Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding.

I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change.

So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)

During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!

Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3

I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that.

Love you all.

Dancing With Demons

Chapter 4: Unholy Matrimony

Song: Teenagers – My Chemical Romance

The sound of a cocking pistol is comforting as I squeeze the trigger and release a bullet into the man's left knee, watching him fold and crumple with a rag-muffled scream. There's fear in his bloodshot eyes, a line of thick, crimson blood smearing up his cheek and disappearing into his mop of black hair. Yet, his eyebrows remain furrowed in a decisive scowl, as if hating me can somehow save him, somehow ease his pain.

"Ai furate de la mine." (You have been stealing from me.) My Romanian is perfect as I flip open the cylinder and load another bullet in the revolver, spinning it theatrically as I aim it between his eyes. Click.

"You've been mistaken," he responds in heavily accented English, coolly despite the grit in his teeth. He continues with an elaborate story of excuses, complete with witnesses he claims can corroborate his story. A wicked smile twists its way onto my lips as I wait for his conclusion, feigning patience and understanding.

Being a young boss, with an unassuming reputation and an unscarred face, I am often confronted with half-assed lies and pitiful stories with which people believe can grant them their freedoms. I am thought to be weak, incompetent. Their disrespect is insulting, if not a nail in the coffin, and each kill becomes more gruesome than the next as I set out to make a statement.

Jace Herondale is merciless.

He is not one you should cross.

I let his lies end in another scream as I aim at his unharmed leg, this time the bullet flying from the chamber. As a young leader, I must prove myself. I must be crueler. I must be heartless. I will slowly drain the blood of each traitor until I command respect. I want room to become silent when I enter. I want crowds to quake in fear.

"Interesting story," I muse, filling my revolver with bullets, slowly, deliberately allowing his blood to pool on the concrete, to slowly pull the life from him. "Except my men caught you plucking merchandise from each crate and selling it behind my back." I'd been informed to the treasons when Alec had called to confirm the delivery's success earlier this morning.

I hadn't had time to deal with it until now.

"You will not rule for long," the man growls, spitting blood into the puddle before him. "A reckoning is coming, and the Shadowhunters will fall." This has not been the first threat of dethronement, and it will not be the last. My list of enemies is long if not diverse. I don't play nicely with rival gangs, have never seen the benefit of sharing the splendors of my clandestine monopoly.

I ignore his words, checking my watch instead.

I press my pistol into Alec's steady, calloused hands. "Cut him in pieces and send them in cakeboxes to his family. I can't afford to get blood on my new suit." There's another question in his eyes, undoubtedly wondering why I'd worn the Armani that had been purchased just yesterday to a torture session, but I shrug it off, accepting a dirtied rag to remove the blood from my hands. "Have fun, boys," I call backward, moving my eyebrows suggestively as I grab the keys to my Corvette. The screams disappear when a steel door closes behind me, and another smile tugs at my cheeks.

My message will be heard, loud and clear.

Betrayals will not be met with swift death. I don't deal in mercy. Forgiveness is much too holy for the devil.

I nod at my men as I pass them, a silent instruction not to follow as I slip into my matte black car and melt into the covering of night.

I guide it into an abandoned alleyway in near the given address. I'm early.

The streets are empty at this time of night, so I stroll casually the rest of the way, pulling to a stop just before the marbled staircase of the courthouse. It's an old building, standing defiantly in the city as skyscrapers tower over it, casting it in shadows even at the height of day. It's fitting, really, that it's constantly shaded, covering the illicit activities occurring within its walls.

I can't seem to straighten the lapels of my suit coat as I stand in the pool of light cast down by the lone streetlamp, the evening breeze rustling through my already tousled curls. It brings with it the musky scent of the nearby pond and the sound of honking ducks. I shudder involuntarily, the thought of their bristly mouths and grisly feathers icing over my spine. Yes, even Jace Herondale, formidable leader of the Shadowhunters, has fears. Justly warranted fears, that is, as their beady eyes can pierce any strength of armor, their thick wings and sharp bites enough to send even the bravest of men running. Nothing natural can walk on land, float on water, and fly in the sky.

Don't judge me.

I release my lapels without a second thought, unable to find it within me to care about my appearance, knowing my hair is undoubtedly tousled, my eyes revealing my exhaustion. Instead, I observe my surroundings.

The windows of the courthouse are dark, save for the one office of the crooked judge who Valentine had been able to blackmail into submission. He and I are both pawns in this game, though he intends only to save his own ass. I, against my better judgement and training, am here to aide a friend. We both await the dark limousine that will deliver my future, though I doubt I am as nervous as he is. I momentarily wonder what Valentine is holding over this man's head, causing him to wed off a seventeen-year-old girl to a twenty-three-year-old mobster with a list of kills larger than the highway cemeteries in upstate New York, completely against the young woman's will.

I toy idly with my phone, dodging both calls and messages from my three siblings. Rarely do I exit the compound without sharing my plans. Even more rarely do I deny their attempts to contact me. Valentine had made it very clear that I was to come alone, that nobody should know of the deal transpiring. It's not like he can shoot me down on the courthouse steps and let the streets run red with my blood. I've skillfully sheathed no less than twenty knives, concealed on my person so that no man, skilled or otherwise, could see them. He wouldn't be able to cock his pistol before I buried one between his eyes. I am unconcerned.

Besides, this is his parley, and if word gets out that he's defied the rules, he's signed his own death certificate. Valentine loves his power too much to commit that kind of suicide. He's worked too hard building his empire to lose it all by killing me.

Despite my collected composure, I am unprepared when an engine rumbles up and cuts to my right. I can't see her though the blackened windows of the limousine, and the first to step out is one of Valentine's goons, a barely hidden gun tucked into the waistband of his suit pants, a hard expression on his face. It's not the typical hatred between enemies. No, this expression runs deeper, darker. And when a pale leg appears from within the limo, I can finally see why. It's a possessive look, as he reaches to help the woman from the car. Yet, she shies away from his touch, his dark eyes hard as he rights himself. A satisfied smirk adorns my lips as he glowers at me, his dark skin and hair blending into the shadows surrounding him.

But he doesn't hold my attention for long.

The long, creamy leg extends to a torso, clad in a white, beaded bodice of a wedding dress, followed by two, lace-covered arms. She's nothing I had expected, as she finally emerges, standing like she could sink into the concrete and disappear. The light collects around her like it belongs to her, highlighting the coppery streaks in her pinned, red curls. Her eyes, luminous and green, cut through the night, rimmed in a thick line of kohl, a dusting of freckles tracking over her nose. Her lower lip is trapped between her teeth, eyes dropping to the sidewalk, brows furrowed—it's a worried look, extending far past fearful into the realm of terrified, unlike the confidence that oozes from the rest of the Morgenstern family.

She's beautiful in an innocent way, so unlike the women I usually parade through my house, clad in tight leather outfits, with layers of makeup covering every flaw. There's an ease about this girl, an honesty that is difficult to find when leading a mafia. She has me in a trance, unable to meet her gaze, unable to look away. It's broken when an expensive Italian leather shoe follows her from the limo, Valentine's business face in place as he reaches out for a quick handshake. I carefully close my fingers around his, noting how his daughter cowers in his proximity. Clarissa, Valentine tells me her name. I tell her mine, but she doesn't seem to hear me. There aren't any further formalities as Valentine unceremoniously leads us into the courthouse, using a stolen bank pen to sign myself to this stranger. I don't kiss her, and it seems to ease a bit of her anxiety. She doesn't react as I pull the ring from my pocket, sliding it onto her finger.

"The deal is complete," Valentine comments, dotting the i in his name and shoving the papers back toward the judge. We shake hands again.

He doesn't tell me not to hurt his daughter. He doesn't say anything really as he returns to his limo, no more than fifteen minutes after he'd arrived. I stare as his red taillights disappear, carefully watching the girl from the corner of my eye. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't breathe until Valentine's disappeared.

And even then, it's only a soft sigh, a slump in her shoulders.

The silence follows us as I guide my Corvette back to my penthouse. The only exchange of words is when I tell her where her bed is, pointing to the room with an opened palm. The oak door closes between us, a physical barrier. I don't let my confusion show as I shuffle to my room, hanging up my suit and shirt before tugging on a pair of gray sweatpants.

I'm drawn to this stranger, despite her cold exterior. It mimics my own. It's as intriguing as it is infuriating. I find myself drifting back toward her, my feet moving on their own accord. I lift my knuckles to rap on her door, but it creaks open slightly, enough to send a sliver of light into the otherwise dark hallway, a pool of warmth at my feet. I can see her through the crack, sitting before her vanity mirror, mechanically pulling pins from her hair and letting it cascade in full auburn waves. She's just a girl, not even eighteen, but being birthed into a lifestyle of crime and sin holds the capability to age anyone, even the most innocent of children.

She shrugs of the long-sleeved lace dress, inspecting herself in a flimsy, silk slip. It's then that I can see just what Jonathan had been talking about. Dotting her skin like kisses, are full, purple bruises, shaped like hands and fingers and other appendages. They wrap around her wrists, her arms. She has a gunshot wound through her right shoulder, the familiar scar tissue covering my own body.

She's been through hell, Jonathan had said, but I couldn't really grasp what that meant. The gangster lifestyle is hell. It's an accepted fact that we live and die by the sword. I didn't expect to see two black eyes beneath an inconspicuous layer of creams, or the knife scar cutting across the back of her thighs. Her body moves like the ache doesn't bother her anymore, like the pain is all relative.

She must look like her mother, with pale skin dusted freckles and a small, pointed nose between two deep, emerald eyes. It must have been her to give this woman the river of red curls flowing down her back, to warm her cheeks and lips with a pink blush.

I can understand how this woman could be Jonathan's weakness.

But I can't think about that right now. I can't afford distractions, not when my ability to rule has been brought to question, not when my own men might overthrow me.

I step away from the door as she slides the strap of her slip down her shoulder, steadying my heartbeat with several deep breaths before turning back down the dark hallway, away from this captivating woman, away from my own devastating past.

I slide my cellphone from my pocket and dial the number from yesterday. After two rings, Jonathan responds. "It's done," I tell him, my eyes drifting back to where she is. "You owe me."