Callum was enraptured by Penny’s club.

  Penny's was, to put it in as plain words as possible, a place that dealt in pleasures. Those who didn't fully get it – who just drifted through without taking note of their surroundings – would only see it as a den of lowlifes and degenerates. A simple space for simple people where a pretty face would smile at you or where a not-so-pretty face would get punched in the ring. But if you looked closer, if you could see past the haze of smoke, drink and dance, you'd realize Penny's was built around something much more complex

  At its core it was a machine designed around vice. The strippers were part of it sure, but not just in the way most people thought. They weren't there simply for their athleticism and admittedly nice figures, men and women moving gracefully around poles or in various acts of seduction. No, they were there to build the atmosphere. To draw people in. To make them forget their inhibitions and their morals, to strip them down, in turn, to nothing but their desires. The drugs, the alcohol, the promises of pleasure – they weren't just luxuries; they were tools. And like any good tool, they worked together in harmony to bleed your wallet dry.

  A beautiful combination of ideas, Callum thought. The world was full of people who never noticed its beauties, who never took the time to consider which artists shaped the canvas they walked on, the structure of it all was intoxicating to him.

  It was why he could never just be a spectator. To lose yourself in it, to be guided by the painter's purpose and experience their creation as they intended. There was something beautiful about it. His eyes lingered on a woman just entering from behind the stage, her body poised, deliberate. He had an eye for numbers, sure, but he knew the true value of a well-placed flirt. He gave it some thought, scanning the crowd of people, taking into account how many there were, how wealthy they looked, and who they were currently looking at, and ran some estimations. He caught her eye, and she beamed at him, Callum returning a slight grin, one that said, I know what they're paying you, and it's not enough.

  "Callum if you don't stop gawking at the girls I swear to god," Bellamy hissed in his ear as Callum broke from his revere.

  Callum grumbled, muttering under his breath something about "just because you can't feel touch, doesn't mean I can't.", catching up to his brother, he started to put on the charm, "well, you and Viracio are going down to the fighting pits right? He can place the bet on you instead. So you don’t need me to proxy bet. I can be the look out up here, you got an IOU you're not going to use.

  Bellamy, for his part, rolled his eyes. He had brought his brother here to take his mind off The Congregation of Purity, not to… Wait. This is exactly what he wanted, it would probably even look more legit if Viracio placed the bet, a mob boss, testing out a potential bodyguard in the ring. With a grunt, he subtly reached into his pocket and slipped Callum one of the envelopes. "Your allowance, and a bit more fun money from V. If you spend it all, that's on you."

  Now it was Callum's turn to roll his eyes, just as subtly pocketing the envelope. "Just come get me when they start setting odds for your fight. I’ll help Viracio place the bet"

  Bellamy gave Callum one last look before nodding, "Don't wander off."

  Callum waved a dismissing hand before heading towards the bar to get a drink, "Now, to find that woman from earlier."

  —

  They were led into a back room, soundproofed. At first glance, it seemed to be a lounging area with long couches and tables perfect for causal conversation, with a rather gaudy chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but on the opposite side of the room was the entrance to the pit.

  The stairwell opened up into a dim, warmly lit basement, it's heavy wooden doors a clear barrier between the haze of the club and the violent haze of excitement coming from the pit. The primal roaring of the crow, the music of footwork, the satisfying crack of a punch landing just right. The pit was alive with violence –a brutal back-and-forth where two fighters' strategies slowly bled onto their opponents each round, each strike, each desperate move.

  The tension in the air was thick. It wasn't just the fighting that gripped him – it was the chaotic, raw, unchecked hunger of it all. Fighting wasn't just a sport here. It was control. A way to claim what you wanted without apology, guilt, or conscience. As the match reached a fever pitch, each fighter thinking they were losing on points and trying for a knockout, the room surged louder still. Bellamy felt a deep pull towards it. Despite himself, it spoke to him in ways he couldn't ignore.

  Over to the side of the announcer's box, several men were taking and writing down bets, people gathering around the table as they struggled to tear their eyes away. The fight ended in a messy knockout, one of the fighters giving every last piece of energy in a hail merry uppercut that knocked out his opponent. A clamor of cheering excited shouts as groups celebrated and pale complexions in others as they realized exactly how much they had lost.

  A part of it pulled at his heartstrings. People blamed the poor and desperate all the time but seemed to forget they were poor and desperate. Sixty Ord could get a single man or woman through the month if they were savvy and had roommates. Most people made eighty Ord, most in the slums half that. If you needed sixty to live and made only forty … it didn't take Callum to figure out the numbers didn't match up and if someone had people to take care of. He'd rather not think about it. All to say, he didn't blame them for their bets; he just knew that if that uppercut missed, they'd be the ones cheering, and the others would be pale-faced.

  It was the worst zero-sum game.

  The sobering remembrance brought him out of thoughts of fighting, and he remembered why he hated this place. Why he had refused to fight here again. He scanned the room, looking for the woman in the picture Viracio had given him, and he could feel a headache fighting through numbness as he saw her in the announcer's booth counting earnings. There she sat, flanked on either side by muscled body guards. She was pristine with curled, overflowing golden locks paired with pale blue eyes that made her look equal parts welcoming and dangerous. Bellamy shot a dirty look at Viracio, who simply shrugged. "To be fair I said rough her up or embarrass her."

  Had he? Bellamy couldn't remember the exact wording. Unless he wanted to wait in a back alley for the obviously powerful woman to leave with several bodyguards and then jump her, it didn't matter. He had agreed to help Viracio, but if things got too intense, he wasn't above bowing out early. He could deal with an angry Belemay. He wasn't so confident about crossing the people backing up Kye – they paid upfront for the job, so there was an implied expectation. So his goal, first and foremost, was to search for any signs of Harbingers here, or even those who risked the smallest doses of essence possible, just enough to give them a boost but not enough that they'd gain powers.

  So, fighting pits were a safe place to start his investigation. There was a small wooden bar on the opposite side of the betting table, and the floor was quickly cleaned and the next fighters brought in, causing the last bets to close. Buying himself and Viracio a drink, they sat at a nearby table, studying the fighters and discussing with each other casually.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "I used to fight here y'know. When I first got to Velnias" Bellamy offered through a sip of liquor.

  "I did actually. One of the reasons my people found you. Couldn't figure out why you quit though."

  Bellamy hesitated, wondering if this was a time or place to share, but he'd likely be working with Viracio for a while. He had told the mob boss his requirements, he wouldn't budge on those, giving him the reason why may help. "My opponent. They killed him after the match. He made a dumb bet, dead man walking anyways. I was undefeated. They told him if they beat me they'd let him go."

  Viracio's face twisted in disgust as he slammed back his own drink. "You ever think about how it gets worse. Every year," he watched a wiry kid, not more than sixteen, duck under a clumsy haymaker. "The slums, I mean."

  Bellamy nodded, "I keep thinking we've hit bottom. Or that I've saved up enough finally for it to not be my problem."

  "And then the taxes increase, or the city stops taking care of those nice apartments at the edge of midtown that grow into the slums, or Spearhead finally fucks up and dies" Viracio nodded.

  "And the people in charge don't even have to pretend. To them, it's all just numbers. Slips of paper. A calculation on how much they can squeeze before someone breaks. Most days, I think about breaking them back.

  Bellamy nodded slowly, surprised by the gang leader's earnestness. It wasn't what he had expected, although everyone in the slums had a chip on their shoulder -- it just manifested in different ways. He still shot him a sideways glance. They both knew that line of thinking led to places neither could afford to go.

  A man approached their table, leaning in close and motioning with his head to the announcer's box, "The boss says she'd like to talk to you," directing the comment at Viracio. They both stood up, and the guard put a hand in front of Bellamy, to which Viracio rolled his eyes, "He comes or neither of us do. Better to cut your losses here."

  The guard only nodded, putting up the cursory amount of resistance before walking them toward the booth.

  The announcer's booth sat in contrast to the rest of the pit. Where the fighting floor was raw and bumpy, stained with blood, and intentionally difficult to navigate, this space was pristine. Tiled floor, clean lines, polished wood, faint scent of expensive cologne masking the smells of sweat and desperation. And at the center of it all was the woman who ran the show.

  Penny Devereaux

  The last name was spoken in hushed tones all over Velnias. Always with an edge of bitterness or fear. The Devereaux were one of the largest crime families in Velnias. They operated at the intersection of vice, finance, and information- an insidious trifecta that made them an underworld staple. Lots and lots of people owed them money, word was even some of the banks had taken out loans. They were, unfortunately, also who you went to when you needed a deal brokered. Technically, Penny shouldn't have a fighting pit. Fighting rings were the domain of the Volkov Syndicate, which dealt in blood, but through backroom dealing and likely many kickbacks, they didn't say anything about it and even supplied guards to keep it running.

  She leaned back in her chair, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she studied them. "Ah, Viracio. I've been meaning to have a word with you." She gave Bellamy a once-over, gaze trailing over him like just another pawn on the board, barely worth noting. She let out a short exhale through her nose– amusement? Disappointment? – before flicking her attention back to Viracio.

  "And you brought a friend. How quaint." Penny spoke, expression icy and unmoving.

  Viracio didn't bite. He just arched a brow, voice calm, detached. "Funny that. Every time I told you I was coming, you seemed to have some pressing engagement. Your family calling you uptown or something?".

  Penny let out a sharp scoff. "Hardly pressing. Just rats showing up where they don't belong."

  Viracio gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Mmm. Shame you haven't caught them yet." Then a beat. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Speaking of which – glad I caught you."

  "Yes, let us talk. You're costing me money and not just me. I think the only family you haven't pissed off is the Holloway Group. So we've come to a consensus. You cease your operations, and we don't turn the slums upside down and sick the hounds on your ass," she let the words hang."

  Viracio exhaled slowly. Almost disappointed.

  "I'm sure it's unsettling."

  He met Penny's gaze, steady, unblinking.

  "All those feelers you have in the city. The brokers, the informants, plants in the police, and the snitches in the alleyways – yet somehow, none of you have a clue how I'm doing it. How I'm pulling your business out from under you while you're still sitting in your chair."

  His voice was even. As if he was lecturing a class on the details.

  "Tonight, the Volkovs will sign the deal. If they don't, the mill wakes up tomorrow to no workers. That's already decided."

  He leaned in. Just slightly.

  "And when that happens? The first crack forms. Maybe you try to fix it. Maybe one of you panics. Maybe someone gets desperate and takes a shot at the wrong person. Then it's just a festering powder keg."

  "And maybe you think that you can kill me before any of that, but then you'll wake up next week and realize nothing has changed. The ball keeps rolling. Then the families will go to war."

  A pause. He let the silence work for him.

  "Maybe you'll win, but then again there are five of us. The odds aren't great."

  Then, he sat back like the matter was settled.

  Penny's smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second. A tiny crack in the armor. But that was all it was, a tiny flicker, then it was gone. It was replaced by a slow inhale, her fingers drumming lazily against the arm of her chair.

  She let the silence stretch between them, forcing Viracio to wait as if she still had control of this conversation. But Viracio didn't fidget. He didn't fill the void. He just watched.

  Annoying.

  Penny exhaled, shifting her weight slightly. "Quite the little speech," she mused, feigning indifference. "You practice that in the mirror? Or do your rats repeat it back to you while you stroke their fur."

  She had wanted a reaction, maybe a twitch of the jaw, a clench of the hands, but Viracio just tilted his head slightly, studying her. Like he was measuring how long it would take for the realization to set in.

  The fucking audacity.

  Penny had spent her whole life knowing things before anyone else. That was the Devereaux family's power– the whisper of a deal before it was inked, before it was glimmering in someone's eye – the shift in the underworld before the blood hit the streets. And yet. This little bastard had been moving under their noses, building something, and she still didn't know how much less what.

  That meant he was a problem.

  And problems got solved.

  She pushed herself up from her chair, rolling her shoulders like the weight of the conversation was already boring her. "Alright Viracio. You've made your point. You're clever, you've got your little operation running in the shadows and now you want us all quaking in our boots. I get it."

  She took a step closer, tone dropping.

  "But you're forgetting something. This city still belongs to us. And in Velnias, power isn't just about who moves the pieces – it's about who bleeds for them."

  She turned slightly, gesturing toward the far side of the pit. The crowd had been murmuring, the tension thick as they waited for the results of their conversation. They couldn't hear any of it through the thick, bulletproof glass, but the sharp among them knew something was happening.

  She gestured down towards a seat at the side of the pit, there a broad-shouldered man studied the movement of the current fighters, his leg bounced slightly, and he was stripped to the waist, hands wrapped, eyes cold.

  Pavel here," Penny said, letting the name settle, "is a problem-solver. You've been costing me money, Viracio. So how about a show match between two bleeders. Your man," she flicked a hand toward Bellamy without so much as a glance, "versus my champion. A little entertainment for the night. If he wins, I get the others to sign your little union deal tonight and you get to keep running around like a particularly clever rat. But if he loses, we take his head and parade it around the slums."

  She let the weight of its hand, savoring the widening eyes of the little rat as he realized what she just proposed. She pressed him before he could compose himself, "do we have a deal?"

  Viracio didn't get the chance to open his mouth before Bellamy cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck with an audible 'pop'

  "We do."