12. Simone

The dressing room is fit for a princess - no, a queen. Lush crimson velvet curtains pool on the floor and a thick oriental rug cushions my steps. The air is hazy with the luxuriant blend of French perfumes and face powders. This is true decadence.

My vanity is an altar of indulgence, strewn with the latest cosmetics imported from Paris.

Pots of creamy rouge in shades of petal and berry wait to bring a flush of color to my cheeks.

The iconic round box of Bourjois Java rice powder stands ready to cloak my skin in a delicate veil. Caron”s extravagant Poudre Peau Fine dusting powder releases a lingering, floral scent with every shake of its canister.

Fragile crystal bottles contain the precious essences of rose, jasmine, and ylang-ylang.

Their stoppers keep the heady perfumes from dissipating into the air before I dab them on my pulse points. Tins of Cyclax complexion milk and nourishing lip salve are scattered amidst tortoiseshell combs and silver-backed brushes.

These are the finest products from the beauty capital of the world. Only the best for Le Voile de Sang”s newest star chanteuse. I trail my fingers through the sumptuous collection, excitement thrumming in my veins. Tonight, I”ll take the stage adorned in silks and satins, my skin radiant, my lips a lush pout. The brothers” exclusive club will be my throne.

My love affair with the three is the stuff of dreams...and nightmares. How did I, a simple cabaret singer, end up the doted-upon object of desire for three of the city”s most notorious crime lords?

It started simply enough. Now I”m treasured by all three, lavished with riches and affection fit for an empress. They dote on me endlessly - vying to outdo each other with precious jewels, daring lingerie, and dizzying nights of passion that leave me boneless and sated.

But the ugly truth is, they rule the city”s seedy underbelly with brutal force. Murder, moonshine, gunrunning - no crime is beneath them. But when I”m in the celestial cocoon of their bedchamber, that darkness seems a world away. With them, there is only light, heat, the glorious joining of flesh against flesh.

Perhaps I”m a fool, blinded by pleasure and luxury. But I”ll cling to this dream for as long as they”ll have me in their beds...and their black hearts.

I take the stage. In the club beyond, the revelry swells to a fever pitch - the pulse and throb of jazz, raucous laughter, the clink of forbidden liquor against crystal glasses.

When I step into the spotlight, it will be on their stage, in their world.

No longer just a performer, but an anointed part of their dark empire.

For the first time, I feel I truly belong.

The velvety blackness beyond the stage beckons, filled with promises of illicit delights. I can smell the tang of spilled wine, the rich plumes of cigar smoke. My gaze roves over the shadowy audience, searching for my lovers amidst the faceless crowd.

There - in a private booth nestled in one corner, I spot a glint of golden hair, the gleam of eyes watching me hungrily. Auguste”s lips curve in a slow smile as our eyes meet. Lucien”s arm is draped possessively over the back of the booth and even from here, I can feel the banked heat of his stare tracing every curve. Etienne works the bar, but I catch his trademark cocksure wink.

They”re so proud to show off their latest acquisition. The thought is intoxicating. I give a surreptitious wink their way as the opening strains of my song begin.

Lights blaze down, casting me in a halo of shimmering beams. My voice slips free, husky and dripping with innuendo as I begin my signature number. The pounding rhythm of the bass thrums through my blood as I sway my hips in a hypnotic figure eight. My beaded satin gown clings to every curve, the fringe whispering sinfully with each step.

In the darkness beyond the stage, dozens of eyes glimmer - feral gold, piercing violet, hungry crimson. The supernatural denizens of Le Voile de Sang, captivated by the siren in the spotlight. I can feel the weight of their stares, the force of their desire washing over me in waves.

But I don”t falter, don”t break the spell. My voice croons promises of passion, of sweet, sinful abandon.

I hold them in the palm of my hand, enslaved by my voice, my body, the intoxicating mythic power that runs through my veins. This is my kingdom - the stage, the creatures beyond, all of it mine to rule over through the sheer force of my allure.

The air in Le Voile de Sang suddenly erupts with the staccato of gunfire.

Bullets strafe the stage, sending splinters of wood flying. The band cries out as a hail of glass showers them from shattered bottles behind the bar. Screams pierce the air.

I drop to the floor, curling into a ball as the gunshots continue to ring out. My heart thunders in my ears, breath coming in ragged gasps.

What”s happening?

Who”s attacking?

Through the blinding haze of fear, I catch a glimpse of the assailants pouring into the club - a gang of vampires bristling with automatic weapons. Rage and bloodlust twist their features into inhuman snarls.

Oh god, where are my protectors? Are they hurt? Alive? Panic claws at my throat as I scan the pandemonium, desperate to catch sight of them amidst the stampeding crowd and sprays of gunfire.