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"So what exactly are you looking for?" asked Gangle as he sorted through a motley chest of clothes in the Phantasma costume room. I winced as Squelch, the strongman clown, struggled to lace up my leather-and-bone corset.

"Street-smart, but noticeable," I answered, yanking on a purple dress over my head and growling at the result. "I don't want to look like a whore."

Fleck's little head popped from a pile of clothes on the floor. "So...risqué, but not over the top?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Alluring? Classy?"

"Exactly," I replied, undressing again right before the dwarf lady shoved a pile of colorful dresses into my lap.

Fleck gave me a wink. "Try these on, dear."

Hastily, I pulled every one of them on, but sighed in disgust at each result. The dresses were either too modest or too whorish, and it made me frustrated. "None of these work!" I cried, flopping down into a wooden chair. "I'm about ready to give up."

Hesitantly, Squelch stood forward, handing me one last dress in an opaque clothing wrapper. "I was wondering if you would try this on, Meg," he suggested. "I think you'll like it."

Promising to myself that it would be the last dress I'd try on, I shrugged off the clothing wrapper and tugged the thing over my head. Shock filled me – the material was comfortable, smooth and tightening around the waist, cinched in a lovely bow in the back. The dress was dark-blue like deep water, and it matched my di-color blue and grey eyes perfectly, making them look shockingly cold. It showed off my assets, and had a lower-cut neckline that revealed the start of my cleavage. The tightness of the corset and the dress made me feel secure and quick, and I swept my hair up off my slim neck, pinching my cheeks for a little ruddiness.

"Perfect," I smiled, pulling on a pair of black gloves and a black shawl. "Get good travelling clothes on...we are off to find a good cast for my act." Squelch, Fleck, and Gangle squealed excitedly and ran off, leaving me alone. I stared at myself in the mirror before removing my eight-inch knife from its place in my drawer and hiding it inside my dress.

I was dressed to kill.

People milled about us as the three circus performers and I made our way through down the evening street to the slums of New York City. Rain had washed the streets earlier, and the cool in the air, paired with the squish of street slush around my black leather button-up boots invigorated me. Finally we arrived before The Greyhound Saloon, where I would find my destiny, and I took in a deep breath before entering.

The smell of stale beer and human heat hit me like a tidal wave. Making my way to an open table, I observed the place was full of jovial drunkards already liquored up and making grabs at girls who perched around them – their low necklines and painted faces revealed they were prostitutes on the job. I picked a good table facing away from the wall and sat down, Fleck, Gangle, and Squelch surrounding me. A waitress with an ample bosom came over to us and took our order before bustling away, all skirts and hips swaying like a church bell. The light from the gas lamps above our heads made everyone's faces glow with eerie shadows at odd angles.

"Why are we here, Meg?" Squelch asked. "All you'll find here are girls and rowdy men."

"Not true, my friend," I said, eyeing the place as a convict would – spying places to drop in, places to run out; I also amused myself by watching certain men and deducing ways I could take them down with only a few slashes. "The Greyhound is a favorite haunt of one of New York's greatest kingpins, the Italian crime lord, Angelo Damiani." I'd heard this snippet of a secret from one of my talkative clients – being a whore is just as good as being a spy.

The blood seemed to drain from Fleck's squat face. "Damiani? Meggie, we need to get out of here fast! We don't need any more trouble than we can afford!"

"But we want an act, don't we?" I retorted. "All acts risk something."

"But risking our lives going to a gangster? Meggie, that's madness," Gangle said, the fine contours of his face puckered with concern. "What do you need to get from Angelo Damiani?"

"Nothing you're concerned with," I hissed, rage lacing my words; I drew back to let the waitress lay down a tray of fresh brown bread and frothy warm beer on the table. "He is part of the act, so just butter your bread and shut your mouths." Without another word, I took a mug of beer and put it to my lips, tipping it back so the alcohol coursed fluidly down my throat, going straight to my stomach to warm it. All the heat in me was concentrated in my stomach, and I could feel more and more cold soaking into my heart.

"Signora," a low voice said behind me, startling me. Turning, I saw a large Italian with cauliflower ears standing there – he had the features of a bulldog, and probably the bloodlust of one too. My mind was in chaos, but my body reacted coolly, for it knew this was one of Damiani's gangsters, a toady. A smile twitched on my thin lips.

"What can I do for you, sir?" I purred, honeying my words.

"Someone at my table wishes to see you," he replied. "An Angelo Damiani?" It was Bulldog's turn to grin. "I'm sure you've heard of him."

"We were just speaking of him...I would be delighted to make his acquaintance," I stood and nodded curtly at my friends, following the today. I kept my eyes cool and my heart cold.

Damiani sat at the head of his table in the dark corner, smoking a large cigar – the blue smoke, misty like a sinister halo around his head made him look like Lucifer himself. His features, fine and Italian, were all strong lines, and his eyes glossy black stones. Damiani's hair was slicked back, dark and greasy, the ends of it curling just above his shoulders. Looking at him, I saw him smile, and that smile was venomous as a serpent.

"We have met before," he beamed, all peppermint-white teeth in his tanned face. "Give me your name again."

"Meg Giry," I replied. "What is your reason for calling me over here, sir? I wanted to ask upon you myself."

"I've heard word on the street you're a whore – strangely dressed as you are, like an upper-class woman," he said nonchalantly, drawing a small but sharp-looking knife from his pocket and cleaning the dirt from underneath his nails. "Is it true you sell yourself, Miss Giry?"

Invisible knives threatened to tear at my heart as he spoke and the men around him smiled in amusement, but I calmly replied, cold as ice, "I did sell myself, sir…once."

"Oh, more than once, I'm sure," he grinned, sparking laughter from his men. "How much will you cost for tonight? Tonio is itching for a bite, and he wanted me to ask." Tonio, the bulldog one, stood next to Angelo, the devil in his black eyes. His countenance was hesitant, but I could tell there was some beast inside of him.

"Sir, I wished to ask a proposal of you instead," I stated, trying to keep myself from flushing furious. "May I speak with you privately?"

Lips twitching as if I had told some joke, he laughed, "No one sees me alone, especially not prostitutes. If you wish to propose something to me, you do it publicly."Damiani leaned back in his chair and kicked his heels up on the table. "Come on then."

Before the courage left my bones, I spat it out. "I wish to join your gang. I can assist you if you assist me."

Roars of chuckles and howls of amusement erupted from the table. The underworld prince's pupils dilated and his eyes glittered with ferocity and surprise. "How could you help me, little whore?" he smiled, shaking his head. "You're worth nothing to me. Just some girl trying to fight her way to the top of the pile on the streets, trying to keep yourself out of the wolf's jaws. Worthless little bit."

"You yourself are no better than a dog," I growled, anger seeping into my throat, coating it like syrup. "Give me a chance, Damiani – unless you're scared of this whore!"

Silence muffled the air and Damiani removed his cigar from his thin lips, squashing the lit head on the table with an audible hiss and a short spurt of ash. Everyone in the place had stopped their revelry at my scream at the crime lord, and the only noise was a squeaking inhale from Fleck. Blood pulsed in my ears, hot and invigorating, every vertebrate in my spine snapping to attention. My fingers twitched and itched for my knife.

Damiani did not grow angry, only eyed me. "Tonio, escort Miss Giry out of my presence before she does any further damage to her reputation."

"Give me a chance," I hissed. "You're no crime king, Damiani, just a King Coward, if you ask me!"

The dark prince whipped his knife hilt into a stabbing position, thrusting the blade into the table with practiced speed and stability. Obsidian eyes narrowed on me, predator-like, he lost his smile but not his temper. "Fine. Well, no one will care if a whore dies," he said through twitching lips. "Kill her."

Tonio approached me, quick as a wolf about to attack, and I knew he would do more than kill me. Faster than a heartbeat, I rolled under his legs and popped up behind him, drawing my blade fluidly. Before he could turn and retaliate, I stuck the glorious piece of metal into the base of his skull with ferocious accuracy and shoved the stiletto up into his brain – I heard the quick "schwick" as it buried itself into the grey matter. Tonio's mouth garbled a few incoherent, pained words, then his body collapsed to the ground, twitching in dying spasms, his black eyes now white and rolled back in his head.

There was a brief moment of quiet, with fear palpable in the air, but then someone screamed, breaking the momentary spell. Any customers at the bar ran out, fearful, tripping over each other to get away from me, the monster, the she-demon, the storm, this Meg Giry. I turned and saw Gangle dashing out too, looking at me fearfully, with whimpering Fleck in his arms. Squelch gave me one long gaze of despair, then took off. My friends were gone, and so were the fearful. All that was left was myself and Lucifer.

Damiani stared at me, a sort of sinister pleasure in his dark eyes; with one flick of his hand, three more of his toadies approached me, cracking their knuckles and growling. The first one swung out before I could react and connected his pair of brass knuckles to my face with a crack. I stumbled back a bit but caught my balance quickly, if still a bit faint from the sudden slash to my cheek; blood trickled down, and I tasted it on my lip.

Taking advantage of my slowness, the brass-knuckled bruiser caught my arms and held them behind me, squeezing my wrists with the strength of an iron vice. His companion, a lithe criminal, drew his knife and chuckled, licking his lips. He eyed my stomach, his target, and brandished his knife, but little did either of them know that holding an opponent's arms behind her back is only a tactic used by playground bullies.

Kicking back and up, hard as a mule, I managed to connect with Brass-Knuckles' manhood and wrench free of his grip, diving to the side as he let me go to nurse his wounded parts. At the same moment, Knife-Boy had lunged forward with his weapon, and instead of connecting with my stomach, his blade sunk to the hilt into Brass Knuckles' stomach. While they were both in shock, I slid my knife between Knife Boy's ribs and drew it out. They both fell to the ground together, and I turned to the last toady.

Surprised, I stared down the third man, who had a peaceful look about him. I approached him slowly, as one approaches a wild animal.

To my surprise, he whipped a gun out of his pocket, a brand-new silver Derringer. Pointing it right at my face, he smiled. He thought he'd won.

Leaning on a table behind me, I laughed, "Reminds me of old days," I sighed, calmly removing my white handkerchief from my bosom and dabbing the sweat off my face with it. The mobster eyed me with impatience and confusion, cocking his gun. But I just laughed sweetly and met his eyes. "Catch."

Tossing the handkerchief in the mobster's face, I swept low, dodging the bullet as he shot blindly. In a spilt second I took an upper-cut to his jaw and snatched the gun from his grip, decking him over the head with the weapon. As the criminal fell to my feet and laid there with his other dead cohorts, a stepped over them, heels clicking on the floor, brandishing the Derringer proudly.

Damiani, surrounded by only a handful left of his toadies, clapped slowly, smiling, eyeing me like a cat eyes cream. "Leave us alone," he told his mobsters, never letting his eyes leave me. Reluctantly, the gang members dispersed, and Damiani turned to open a secret door behind him; inside the door was a ladder heading straight up. He turned to me confidently. "Are you sure-footed, Ms. Giry?"

"Do you think after that display I could be anything less than sure-footed, Mr. Damiani?"

Angelo's eyes gleamed with mirth. "I like you." Then he began climbing the rungs of the ladder up to the roof. Quickly, I jumped on the ladder too and began climbing it, thankful for my sturdy black button-up boots.

Peeking my head out of the hole in the top, I saw Damiani extend a hand and he helped me in a most gentlemanly manner onto the roof. Here, on the expanse of rough concrete, he went to the very edge, hands clasped behind his back, observing the city. Putting the Derringer in a leather loop on my hip, I came up to his side and looked over the city with him. He smelled like cologne and basil.

"Look at the life below," he said quietly, in a disembodied way. "All the sway and push of the city. Here is the heart of the world. Here is the concentrated universe. The only way to survive here is to fight. And the only way to thrive here is to become king."

"A criminal kingpin, you mean."

"Yes," Damiani murmured, turning to look at me. "So what do you want in my gang, Ms. Giry? You've proved to me you can fight well enough to survive. Why join a king?"

Looking him challengingly in the eye, I answered, "So I can be a queen."

He chuckled. "Your prerogative, milady?"

"To take out the World Fair crowd at Phantasma. To give all those bastards a taste of their own medicine."

Quick as lightning, Damiani looped a hand around my waist and pulled me close, using his other hand to whip my Derringer out of its loop at my waist; brushing the cold iron barrel of the gun against my temple, he snarled into my face, all mirth gone. "You are weak. A prostitute. Come off your high horse, troia. I could kill you right now." His hot breath scudded over my smooth, icy cheek.

All I could do was laugh, hard and throaty, for a good minute. "Ah, that is rich, Damiani! You think I care about my life? Then you're an idiot. Shoot me. Go ahead. You'll just miss out on a wonderful pay-off. Go on, do it."

For a moment that felt like an entire lifetime, Damiani stared into my eyes, but I did not waver for an instant. Then, very slowly, he traced the gun barrel down my slender neck. "I have never had one as brave as you in my gang," he murmured, tucking the gun into the loop at my waist, pulling me against him as he did so; the close proximity to this dangerous, handsome man made my heart thud like a thousand steam hammers in my chest. All between us was friction and heat. "I need someone like you, Ms. Giry." Damiani dipped down and brushed his lips against my throat. "Or should I call you Meg?"

"Any name that suits your fancy, Damiani. Any name you'd like, as long as you held me kill those men."

Raising his head and kissing my lips, slipping our lips together perfectly, making it chaste and quick but full of heat. "Alright, my good girl," he whispered. "Now off you go. We will meet again soon. But now the police have been called. Make it through tonight, and maybe we'll talk tomorrow."

Nodding, I turned my head to the trap door out of where we'd come; a noise came from it, a clattering of policeman boots climbing the rungs. Damiani winked at me and I at him before I jumped off the edge of the roof, flying across the distance between the buildings, dress billowing out behind me. I caught the edge of the other roof with my fingers and pulled my light weight onto the top, turning to watch Damiani cock his own gun and point it at the trapdoor, urging me on silently while he waited for his first policeman target.

I flew, jumping from building to building all across New York, followed by the sound of gunshots and struggle. As the wind hit my face, it seemed new and fresh. This was a new beginning. I remembered Damiani's words. We would be the most dangerous duo the city had ever seen.

Angelo Damiani and Meg Giry would rule New York City.

And we would be unstoppable.