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Saturday night, I meet Paul and the guys at his loft on the outskirts of the bayou. He bought it just as I turned seventeen, when we’d been running steady jobs for two years. After our reputations—and the name of the Wolfpack—catapulted us into the stratosphere.

“Why we doin’ work for somebody else, Paul?” Abe asked, grunting as he lugged our assigned barrels down the street. “Especially after he stiffed us on payment last time.”

“We’re not just running jobs. We’re learning. Like we learned about the Condors when Kat was seducing what’s-his-name…lover boy.”

“I didn’t seduce him,” I said sharply, dropping my barrel.

Abe snickered. Tony paused to wipe sweat from his brow. Even after midnight, the Savannah humidity didn’t sleep. It merely exhaled. Tendrils of early morning mist, steam rising from perhaps hell itself, crept alongside us through the streets.

“I didn’t!” I protested again. “Whatever he assumed was gonna happen…well, it didn’t. Boys are dumb.”

“And girls are brutal,” Tony said, giving me his infamous side-eye.

Paul wouldn’t be distracted. “Don’t you see?

All these bayou gangs…they’re small fish.

Stealing scraps from each other, staying downstream.

They’re like hyenas, all picking at the same ca rcass.

We’re better than that. We’re gonna be bigger than that.

We’re gonna be the kingpin, the one they all bring their scraps to. ”

“Seems to me that’s what we’re doing for the Magpies, giving them our scraps,” Abe muttered.

“Just wait,” Paul told him. “They aren’t gonna see us coming, but we’re Royals . They’ll know it soon enough.”

Just before sunrise, we trudged, sweaty and exhausted, into Damien’s lair. He and two underlings were still awake, playing cards and tossing coins on the table.

“It’s done,” Paul announced, crossing his arms over his chest. “We moved the barrels. All forty-eight.”

“In one night?” Damien looked at Paul with a surveying brow. “Good work.”

Then he went back to his cards. I exchanged an anxious look with Tony.

Paul cleared his throat.

“Was there something you wanted?” Damien asked, dragging his eyes away from the game.

“You owe us money. For tonight’s job, and the one last week.”

Damien laughed. “It’s a privilege to work for the Magpies, kid. Run a few more jobs, then we’ll talk payment and moving up the ranks. You haven’t done shit yet.”

“We’re not looking to move up the ranks. We’re independent contractors.” Paul stayed firm. “And we deserve to be paid for our work. No one in your little band of misfits could’ve done what we did tonight, and you know it.”

Paul! I inhaled sharply, my heart jumping into my throat.

Damien dropped his cards on the table and rose. His form was lithe, his fingers long. I didn’t like the hungry gleam in his eye. I reached my right hand out subtly, twining my fingers into the back of Paul’s shirt, cautioning him .

“You’re what? Eighteen, kid?” Damien took a slinking step closer to us. “Have some respect, pay your dues.”

“With all due respect,” Paul said, “we’re not leaving until we’ve been paid. You stiffed us once already, and we don’t work for free. It’s time to pay up.”

Damien’s two henchmen rose from their seats, flanking their leader.

“Kid, you ain’t gettin’ shit from me. And you’re starting to piss me off.”

“That makes two of us.” Paul's jaw ticked.

He snorted. “You got balls of steel, boy, I’ll give you that. But it takes a hell of a lot more than balls to make it in the bayou. Should I give you a little lesson, a little financial advice perhaps? Prices and costs…they can be tricky when you get into the big leagues.”

The henchman on the right flashed a leering smile and slowly cracked his knuckles.

Suddenly, Damien latched his glinting eyes on me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

My mouth ran dry. Paul immediately stepped in front of me. Abe and Tony closed ranks.

Damien laughed and raised his hands. “We’re learning here, right? She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she, kid?”

Paul remained silent. Tony’s hand grazed my wrist. When I looked down, three of his fingers lay flush on my skin.

Three.

“How much?” Damien probed.

“She’s not for sale.” Paul was quick.

“Everything is for sale, everyone has a price. Is she yours?”

One of Tony’s fingers disappeared.

Two .

Damien laughed again. “You need to learn how to hide your hand better. It’s written all over your face. She’s valuable to you. Therefore, she’s valuable to me . See how that works? She’s the price tonight.”

Tony removed another finger.

One.

“Take the girl."

Damien’s muscle lunged, but Paul was faster. As he ducked beneath them, the steel of his knife flashed. I screamed. Tony and Abe collided with the henchmen.

“Paul!”

My heart sank as he rammed Damien. They crashed to the floor. In one quick slide, the knife went in and out of the Magpie’s stomach. Paul sprang to his feet to help Abe subdue his attacker.

I moved to aid Tony, lunging to land a strong punch across the bridge of the henchman’s bulbous nose.

Tony followed with a blow to the back of his head that dropped him like a stone.

When I looked across the room, Paul and Abe had their attacker on his knees, his hands behind his head.

Abe stood menacingly over him. Paul backed away.

Damien was gasping like a fish on the floor. Sticky red blood oozed out of the hole from Paul’s knife. I wanted to look away, but Paul strode over and wrenched Damien’s head back by his hair. His mouth was inches from the Magpie’s face.

“You want her life? I charge double for it. Nonrefundable.” Paul rose and walked to where Tony and I stood.

Damien’s eyes were leaking, but they followed Paul’s every move.

Quick as lightning, Paul slid the knife across the unconscious Magpie’s throat.

I tried to control my expression as blood spurted out, spraying Tony’s pant leg. I stepped back.

“Fool me once,” Paul muttered, striding back to Damien, “shame on you. Fool me twice…” He considered before plunging the knife into Da mien’s stomach. “Nobody fools me twice.” He withdrew the knife as Damien’s eyes shuttered.

I held my breath as Paul turned to the remaining Magpie. The man began to shake his head. “Please…I won’t…please…”

Without responding, Paul dipped his fingers into the pool of Damien’s blood.

With a sweep of his free hand, he cleared the cards and coins from the rickety table, then began to paint the surface.

His movements were short and brusque, tracing the shadowy, crude outline of a howling wolf’s head in blood on the tabletop.

He turned, wiping his stained hand on his pants, taking his time. The Magpie watched him prowl across the room and grunted when Paul’s fist sunk into his gut.

“Paul,” I started, finally finding my voice and stepping toward him.

He held an arm up, signaling me to stop. A ravenous glimmer shone in his eyes. A hunger. I held his gaze. Against all odds, I understood . I understood the feeling all too well. I cocked one corner of my mouth in a small smile.

“Consider this an object lesson.” Paul turned back to our captive, sliding down to his haunches to whisper in the Magpie’s ear. “You want one of us, I take two of you. My price is double whatever you lowlifes charge.”

The man nodded vigorously.

“What’s your name?” Paul asked.

“Craig.”

“Swell. Tell them, Craig.” Paul rose to his feet and turned to us. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” the man choked out. “Who…?”

“The Wolfpack.” Paul tossed his bloody knife on the table. “Tell them. Tell them all.”

That night marked the beginning of our new dawn, that run-in and cutdown of the Magpie gang.

The Wolfpack burst onto the scene of Savannah’s underworld, leaving an unapologetic trail of blood and lore in its wake.

Paul wrangled my interview at the Academy just after my eighteenth birthday, and the marks, capers, and infamy continued to grow.

When Paul first told me he was ready to buy a flat and move out of the Catacombs, I asked him why he wanted a hideout in the bayou when he could afford something nicer. Something closer to the city center.

“This is where we’re from, Katarina,” he said, using my full name for emphasis. “And this is where we work. We need to be here. I want to be here.”

At the time, I admired his principles and dedication to the bayou. Most people want to escape the place, but not Paul. He’s always been proud of where we come from. At least, that’s what I thought. But last year, he splurged and bought a glossy apartment in downtown Savannah.

To be closer to his new work, he told me.

Both homes are nice, but the bayou loft will always be my favorite.

It’s the first place we could call our own.

The first place I ever truly felt safe. And Paul was right; this hideout is authentic to who we are—the colorful draped silks, stolen Persian rugs, scattered wicker crates, eclectic furniture, a tiny fire escape overlooking the swampy streets of the bayou…

This is the life—the empire—we built together. This place reeks of our early years, of both the struggles and the victories.

I let myself into the loft and call out a greeting to Paul and the boys.

As I cross the living room, I pause to adjust a Parisian silk over an antique Turkish floor lamp, casting a hundred hues of red across the room.

When I’m satisfied with the effect, I move to the Victrola phonograph.

The cabinet doors whine when I tug them open.

I place an old Billy Murray record on the turntable and set the needle.

As the opening score swells, I slip inside the master bedroom to change for our night out.

Paul is already there, dressed in tailored pants and a half-unbuttoned, herringbone vest. A matching newsboy cap and pocket chain complete his look.

“What should I wear tonight?” I ask, sliding open the doors to an overflowing closet. I absentmindedly sway to the bluesy notes from the phonograph as I peruse my options.

“Something hotsy-totsy.”

“Well, that’s a given.” I pull out a whimsically draped confection of crimson chiffon.

It’s a Lucile creation, one of Lady Duff-Gordon’s more risqué blends of lingerie and evening wear.

I hold the dress up to my body and spin for Paul.

When his eyes spark, I’m sold. I turn to examine my extensive collection of wigs.

“Blonde.” Paul reaches around me and pulls out a blunt-cut, chin-length, platinum bob.

“Hmm…short? Really?”

“Yeah. And a red lip.” He leans in and kisses me hard.

“Aces.” I step into the dress, turning for Paul to do up the hooked buttons.

While his fingers work, my own fly through my hair, weaving two French braids.

I secure them in a crown with pins. Paul hands me the wig, and I put it on.

Next comes a long strand of plumply exquisite pearls, stolen several years ago from a Savannah socialite.

I loop the plunder twice around my neck so the first strand fits choker tight, the second dangling low over my décolletage.

A knock sounds at the door. “Hey, lovebirds, let’s get a wiggle on!”

“Kat’s not ready yet.” Paul opens the door as I begin pawing through my makeup products.

Tony peeks inside, eyeing my ensemble. “Mierda, Kat. You shopping for a replacement beau tonight, gringa?”

I frown at his reflection in the mirror and begin painting my face. “No, and I need five more minutes.” Ten to fix up the finger waves in my wig .

Tony ambles into the room and lounges on the bed.

He has three buttons undone on his dress shirt, exposing a smattering of dark chest hair.

He takes a deep swig from a bottle of gin, then passes it to Paul.

Abe hovers in the doorway, Tony’s foil in naught but an informal white sleeveless shirt and workman’s pants.

He strikes an impressive figure with his dark, round shoulders on full display, straining a pair of worn suspenders.

“You still want to hit Carousel, right?” Paul asks, taking his own gulp from the bottle. He hands it off to me, placing it on my vanity with a thud .

“Absolutely,” Tony replies. “The jazz will be hot tonight.”

It’s a new sound, jazz, and it’s taking Savannah by storm this year. Tony and I can’t get enough. I swipe the mascara wand over my lashes, then pick up the bottle of gin. It’s an expensive label, one from Paul’s not-so-secret stash. I tip my head back to take a big gulp, then a second.

“Easy, killer.” Paul reaches for the bottle.

“I think she’s a hellraiser.” I point to my reflection in the mirror and grin wickedly. “I can feel it. Must be the hair.”

“Oh boy!” Tony slaps his hands together and rubs. “She’s getting into character. Look out, ladies and gents.”

I pick up red lipstick, meeting Paul’s heated gaze in the mirror as I sweep it on.

“Bella, Katarina,” Tony pronounces. “Now can we go?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, and Tony breezes from the room.

“You look real swell, doll,” Paul whispers. His hand quickly caresses my backside before he departs.

I pause to give myself a final once-over in the mirror. Alcohol thrums through my veins, excitement flushing my cheeks. When I turn, Abe is the only one remaining, hovering in the doorway.

“How do I look?” I cock out a hip.

“Like the cat’s meow. As always.” Abe has the gin, and he takes a deep swallow, eyes locked on me. Electricity crackles in his gaze. Lingering .

My blood simmers, and I bask in his attention, the way a kitten licks up every last drop of cream.

“You like?” I step close to him and loop my fingers through his suspenders, leaning my hips dangerously close to his.

Nine days out of ten, Abe is like my brother, but sometimes, on that tenth day, when temptation burns in those dark eyes of his…it’s fun to play. I flutter my lashes as a throaty laugh bubbles out.

Hellraiser indeed.

“Christ, Kat.” He fidgets, then steps back, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “We should go.”

“One more sip.” I steal the gin from him and take another swig, a little smaller this time.

Abe watches me swallow, wary but riveted. “You’re going to be a handful this evening, aren’t you?”

“Your favorite kind of handful.” I eye him knowingly as I pass the bottle back. “Your turn.”

He watches me again. Smiles slowly.

Then he chugs.