Free Chapter Sample
ONE
Briarsport. 1920s. The height of Prohibition.
A cold, dense fog rolls along the water-covered city. It is dead silent in the dead of night, all except for one room in a medium-sized apartment located in the lower Basins.
The window is open to allow the cold, fresh air of the outside to drift on through, but the couple inside are steaming up the room with their passion. Heavy breathing can be heard from the window, along with the frantic squeaks and rocks of a bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Melt for me, Sweetness!” A husky baritone rasp, drowning out the indignant squeaks of a bed groaning under protest of the energetic weight bouncing on it.
Sultry gasping breath answer in return causing the baritone to growl in carnal pleasure.
The scent of heavy incense drifts through the room.
When all of a sudden, the light—the power—goes completely out.
The couple doesn’t panic, even though the rules of segregation clearly state that they should not be together. Calm, cool, and collected, they break apart out of the bed. The silver-fox gentleman with the wavy, silver-tipped hair grabs his breeches and the clothing close to the bed, rapidly dressing as he hurries out the back way of the apartment and down the fire escape into the darkness of the city.
The beautiful Black woman he left behind dons one of her silk robes, clinches it to her, and starts to clear away the evidence of her nightly visitor.
In the midst of her clearing away the evidence, the police barge in. Their flashlights glare in the dark, a narrow yellow beam of light shining dead in her face. She can’t see who her intruders are, but she knows they are the law as they frantically shout:
“Where is he? We know he’s up here! Where are you hiding him?”
They start tossing the room, and she frantically states, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just preparing to take a bath.”
“Don’t lie to me, sister.”
And one of the gruff voices strikes her dead in her belly. She doubles over, the air leaving her in a sharp, burning gasp.
He then yanks her up by the lapels of her silk robe, his backhand violently knocking her head to the side before surging forward cracking against her nose, the fabric groaning under his heavy grip. Her breath is trapped in her throat, the pain in her abdomen and across her face radiating hot and sharp, but she keeps her jaw clenched tight.
In the dim, shifting beam of the flashlight, she can just make out the heavy wool of a police overcoat and the dull glint of a brass badge. It’s Boggs’ men. They smell of stale tobacco, rain-soaked wool, and the unmistakable, anxious sweat of men who know they’re trespassing where they don’t belong.
“Don’t play the saint with me, girl,” the gruff voice growls, his face shadowed, his hot breath reeking in the cold, damp air of the room. “We saw the boat slip under the arch. We know Maltese was here. Where’d he go?”
Behind them, the apartment is being systematically destroyed. The heavy wooden wardrobe is shoved over with a deafening crash, splintering against the floorboards. Drawers are ripped out, their contents—her private, meticulous life—scattered into the darkness. But Gloria doesn’t look at the ruin. Even doubled over, her ribs aching, she keeps her eyes fixed on the lead cop’s collar. She doesn’t look toward the open window. She doesn’t look toward the fire escape.
✦ ═══ ◈ ═══ ✦
Down below, in the pitch-black canal alleyways of the Basin, the silence of the night has already swallowed Faison Maltese. He moves like a ghost through the wet, stone-arched shadows, his silver-tipped hair dissolving into the thick fog, his mind already calculating the exact price these men will pay for putting their hands on his sanctuary.
Faison’s heavy leather soles hit the wet pavement of the alley with a muted slap. The fog down here is a living thing, thick and tasting of salt and coal smoke. He doesn’t look back up at the fire escape, but his chest burns with a cold, quiet fury. He already knows which cops broke that door down. He knows their boots, and he knows their brute, clumsy methods.
He presses into the shadow of a low stone archway, his hand automatically sliding inside his coat toward the heavy, cold steel of his automatic. He needs to get to the rendezvous spot at the East Basin canal, but the night is crawling with the law.
Then, through the heavy silence, he hears it.
Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.
The frantic, impossibly light sound of tiny feet slapping the wet cobblestones, running hard right behind him.
Faison pivots, his back hitting the damp brick wall, his hand tightening on his weapon. But before he can draw, a small, dark shape darts out of the swirling mist.
“This way, Mr. Maltese! This way!” a hushed, breathless voice wheezes.
Through the gloom, Faison recognizes the identical, sharp-eyed faces of the twin boys. Their blonde hair is damp with mist, and their young faces are heavily smudged with dark soot—black, greasy chimney ash smeared across their cheeks and foreheads like war paint.
“The main canal bridge is blocked,” the other twin whispers, pointing a soot-stained finger toward the left fork of the alleyway. “Boggs’ harbor squad is waiting under the streetlamps near the coal yard. They got a net set up for you.”
Faison doesn’t ask how they know. In the Basin, the wind whispers secrets, but the soot-faced twins hear them first.
“Lead,” Faison commands, his deep voice barely louder than the fog.
The identical boys nod in unison and vanish back into the mist, running like rats through a maze they own. Faison follows the quick, rhythmic patter of their feet. They guide him on a frantic, zigzagging route—dipping into narrow, lightless canal alleyways, ducking beneath low stone arches where the water laps inches from their boots, and skirting the dark perimeters of empty warehouses.
Behind them, the distant, shrill blow of a police whistle cuts through the night, but the sound is already moving in the wrong direction. The twins have completely outmaneuvered the ambush.
A moment later, they slip out of a tight passageway near the dripping iron girders of the lower docks. There, idling in the deepest shadow with its headlights blacked out, sits Faison’s sleek, dark getaway vehicle…
Behind the wheel of the idling car, the driver’s side window is rolled halfway down. But before Faison even reaches the door, a distinct, rhythmic sound cuts through the low purr of the engine.
Smack. Squeak. Smack.
It’s the wet, incredibly loud, and unrelenting sound of someone aggressively working a piece of chewing gum.
As Faison steps closer, the dim dashboard light reveals the driver. Chompers is a big, stout, potato-shaped powerhouse of a man. He is undeniably pale, with a crop of short, fiery red hair tucked beneath a heavy woolen newsboy cap—the kind with the stiff brim pulled low over his eyes. He has a massive, round, bulbous nose and a neck so thick and squat that his chin seems to rest directly on his broad shoulders. He doesn’t look up as Faison approaches; his jaws just keep chomping away in a steady, bone-deep rhythm.
Before opening the car door, Faison stops and turns back to the soot-smudged twins waiting in the mist.
He reaches into his heavy coat, pulls out a silver money clip, and slides out two crisp five-dollar bills. He hands a fin to each boy. The identical twins’ eyes light up at the sight of the green paper.
Faison reaches out, his large hands ruffling their damp, ash-blonde hair, rubbing a bit more of the dark chimney soot into their locks.
“Good job, Champ,” Faison says softly to one, then looks to the other. “Good job, Scamp.”
The boys offer him identical, brilliant grins, tucking their wealth safely into their pockets.
Faison pulls open the passenger door and slips into the vehicle, the door shutting with a heavy, solid thud. Without a word, Chompers shifts the gears, hits the gas, and the dark car glides smoothly away from the curb, disappearing into the cold, protective fog of the Basin.
✦ ═══ ◈ ═══ ✦
The air inside the northern warehouse was cold, smelling of pine crates, motor oil, and the sharp tang of Laurent’s tobacco.
Laurent paced a tight, furious circle on the concrete floor, his leather heels clicking like gunshots. Standing a lean six feet tall, his sharp, military frame gave him an imposing presence despite his narrow build. He took a long, agitated drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing hot in the dim light, before blowing the smoke directly into Weasel’s face.
Behind the dark, wire-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his pale nose, Laurent’s green eyes narrowed with pure irritation.
Just behind them sat the prize: a massive, canvas-topped delivery truck, still idling, its floorboards practically groaning under the weight of Big Mama’s premium, untouched inventory.
“Have you two lost your absolute, flathead minds?” Laurent’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a deadly, razor-sharp edge that made Chance take a half-step back. A lock of fair blond hair fell across his forehead as he glared at them. “An entire truck? From Big Mama’s fleet? And in all your infinite, pea-brained wisdom, you drove it straight to our northern depot?”
“Aw, come on, Laurent,” Weasel whined, nervously shifting from foot to foot and adjusting his cap. “It was sitting right there. Key was practically in the ignition. We couldn’t just leave it.”
“You didn’t think to dump it in the river? You didn’t think to strip the plates and leave it in a ditch in the West Basin?” Laurent surged forward, getting right into Weasel’s face. “You brought the evidence here. To the boss’s main northern operation! What the hell were you planning to do with a hot truck?”
Weasel swallowed hard, looking over at Chance for help. “Well… we didn’t exactly think that far ahead, Laurent. We just saw the truck sitting idle, and we saw her guards were, uh… getting service.”
Laurent stopped pacing. He stared at Weasel, his eyes narrowing into slits. “What the hell do you mean, getting service?”
“You know that little blonde slapper?” Chance chimed in, eager to ease the tension. “The little broad from the Cherry Street parlor who’s always trying to throw herself at Mr. Maltese? The one who don’t know when to keep her mouth shut?”
Laurent’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. What about her?”
“Well, she was occupied,” Weasel squeaked, a greasy grin spreading across his face. “She was polishing the gearshift of the driver in the alley, and getting her bumper tapped by the tailgate guard at the exact same time. They were so busy sweating and carrying on, they wouldn’t have noticed if we marched a brass band past ’em. So, we just… snuck down, climbed into the cab, and took it.”
Laurent rubbed his temples, a deep, exhausted sigh escaping him. “How did you sneak down there in the first place? Where did you leave your car?”
“Uhhh, actually, we didn’t have the car,” Weasel said, his voice dropping an octave. “Leland had dropped us off. We were actually supposed to be heading down to the docks to check on the coal shipments. But then we saw the truck, and… well, opportunity knocked, Laurent.”
Leland, who had been leaning quietly against a stack of crates in the shadows, finally threw his hands up in absolute, exasperated defeat. As he stepped into the light, dark curls fell untamed across a smooth brow, framing a face almost too handsome for a northern warehouse floor.
“So, in all your brilliant, intellectual majesty,” Leland barked, his broad shoulders shifting as his voice dripped with sarcasm, “you decided to hijack a rival mob’s truck on foot, drive it straight to our primary hideout, and hope nobody noticed? Who saw you take it?”
Weasel and Chance looked at each other, their grins quickly fading into blank, empty stares under the sudden, heavy glare of Leland’s steel-gray eyes.
“Uh,” Weasel muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “We don’t know.”
“You don’t know?!” Laurent roared.
✦ ═══ ◈ ═══ ✦
The sleek, dark Buick glided smoothly through the wet cobblestone streets, its blacked-out headlights cutting through the thick Basin fog. Behind the wheel, Chompers aggressively worked his chewing gum, keeping his eyes peeled for police searchlights.
In the passenger seat, Faison’s chest burned with a cold, quiet fury. He didn’t want to waste time heading all the way up to his townhouse in Foxglove Heights while Gloria was in danger.
“Pull around the back of Cherry Street,” Faison commanded, his voice low and tight. “The laundromat.”
Chompers nodded once, swinging the heavy Buick into a narrow, mud-slicked alley behind a two-story brick building. The faint, sweet smell of industrial starch and steam drifted through the damp night air. Faison slipped out of the passenger side and glided through the heavy iron back door, entering the humid warmth of his primary Basin front.
Behind the rows of silent, towering washing machines was a reinforced wooden door. He knocked once—a specific, rhythmic tap—and the slide-panel shot back, revealing the wide, cautious eyes of his doorman. The lock clicked, and Faison stepped into the smoky, low-ceilinged speakeasy. He strode past the late-night drinkers without acknowledging a single one and disappeared into his private office, slamming the heavy oak door behind him to shut out the jazz music.
He snatched the heavy, brass candlestick telephone off his mahogany desk, cranked the hook, and waited for his private switchboard operator to patch him through to the northern warehouse.
On the other end of the line, the receiver picked up with a heavy click. The background noise coming through the earpiece was already a circus of shouting.
“I don’t care if she was doing a full-stage matinee performance, Weasel!” Laurent’s voice barked through the static, distant but furious. “You brought a hot truck from Big Mama’s fleet straight to our northern depot! Have you lost your absolute, flathead mind?”
“Laurent,” Faison cut in, his deep baritone voice, flat, ice-cold , and carrying an authority that instantly silenced the shouting on the other end.
“Boss,” Laurent’s tone shifted immediately, though his hard, stressed breathing was still there. “Thank God. You make it out of the apartment? We got word the Basin precinct went hot.”
“I’m out. Chompers has the wheel,” Faison said, leaning his hip against the edge of his desk, his hand tightening on the brass receiver. “But they took Gloria. Boggs’ personal squad. They went rough on her, Laurent. Broke the door down and put hands on her.”
A heavy silence fell over the line. Laurent knew what Gloria meant to Faison.
“What do you want to do?” Laurent asked quietly.
“I need you to write the book. But for now, call Miller and Henderson,” Faison commanded, referring to the precinct detectives they had locked down on the payroll. “Tell them to get down to the lockup right now. I want eyes on Gloria. If a single turnkey so much as looks at her crooked, I want their badges. Tell Miller to pull whatever strings he has to to get her moved to a private cell until we can post the bond.”
“Certain chapters require special paper, but I’m on it, Boss,” Laurent sighed, though his voice sounded heavy with doubt. “But… we might have a leak, Faison. Boggs has been sniffing around the payroll lists. If he knows which of his boys are carrying our water, he’s going to block them from getting anywhere near her.”
“Let them try,” Faison growled, his knuckles turning white on the brass neck of the phone. “Just get Miller on the horn. Now. What’s that racket in the background?”
Laurent let out a long, exhausted groan. “It’s Weasel and Chance, Boss. In all their infinite, pea-brained majesty, they just hijacked one of Big Mama’s supply trucks on foot down by the docks and drove the damn thing straight to our northern warehouse. The inventory is full, but the truck is hotter than a furnace. We have no idea who saw them take it.”
Faison closed his eyes for a brief second, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The weight of his entire empire seemed to press down on his shoulders all at once. “Keep them there. Don’t touch the cargo yet. I’ll head up to the Foxglove townhouse to lay low once I’m done here. Call me the second Miller makes contact with the jail.”
“Understood , Boss.”
Faison hung up the receiver, slamming it onto its cradle. He stared down at his desk, his mind already spinning like a master clock.
Inside the Briarsport central lockup, the reality was already worse than Faison feared…
Faison hung up the receiver, slamming it onto its cradle. He stared down at his desk, his fingers still pinching the bridge of his nose as the weight of the night pressed in. He needed to get up to the Foxglove townhouse, but his mind was already spinning three steps ahead, trying to figure out how to break Boggs’ line at the central lockup.
Before he could stand, a quiet, rhythmic knock sounded at the office door.
“Come,” Faison muttered as he aggressively stroked his salt and pepper beard.
The door swung open, and Arthur, the sharp-dressed manager of the Cherry Street laundry front, stepped in. His face was pale under the dim electric light of the office, his brow furrowed with a nervous tension that had nothing to do with the police raid uptown.
“Sorry to disturb you, Boss,” Arthur said, keeping his voice down to a low murmur. “I saw you fly past the bar, but you were moving too fast for me to catch you. We got a situation out on the floor. It’s Miller.”
Faison’s pale, blue eyes snapped up, cold and sharp. “The cop?”
“No, sir. Bobby Miller. The dealer we got running the high-stakes dice table in the back room,” Arthur clarified, twisting a ring on his finger. “He’s been playing fast and loose with the evening’s take. I think he’s helping himself to a little extra sugar off the top. I wanted to be sure before I brought it to you, so I’ve been keeping book.”
Faison rose slowly from his leather chair, the exhaustion instantly vanishing from his frame, replaced by the quiet, lethal presence of the Basin’s king. “Show me.”
Arthur led Faison out a side door of the office, stepping onto a narrow, elevated iron catwalk that overlooked the smoky, crowded speakeasy floor. Down here in the shadows, far above the haze of cigar smoke and the clinking of glasses, they were entirely invisible to the patrons below.
They stopped behind a thick velvet curtain. Arthur parted the fabric just an inch, pointing down toward the corner dice table.
Down below, Bobby Miller was in his element. He was a slick, rat-faced kid in a tailored vest, rattling the dice cup and laughing with a group of drunk high-rollers. But Faison’s pale blue eyes didn’t watch the game. He watched Miller’s hands.
A player dropped a heavy stack of silver dollars onto the green felt. Miller raked the pile in with his left hand, but as he did, his right hand made a swift, practiced motion—palming three large silver coins and sliding them smoothly into the deep pocket of his trousers while the players were distracted by the roll.
Faison watched him do it a second time, his expression completely flat. He watched with cold, calculating assessment. Miller was stealing from the empire on a night when the empire was already bleeding.
“Get on the horn to the townhouse,” Faison murmured to Arthur, his voice a chilling whisper in the dark. “Tell Jimmy to get down here. Now.”
“And Bobby?” Arthur asked, looking down at the oblivious dealer.
“Let him keep pocketing our silver,” Faison said, turning back toward his office. “It’ll make his pockets heavier when he goes for his swim.”
Twenty minutes later, the back door of the office opened, and Jimmy stepped inside. He had his heavy wool cap pulled low, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The young, vulnerable twenty year old, who had been crying over a broad named, Tiffany in the kitchen this morning was entirely gone; in his place stood Faison’s quiet, iron-jawed shadow.
“You called, Mr. Maltese?” Jimmy asked.
Faison didn’t look up from his desk. He merely gestured toward the back door that led out to the dark, rain-slicked alleyway behind the laundry.
“Bobby Miller is wrapping up his shift at the dice table,” Faison said, his baritone smooth and unbothered. “He’s carrying a light load of our silver in his right pocket. Go have a nice, quiet little chat with him, Jimmy.”
Jimmy’s eyes hardened, understanding the order instantly. He nodded once, his hand resting on the heavy, blunt shape of the sap tucked inside his coat pocket.
“I’ll tell him we’re going for a ride, Boss,” Jimmy said quietly.
“Do that,” Faison replied. “And make sure he understands exactly who owns the road.”
As Jimmy stepped back out into the damp Basin night to wait in the shadows of the alley, Faison finally reached for his coat. The board was set. The pieces were moving. And the Basin was about to find out exactly what happened to men who tried to take what belonged to Faison Maltese.
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