Chapter 3
TORN
Poppy
The bittersweet scent of coffee and parchment caresses my senses as I light the last candle and drift through the café I’ve called home since I was old enough to move out of Morgenstern Manor.
Beelzebub’s is a revamped greenhouse overlooking the bay, brimming with dark florals and bright candles.
Mama’s Japanese roots are in the samurai artwork and kanji poems on the windowpane walls.
Papa’s prodigal influence resonates from the baroque style of it all: the tall ceiling and deep-set floors, the grand Gothic chandelier, the tinted windows dimming the setting June sun.
Separated into individual sights, it’s a cobbled hodgepodge of light and lightless, foreign and familiar, traditional and modern.
But together, it’s my home and haven.
I lower into my hammock at the rear corner tucked beside the coffee bar, cradling my pink skull mug to my chest and idly skimming my bare feet over Jezebel’s soft midnight fur as she slumbers beneath me.
The balmy bay breeze wafting through the cracked windows tangles my sharp fringe, playing with my hair like a lover’s hands.
Kahula Alohi, the baker in the back kitchen, sings along to Neoni’s Darkside playing over the speakers, and I feel a smile warming my lips as serenity washes over—
“Judas fucking Priest,” Remiel huffs, effectively popping my bubble of peace.
She plops into the hammock beside mine with a dragon mug towering with whipped cream in one hand, her wriggling bobcat runt rescue, Hades, in the other, groaning, “Three agonizing years of this war with LuciImHome, and you’d think our friends would put money down on me for once. ”
“I put money down on you,” I remind her with an indignant glower.
In all honesty, I never gave three-eighths of one-fifth of fuck-all about her online rivalry with a masked gamer she’s been secretly stalking since the night they became public enemies.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t support her no matter how often she loses to him.
“Literally every match, Emi. Not once have my Benjamins strayed from the magnificent and awe-inspiring Halestorm.”
“You don’t count.” She tugs the hood of her gray sweats up and flops her wrist dismissively. “You’re like my sister, Poppy. Your loyalty is a given.”
I squint. “Given? I think you meant ‘gift.’”
Emi’s peach lips purse as she tilts her head toward me, catching the final rays of dusk kissing the sunset to sleep. The tired sun lathes her layered raven waves long as a mermaid’s with deep golds, licking her dark skin and infusing her aquamarine eyes with a hint of heavenly honey.
But her loaded lour is downright minacious.
“What?” I squawk.
“You’re missing the point, Pops. Our friends are ganging up on me and I need you to help me do something”—a pointed look at the pocket of my leather pants, where I keep my butterfly knife—“about it.”
As my only tenant and a hacker-for-hire when she’s not battling her arch nemesis online, Emi naturally knows every dark facet of my immoral life.
Though sitting behind a computer and orchestrating a crime hive are two very different shades of black, we’ve bonded over our sins.
Among them, the passion for bloodshed and violence against those who deserve it.
But she’s just kidding about the knife.
…I think.
“Calm your tits, dove,” drawls Fiona Walsh in her rhotic Irish lilt, taking the netted seat beside Emi and aiming a vulpine grin at her murderous scowl.
She’s every bit the embodiment of a Celtic princess: body built for soft seduction, summery gaze brimming with smelted golds and flecks of grassy greens, fiery copper curls mussed with artful care.
She’s a renowned heartbreaker. No one would guess, though, that she’s a ruthless loan shark under that white button-down, plaid skirt, and round-rimmed glasses.
“When you’re tired of bending over and taking it in the ass, we’ll consider switching sides. ”
“Judas,” Emi utters into her mug, stabbing the air between them when Fiona glances at her phone.
…Not kidding about the knife, then.
“Easy, Hale. She did say ‘when.’” Castor Ricchioni appears with a steaming coffee cake halfway to his mouth, completing our circle as he takes his seat between me and Fiona.
As the owner of a local chop shop, the Italian is of course a walking Yamaha ad: biker boots, black jeans, a short-sleeve tee a size too small for his muscle-dense torso under his leather jacket.
His onyx waves are windswept from his harsh yet captivating features.
His obsidian eyes made for luring lost souls into their depths are transfixed, as always, on Emi.
“Which is a far cry from ‘if.’ Counts for something, right?”
“She also said ‘consider,’” I parry, elbowing him and snorting when he misses his next bite, “which is an even further cry from swearing fealty. Drops that something down to nothing in my book.”
Cas sweeps crumbs from his lap, chuckling. “Pops has a point there, Gingerbread.”
Fiona claps a hand over her heart. “Et tu, Brute? Whose side are you on?”
“No sides.” Cas raises his palms in surrender. “I’ll defend your honor, but that’s it. You started this battle, you finish it.”
Fiona gapes at the three of us, landing on a smug Emi. “What do you want from me, a feckin’ blood oath?”
Emi hmms pensively. “You know, I think I like the sound of that.”
Fiona scoffs. “What about Cas? He bet against you, too.”
I suppress my wince. The mood shifts like rippling water as Emi and Cas share an uncomfortable, weighted glance.
It’s been three years since they split. At best, their friendship is as durable as a ripped page.
We all see the tear where the ink doesn’t align quite right anymore.
Although it’s had all this time to settle into its new shape, it can so easily be torn again.
Fiona, who wasn’t part of our inner circle until after the Great Castastrophe, realizes her mistake a moment too late. “Ah, shite. I’m sorry, dove. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Emi murmurs, casting her weary gaze out the window and to the sea beyond. “I think it’s safe to say Castor did his time.”
Fiona looks at Cas like she’s drowning and desperate for a rope. But there’s none for the latter to offer as he rubs his brow and avoids looking at any of us.
Unacceptable. Our lives are bleak enough when we’re not together.
Pulling up my text thread with Emi, I type:
Forget the knife. Let’s melt some Ex-Lax into their mocha tomorrow morning and watch them race each other to the bathroom. Bet Cas shits himself first.
Coffee suddenly rockets from Emi’s nostrils, chasing Hades from her lap to Fiona’s.
She yelps as the bobcat’s claws sink into her crotch, and she flails like a fish, tangling herself in the netting.
Cas chokes on his cake, I cackle like a jackal, Emi sneezes hazelnut bubbles, and just like that, the tension shatters as we descend into a fit of laughter I’d gladly drown in if I could.
Almost. I almost forget that this is only half my reality.
As Cas hands Emi a stack of napkins, patching over the new rip in their page with a mending smile she returns, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
From my father and the king of this city: Alexander Morgenstern.
Dread burns in the pit of my stomach like I drank too much dark roast as I make my way through the kitchen, step out the back door, and accept the call.
“Hai, Papa?”
“Poppyseed,” he greets me, his tone grave. “Are you safe, baby girl?”
Not a comforting start. If he’s asking about my safety like he’s expecting someone that buys and sells people for a living to be answering my phone, whatever this is about isn’t good.
I clear my throat, unable to unclog the knot. “I’m fine, Papa. At Beelzebub’s with the crew.”
“Thank the stars.” His relief settles in my bones like the warmth of a fire on a cold night. Then he snuffs it out with a brisk, “I need you to do something for me.”
My answer is immediate. “Anything.”
Fire crackles in the background. I imagine he’s in Morgenstern Manor’s library. Mama is likely seated at the blazing hearth, eavesdropping while pretending to be buzzed on wine.
I lean against the glass panes, tilting my gaze up to the stars as I await my orders.
As I have my entire life. My childhood didn’t consist of classrooms and peers.
My teachers were my papa and grandpapa. My lessons were on navigating the criminal underworld.
I studied how to delegate sins to the appropriate sinners, how to cock the Glock when discord and disobedience inevitably arise.
No, my childhood wasn’t normal at all.
Whether I like it or not, I am the second-in-command of my father’s decrepit empire until the day he passes his crown to me.
Along with his throne, I’ll be inheriting every jailbird, crook, and vagabond in his grip working off their debts to the man who bailed them out of whatever tough bind they’d been in before selling their soul to serve the king of Salem himself.
My future as queen of the Morgenstern dynasty was written in the stars. I have no siblings, and though there are plenty of cousins who are just as capable of taking over the business as me, I am Alexander Morgenstern’s only child. As his sole heir, I am the line of succession.
I never asked for it, but that’s the crux of inevitability: it’s unavoidable, inescapable. Which is why I spend my free time exterminating the vermin from the streets; to attempt penance, however small and undeserved.
If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have lived this wretched life. My family has been the monarchy of Salem’s underworld for centuries, but this—ruling as crime lords—was never in the original plan.
Grandpapa Lucian taught me our history before he passed away, unknowingly engraving on my psyche how far we’ve strayed from our origins.
The Morgensterns had built a reputation in the city’s black market during the days of the infamous witch trials.
Our ancestors had been saviors of a sort, a resource for people to go to for herbal remedies to spiritual influence, protection against malevolent magic.
Regardless of how ridiculous it all sounded growing up, it also sounded like something of a dream.
Now, the Morgensterns are known to be ruthless criminals not even the cops dare to fuck with.
“We have an unwelcome guest,” Papa replies. “I need you to eradicate them before they can cause more damage than they already have.”
Every vertebra in my spine locks. We haven’t had a turf war in Salem since our battle with the Volkovs.
I grew up during the bloody nightmare. Grandpapa Lucian was reigning at the time.
So many lives had been lost between our families.
Innocents were cannon fodder, friends were collateral, family was quarry.
The only reason we won the war was because the Volkovs turned on themselves. They shredded each other apart like rabid wolves. Leaving the remaining Volkovs working for us.
My jaw unlocks enough for me to rasp, “What has this unwelcome guest done?”
“So far, they’ve poached some of our best mercenaries and arms dealers, along with a few informants and chemists.
Clientele are already closing their contracts with us.
Whoever they are, they’ve tipped the hourglass, and we’re very quickly running out of time.
At this rate, we will be nothing but another dead legend in this city. ”
I detect something in his voice I’ve never heard before: fear.
Alexander Morgenstern may be many things, but frightened is never one of them. Fear is his sword. He’s the master, not the slave.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask carefully, kicking off from the panes and pacing to subdue my own rising anxiety. There’s no reply for so long, I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Papa? Are you still there?”
“This is how the last war started.” Even though his voice is clear, he sounds as distant as the moon.
“Your grandpapa plucked the Volkovs’ forces one at a time until their house of cards caved in.
He didn’t stop there. He targeted their entire bloodline, leaving alive only those who swore themselves and their lineages to the Morgenstern name.
If this intruder is starting where my father did… ”
Then our crooked empire will fall, and the entire Morgenstern dynasty passed down since the age of torches and pitchforks will crumble to ash and ruin.
All thoughts of light and laughter sink to the depths of the Atlantic as suspicion rises from the deep. “Could it be the Volkovs?”
“No.” Papa’s credence cuts through my theory. “What’s left of that family remains loyal to us. This is someone else. Use whatever resources you need. Find out who it is, and bring me their head.”
Some might question why he’s ordering his own daughter to hunt down the enemy. But this is the man who raised me to rule on my feet rather than serve on my back.
I can still picture it, clear as the moon and the stars in the night sky above. Us, standing in an old chemical factory. Me, with a book cradled to my small chest. Him, replacing that book with a knife and pointing to a man on his knees and begging for his life.
While other little girls my age were dreaming about castles and fairytales, I’d been death’s right hand.
I may be the daughter of a king, but I am no princess nor a damsel in need of protecting. I know how to protect myself.
I know how to kill.
“Hai, Papa,” I vow, sharp as the blade I was forged to be. “Consider it done.”