These Violent Delights: Prologue–Chapter 4

This place hums to the tune of debauchery.

This city is filthy and deep in the thrall of unending sin, so saturated with the kiss of decadence that the sky threatens to buckle and crush all those living vivaciously beneath it in punishment.

This is a scene that no soul bats an eye toward any longer; this is a scene that is more commonplace in heady Shanghai than the smoke....

It is solid, tangible—it almost exudes a moisture into the air, a weight pressing down on bare skin.

He doesn’t look back to see if his companion needs help, and he certainly doesn’t look back to determine what had landed on his leg with a viscous, sticky sensation.

In the heart of Scarlet Gang territory, a burlesque club was the place to be.

Her cousin always had a bite to her words, even when speaking with the driest intonation.

She sniffed haughtily, feigning offense.

Rosalind let her leave with a wave, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under her high-heeled shoe. Juliette really ought to have admonished her for doing so, but the floor couldn’t have gotten any dirtier than its current state, so what was the point?

Behind her, a table of patrons erupted with uproarious laughter, collapsing in mirth over some comment made among themselves.

Walter blanched. “I apologize, Miss Cai. My son, he’s your age, so I happened to know—”

Adorned in a brilliant new costume, Rosalind sashayed into view.

The constant grappling between the Scarlet Gang and the White Flowers wasn’t a secret. Far from it, in fact, because the blood feud was not something that raged only between those with Cai and Montagov to their name. It was a cause that ordinary members loyal to either faction took on personally, with a fervor that could almost be supernatural.

She let out her exhale imperceptibly, releasing the tension that had tightened her stomach to the point of pain.

At first glance it could have seemed like the shock emanating from the round tables was because a foreigner had walked in.

From the corner of her eye, Juliette was already catching sight of movement: guns pulled from pockets and knives pointed outward, bodies stirring with animosity.

She didn’t mean to be callous, but members of both their gangs killed each other on the weekly.

“Thank you for being so understanding,” she simpered.

His mouth was opening, likely to give another spiel about his extensive knowledge regarding the world of drugs, another plug about the dangers of purchasing products from those he deemed untrustworthy, but Juliette held up a finger to stop him.

No matter what it was that her relatives discussed, no matter how mundane—like their speculation on the rising prices of rice—their words dripped with scheming and relentless wit.

On second thought, there was only one exception to her apathy: Mr. Li, her favorite uncle.

Even while it was hectic all around them, with staff bustling in and out of the kitchen, a meal underway, and the table accommodating various conversations at oscillating volumes, she couldn’t stand it when her father let her question draw out in lieu of answering immediately.

After all, who would care for rumors of strange creatures rising from the waters of this city when the Nationalists and Communists were rising too, guns poised and armies ready to march?

He had been terribly blasé at news of the White Flower heir on their territory, after all.

“Do you make a habit out of eavesdropping at doors instead of coming in?” Juliette sneered, but her scathing remark went unappreciated.

Ever since he lost both his parents too young, he had become this faux Scarlet anarchist, pretentious for the sake of it, wild within the gang for no reason, and because like called to like, his only friends were those who hung around hoping to shortcut a connection with the Cais.

He kept one hand scrunched against her left sleeve and the rest of his arm splayed against her clavicle, pushing just enough to make a threat.

It was indignation, and then hot, hot anger.

As if Roma hadn’t been replaced by Dimitri Voronin—not in name but in favoritism—relegated to the roles that Dimitri was too busy to take.

His hands were gesticulating with his usual vigor and enthusiasm, moving at the same pace as he was speaking, syllable stacked upon syllable until Roma wasn’t quite certain if Marshall was still using his native tongue, or merely making noises to express his frustration.

Those on the streets described him as the watered-down version of Roma, which Benedikt embraced only because such an association with Roma, no matter how disparaging, gave him power.

Ever since Marshall had been embroiled in a scandal involving another boy and a dark storage closet, he had learned to hit first and hit fast, countering the talk that followed him around with a Cheshire-cat grin on his face.

The whole air around them suddenly grew coppery with apprehension, and Roma tightened his grip on his cousin’s bag until he was practically hugging it to himself.

Benedikt and Marshall huffed and puffed to stay at his pace, trading occasional frowns and wondering where Roma was taking them so fervently with a bag full of dead insects clutched in his arms.

They usually advertised transportation services or apartment vacancies, but this one had giant text at the top heralding AVOID THE MADNESS. GET VACCINATED!

He was supposed to don a lab coat every time he entered the building, but no one had ever dared tell him off, and the various young scientists that the White Flowers employed at these workstations barely looked up when Roma visited once a month.

Perhaps if he didn’t walk with his usual good posture, he could absolve himself of blame when he came asking for the monthly progress reports of the products that came in and out of this lab.

This place was supposed to be a White Flower research facility at the cutting edge of pharmaceutical advancements, perfecting modern medicines for the hospitals operating on their territory. That was, at least, the facade they maintained.

The only other working theory is that a monster might have risen up from the Huangpu River and induced the madness.

In the years that Roma had known the old scientist, Lourens was always saying whatever came to mind with no concern for propriety.