Prologue

Prologue

Wednesday, April 23, 1924.

It was late into the night, long after the dazzling, vulgar shows of Broadway’s theater district had come to an end.

One by one, luxury motorcars pulled up in front of an ordinary townhouse tucked away in a back alley. Gentlemen in top hats and ladies in extravagant dresses stepped out into the darkness.

Instead of going through the front entrance, they gathered at the back door like servants, then knocked with quiet caution. The door had a small window, barely the size of a palm, just large enough for someone inside to look out. After a brief exchange of passwords with the doorman, it slowly opened.

Some time later, the door cracked open again, though no one had knocked.

A man with a long scar across his face peered out, his eyes darting from side to side. After scanning the alley, he pulled the door wide open.

A broad-shouldered gentleman stepped out with his fedora pulled low over his face. He did not look back.

Behind Baron Carlyle de Rochere, the door to Eldorado, Manhattan’s notorious speakeasy, closed firmly once more.

Massimo, Carlyle’s chauffeur and bodyguard, was half-asleep in the driver’s seat when a sharp whistle made his shoulders jerk.

“Damn…”

Startled, he blinked and looked around. Carlyle stood in front of the townhouse, whistling at him again. There was a strange urgency in the sound. In his clenched hand, the golden wolf carved into the head of his cane flashed fiercely under the streetlamp.

“You’re out earlier than usual tonight.”

Massimo started the engine and slowly turned the wheel. The shabby Ford Model T looked painfully out of place beside Carlyle’s refined clothes, but it was the motorcar he used whenever he wanted to avoid the attention of society.

Before Massimo could properly pull up to the curb, Carlyle strode into the road and slammed his fist against the driver’s side window.

Massimo froze, overwhelmed by the force of it. He stared up through the glass with a blank expression.

“Get out.”

“…Pardon?”

Carlyle’s icy eyes looked down at him.

For a moment, Massimo’s knees nearly gave way. Had he driven too slowly?

“Do not make me say it twice. Get out.”

When Massimo hesitated, Carlyle yanked open the driver’s door, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him out of the car.

Still confused, Massimo stumbled onto the road. In the next instant, Carlyle had already taken the driver’s seat.

A sudden, instinctive sense of danger shot through Massimo. He scrambled around the car and pulled open the passenger door, but the motorcar lurched forward with a violent roar of the engine.

“Whoa!”

Hanging from the door, Massimo threw his heavy body into the passenger seat. A taxicab blared its horn as it swept past, and he barely managed to pull his legs inside before yanking the door shut.

Breathing hard, Massimo glanced at Carlyle.

It was the first time he had ever seen him behind the wheel. With two large men crammed into the front seats, the car felt no better than a tin of sardines.

Carlyle kept his rigid gaze fixed on the road ahead. He shoved the handbrake lever down with rough force and lifted his foot from the left pedal.

He meant to drive at full speed.

Just ahead, the iron wheels of a streetcar scraped against the tracks as it came to a stop. A shrill screech tore through the air, followed by a burst of blue sparks.

Carlyle did not hesitate.

He wrenched the wheel and overtook the streetcar. Ignoring the policeman signaling from the traffic tower in the middle of the road, he sped straight through the intersection. A storm of horns followed after them.

Black as night, the motorcar tore across the asphalt, zigzagging uptown with the roar of its engine and the stink of gasoline trailing behind it.

Massimo swayed violently from side to side, one hand braced against the ceiling. With the other, he carefully felt for the holster at his side. The solid weight of his Colt pistol was still there.

Maybe he should have brought more magazines.

But if they were heading uptown…

“I heard the West Side gang has been pushing its territory all the way into Harlem lately. Did they cause some kind of trouble?”

“.…”

Carlyle said nothing.

He only drove faster, his blue eyes blazing as if they might spark in the dark.