The air in the inner sanctum thrums with power.
The space is old and grand, steeped in history that smells of leather and smoke. Walls lined with gilt-edged books stretch up to a vaulted ceiling, dark wood gleaming in the glow of flickering candlelight. A fire crackles low in the massive stone hearth, casting shifting shadows across the mahogany and deep green velvet furniture.
Tonight, we aren’t alone.
The women who sat masked and elegant in the audience earlier now lounge around the room, draped over the furniture like courtesans in an emperor’s court.
Some perch near the bar, sipping wine from crystal goblets, whispering amongst themselves as they steal furtive, daring glances at us. Others are bolder, pressing themselves close, their hands casually lingering as they graze a shoulder, a forearm, a jawline.
They came here for the thrill of proximity, like groupies after a Stones concert.
I step in, shaking off the vestiges of the hunt, rolling my shoulders and closing the heavy door behind me.
The Wolf turns first. A woman is already nestled in his lap, her fingers trailing lazy circles against his collarbone through his half-unbuttoned shirt, blissfully unaware of the beast she’s trying to tame.
“Where the fuck were you?”
He never just asks a question. It’s always growled, sharp and restless, like he’s barely leashed.
I ignore the tension crackling off him as I head over to the bar for a drink. “Just dealing with a loose end.”
The Wolf narrows his eyes, shoulders coiled tight.
“What kind of loose end?”
I let the silence stretch, make him wait for an answer I don’t intend to give.
The Wolf is wound too tight. Always restless, always hunting. He thrives on bloodshed like it’s oxygen, wears his aggression like a second skin.
The others might enjoy the kill.
The Wolf needs it.
But that’s why we get along so well.
Because I do too.
I shrug, my voice even. “One that’s been taken care of.”
He’s silent a moment, dragging a hand through his hair. I swear I can feel his grin behind his mask, sharp and feral.
“If you were out spilling blood without me, I’ll be pissed,” he mutters. “I’m starving.”
The woman in his lap laughs softly, clueless. She runs her hands through his hair, tugging gently.
She’d better have brought running shoes if she wants to play with him.
No. The Wolf doesn’t ‘play’ at all.
He chases. Hunts. Devours.
The Bull chuckles, pulling my attention to him.
He’s surrounded.
Women cling to him, manicured fingers running over the thick, muscled lines of his shoulders and arms, draping themselves over him as if drawn to his sheer size and power.
He shakes them off, ignoring their pouting protests as he stands from the couch. He steps forward, broad-shouldered and imposing, the dim light casting deep shadows across his heavy frame.
“The Russians are starting to make more noise than usual,” he says. His voice is as always edged with violence, every word an invitation for a fight.
I don’t respond right away, and his mask tilts to me slightly.
“At some point, we do need to talk about this, Hound.”
I glance at him. “Obviously. But we knew as we grew in stature that murmurings from the major families and the various seats of power would be inevitable.”
His hands flex at his sides. His massive shoulders roll slowly.
“Well, there’s a certain head of a certain family who seems ready to start hunting us now.”
Yeah. I know who he’s talking about. But it’s not a problem—not yet, anyway.
“All I’m saying,” The Bull growls, “is that perhaps it might be a good idea to preemptively take his head before he tries to take one of ours.”
That’s…not a figure of speech.
Of all of us, The Bull craves violence the most. Not as a necessity. Not even to mete out justice.
He just likes it.
His bloodlust is almost absurd. Where The Wolf needs the kill to feel sane, The Bull enjoys it the way another man might enjoy fine whiskey, savoring every drop.
“The Russians don’t like us,” The Raven observes.
The Bull snorts. “No shit. They don’t like the idea of power they don’t control.”
“More than that,” The Raven says. “They don’t like power they don’t understand.”
That’s the truth of it.
The Black Court doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.
Not the Russians’—neither the Iron Table nor the High Council. Not The Italian Commission. Not the various syndicates, or the Yakuza, the Triads, or any of the other seats of power in the underworld.
We are the ones who decide what rules look like.
The Wolf snaps a lighter open and shut, open and shut, flicking the flame with a restless smirk. “So, when do we start cutting throats?”
The Bull chuckles. “I like where your head’s at, Wolf.”
“I know you do,” The Wolf purrs, rolling his neck like a boxer before a fight. “Too much talk lately and not enough action. I say we make an example of someone. Burn a house down. Start stacking bodies. Then they’ll get the message.”
I don’t react. I’m not thinking about the Russians. I’m thinking about her. The little dancer who saw more than she should.
Who ran. Who fought.
Who broke.
…And who doesn’t realize she belongs to me now.
The sound of a glass clinking against wood makes me glance up. The Stag has finally moved. He doesn’t say anything, which is fairly on-brand for hiim. He just pours himself a drink, his movements precise and unhurried. The whiskey sloshes as he tilts the bottle, and I catch the faint lines of old scars beneath his sleeve.
I notice one of the women watching him from across the room, her gaze slow, considering.
I almost laugh.
She has no idea what she’s looking at. She watches him like he’s a prize, not realizing he’s a curse. Few people understand what lives inside The Stag.
The Bull’s bloodlust is loud.
The Wolf’s hunger for violence is constant, like mine.
The Raven’s is lethal in its secrecy, like the thin blade in the darkness you never see coming.
But The Stag’s?
His is buried. Deep. Twisting.
And when he decides to take action, it isn’t impulsive. It’s calculated. Final and absolute.
I watch as he swirls his glass and takes a sip. Then, silent as ever, he sets his glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound barely audible over the low hum of conversation. Then, he speaks.
“Are we ready?”
The rest of us glance at each other and nod.
It’s time. The final note of any night where Court has been in session.
The chatter around us continues, the women still draped across the furniture, sipping wine and whispering among themselves about the men they’ll never truly have.
The five of us move toward the heavy iron door at the far end of the room. The crowd doesn’t follow. They wouldn’t dare.
We step through, and the door groans shut behind us. The inner sanctum is smaller, darker. No velvet. No crystal. No old wooden shelves with leather books. No watching eyes. Just stone walls and the weight of the ages.
The air is thicker in here, heavier.
A single fire burns low, casting long shadows against the carved oak table in the room’s center.
We don’t speak as we move toward our places.
The Raven reaches for the whiskey bottle, pouring a slow measure into five waiting glasses.
One by one, we take them.
We lift our masks.
No one outside this room has ever seen us like this, nor ever will.
We look at each other—not as masked shadows, not as the myths whispered about in the dark corners of the criminal underworld.
Just as who we are.
Five men.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then, together, we raise our glasses. The words fall from our lips, a vow etched into our very souls.
“Potentia per umbras.”
Power through shadows.
The Black Court is now adjourned.
