trade were mistreated, her life was far better. It only made her question if she was really a slave. Then again, Dallion had threatened her long ago that he would hunt and find her if she were to ever run away from him—but was that really necessary? She was an average woman, where he was a man carved out of the Cross empire's deadliest bloodline. Some of the girls would consider themselves to be lucky. To have caught the eye of a kingpin from the higher society, as they would have the fortune of living like a queen. Then there was another kind who called it a curse, women who hated and feared the entire existence of men like him. Sherryl Rain didn't belong in any of them. Her initial plan of escaping had been washed away with the reveal of her being the daughter of a wanted spy