From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She was wearing a black dress, short and stylish. It sparkled under the low light of the bar. Her exposed back was covered in a large tattoo, a circle made up of different geometric shapes.

She glanced back at him briefly, like she could feel him watching her, and held his gaze. Interesting.

"Logan, are you listening to me?"

His flicked eyes back to William Fitzgerald, Virginia's golden boy extraordinaire. High school star athlete. West Point graduate. Twenty-eight years old and a retired Army captain; heir to the Fitzgerald fortune; married to a high-powered super model-cum-international fashion designer. A father too, now, and a few times over at that. Logan tried to picture the family in his mind: two little boys and a daughter, and a beautiful, happy wife. The picture was perfect— William Fitzgerald was perfect, and it made Logan want to puke.

"Yes," he said, taking a lazy swig of bourbon. "What, congressional rep too small-time for you now? You're not old enough to run for senate, Will."

Will crossed his arms, annoyed, but even annoyed he was a Disney prince come to life. His blond curls reminded Logan of a halo, and his patrician face looked cut from marble. He always had a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips, too, like he was in on a secret. No scars or injuries either. Two deployments and significant time outside the wire and not a goddamn thing happened to him or his men. Will was just born lucky, and Logan hated the kid for it.

"I'm laying the foundation. Playing the long game."

"Sure." Another swig, a stinging throat once more. He lit a cigarette, shut his eyes as the nicotine flooded his bloodstream. "Still don't see what your political career has to do with me."

"You need to stay out of trouble," Will said, narrowing his eyes. Kid could try to be scary if he wanted to, but Logan had dealt with much scarier men in the past. He'd actually been in combat and suffered the consequences for it, too. Very few things could scare Logan now—and Will Fitzgerald certainly was not one of those things.

Logan lounged back in his seat, kicked his legs out. The girl was still at the bar, and he could feel her curious gaze on him. His patience was wearing thin now; he wanted out of this booth.

"You know I can't do that," he said.

"You're the kingpin here! All I'm asking for is that you keep things...peaceful. Last thing I need to hear about is my brother getting murdered because your ego got too big and you pissed off the wrong syndicate."

"We're not brothers," Logan said, pointedly. "You're a Fitzgerald, remember? Me, I'm just a small-time crime boss."

"We both know neither of those things are true."

"You should be more worried about that philandering beach bum. He's the one that shares your last name." And wealth. And legitimate influence. Everything handed to each of them on a silver platter while he had to fight just to survive for years. Very well, he was a fighter now, and not particularly inclined to doing favors without some promise of proper...compensation.

"Christ, after all these years I hadn't realize you were still so bitter about what happened. I'm sorry Logan, but you have to understand it wasn't my fault, I was just a baby—"

"You promise to keep the DA and police commissioner out of my business and I'll make sure nothing too...untoward happens. But I can't make any promises that there won't be outbursts, and examples will need to be made. You understand."

"Understand? Understand? Fuck no, I don't understand. What the hell happened to you, Logan? When did you become such a fucking sociopath?"

His ears were ringing now, his hand tight around the glass that held his drink. Obnoxious little shit.

"Are we done here, or am I going to have to ask Bobo to escort you out?"

Bobo had only one eye, was built like a brick shithouse, and spoke only in monosyllables and grunts. Logan liked that Bobo wasn't much of a talker.

"We're done," Will said, extricating himself from the booth. "Y'know, Logan, one day when I'm President and you're in hiding from some Columbian drug lord, you're going to wish you had listened to me."

"Be seeing you, Will." Logan took a final swig of his bourbon and shifted his gaze back to the girl. She was still looking at him, but this time she smiled. Very interesting.

He got up and stalked over to the bar, casually taking the seat next to her. "One gin and tonic for the young woman and a Long Island iced tea for me."

She laughed, and man, it was a nice sound. Melodic, unself-conscious...yet still practiced, somehow. His lip curled up and he lit another cigarette.

"Careful," she said, purposefully not looking at him. Her tone of voice was practiced too; purposefully haughty, like she was above everyone in the room. He wasn't buying it. "You'll get kicked out for smoking here."

"Doubtful," he said, taking a long draught from his new drink. He held out his pack to her and heard the bartender chuckle. The distinctive clunk of an ashtray hitting the marble counter of the bar rang through his ears. "Want one?"

"No thanks," she said, turning to look at him and smiling. She was younger than he thought. Early twenties, maybe even too young to be drinking. Absolutely gorgeous, too. Model-worthy. No, more than that—in another life, she could've been worshipped as a goddess. Her skin was a beautiful honey brown and her fiery red hair fell over her shoulder in a way much too graceful for a person so young.

But her emerald green eyes were the thing that really got him: looking into them made him feel like he was walking through a forest. His gaze shifted down to her full lips, and he was certain she would be a good kisser just by default. He pegged her for a heartbreaker immediately, and she wasn't doing anything to change his mind. "I hear smoking kills," she said.

"That's what my doctor keeps telling me. Hasn't happened yet—wonder what I'm doing wrong."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll catch up with you eventually," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm Stella Porter, by the way."

Logan knew that name; he had heard it in passing a few times on the news when he watched Cassandra Porter, the DA, grouse about how she was going to rid Empire City's streets of corruption. So this was Cassandra Porter's daughter. The DA's daughter was in his club, at the bar, and very likely drinking underage. Very, very interesting. He kept his face neutral.

"Logan," he said, offering her his hand. She took it, surprising him with a firm grip, and they shook.

"So, Logan...you got a last name?"

He smiled around his cigarette, tapped off some of the ash into the tray. She was wearing a gold choker, and the tattoo of a dragon covered in vines snaked down her right arm. He was so distracted by it that it took him a moment to realize she was batting her eyes at him.

"Black," he said. "A pleasure."

"Charmed, Mr. Black."

"So...what's, ah, a young, beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?" Pandemonium had class, he made sure of that. But it was dangerous, and those who were smart, stayed away.

She laughed, setting down her drink. He felt the weight of her hand on his forearm. "You say that to all the girls that come in here?"

"Only the young, beautiful ones."

"Hmm," she said, and she was very close now, very close indeed. "I like this club. There are places to sit, and the bar on this floor isn't too loud. And...I'm here for a little fun, Mr. Black." Belatedly, he noticed that she was toying with his cufflinks. Even more belatedly, he noticed that her knee was pressed against the inside of his thigh. She was playing a dangerous game.

"Is that so?" He leaned back from her and put out his cigarette. "Your momma know you're here? Can't be good for the DA if the press finds out her daughter is underage drinking at Pandemonium."

"Please," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm twenty-five." She turned away from him then, going back for her drink.

"Your fake I.D. says you're twenty-five."

"Yeah, well, you just bought me a drink—you'd get in trouble too."

He shrugged, lit another cigarette. "Already got a list of charges, Stella. One more ain't going to make much of a difference."

She laughed. "You say that like you're proud."

He shrugged again. "Man has to be proud of something."

Silence passed between them. Neither her hand nor leg had moved, which surprised him and...intrigued him, too. He placed his hand over hers and the tension between them grew.

"You still, ah, wanna have some fun, Miss Porter?" Idiot, what are you doing? One-night stands were not his thing; truth be told, they stressed him out. And since rising up to the level of kingpin, he'd been too busy to try to—Jesus—to try to date anyone for—Jesus Christmonths. Fourteen months, at least. Celibacy hadn't been a problem though—he'd always been picky, and sometimes wondered if maybe he leaned on the asexual side of things. But now this young woman was touching him, offering herself up like a sacrifice, and he suddenly felt like he needed a cold shower.

She got really close to him then, running her long, lithe hands along his neck. "You know, I would," she said, her soft lips touching the shell of his ear. "I think you're very...handsome." He had to suppress a shudder. The hand had moved down to his chest now, and he could already feel his dick starting to get hard. Jesus. "And you're older than the usual boys I spend my time with, so I'm sure you'd treat me nice." She traced her hand down his stomach to the top of his belt, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, because he suddenly realized that this girl could really, really fuck up his life if she wanted to.

She moved back suddenly and finished her drink. "But, you smoke like a train and smell like ash, so I think I'll find my fun somewhere else tonight."

"You do that," he said, trying to maintain his composure. Just as well, because he probably wouldn't last long enough to satisfy her. His blood was red hot already; if he stood right now, he'd collapse to the floor.

"Here's my number," she said, putting a piece of folded paper into his front suit pocket. "For whenever you decide to kick the habit." She patted his cheek like he was a dog—the fucking nerve!

"Dangerous men usually smoke, sweetheart." Her tattooed back was to him now, and she was walking away.

"I see. And you're a dangerous man, I take it?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

He smiled at her, the meanest looking one he could give. "Why don't you ask your momma about me?"

She returned his nasty smile in kind, and boy, if he wasn't pissed off at her before, he was now. Pissed off and really, really, really horny. "Goodbye, Mr. Black. Call me."

Eddie's stupid voice broke Logan from his thoughts. "Aww don't feel bad, Boss," he said, wiping down the marble countertop of the bar. "She was a handful. Beautiful broads like that often are."

Logan balled his hands into fists, and said, "Get me another drink. And shut up, Eddie." He threw back the rest of his Long Island liquor and ordered one more shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. He needed to get home and sleep. And jack off, probably. That wasn't something he really liked to indulge in; it made him feel like he was wasting his time while he could be doing something otherwise productive. But, he wasn't going to hire a prostitute, either, because the thought of sleeping with a prostitute stressed him out more than the thought of having a one-night stand. There were just too many factors to consider. Such a pretty-girl thing for her to do: leave him with an itch he didn't want to—or couldn't, really—scratch.

The problem was, he wanted to sleep with her, specifically. From the moment he saw her red hair and back tattoo. The desire was overwhelming, like he'd slammed face-first into the ocean. And that was a...confusing feeling, because he hadn't felt any desire to sleep with anyone for over a year, and it was potent enough that he couldn't just ignore it as a case of passing lust. He had half a mind to run after her right now and shove her against the dirty wall of an alley like she was one of his girls turning a quick trick. She pissed him off, so he wouldn't be gentle with her, either; he'd leave her bruised and aching. Use her. She'd probably like that. He shut his eyes tightly, because in spite of all the alcohol he had that evening, he still had a raging hard-on.

"Boss, you alright? Your face is all red…"

Get a hold of yourself.

"Gimme a shot of the strongest stuff we've got, I don't care what it is."

"You want me to mix something new for you, Boss?"

"Eddie."

"Okay, okay, don't bite my head off. Here, it's vodka. 80%. Don't—don't drive after this." Eddie put the shot on the bar and Logan knocked it back without a word. After a few moments, he stretched his neck, felt himself relax, more importantly, felt his persistent and annoying erection finally begin to go away.

He was about to light up another cigarette but stopped. He'd been going through packs way too quickly these days and it bothered him that he could no longer control himself. And it bothered him too that Stella Porter rejected him over his bad habit. His palms were itching now, though, and he really, really, really wanted another damn cigarette. Fuck it. Just as he was about to fish out his lighter from his pocket, the sound of a person clearing their throat made him turn around.

"You Hades?"

Hades. Now that word, that name—that really got his scalp tingling like nothing else. Even as a kid, there'd been times where he'd hear it in class or in a movie, and for just a moment, he felt like he'd had an out of body experience. He didn't want the nickname—it made him feel sick—but the Old Man started calling him that as a joke when he was a lowly enforcer, and the damn thing stuck with him through his crowning as the new kingpin.

Logan peered down at a young man who was wearing black and white face paint. He looked like a skeleton.

"There's a dress code for this place, kiddo. Be smart and get out before I have one of the bouncers throw you out."

The kid chuckled. "Yeah, you're Hades, all right. Getting harder and harder to tell with every iteration because you just get weaker and weaker and a few thousand years younger, but you're him. Chip on your shoulder never goes away, it seems."

"The hell are you talking about? And how the hell did you even manage to sneak in here, dressed like a Halloween ghoul?"

"Right, I can see you're agitated, so let's just cut to the chase. Listen...errr, Boss. We're running out of time for you to wake the hell up. You and everyone else. This is basically our last shot to get things right. There's a lot riding on you and, full offense, but you're kind of a major fuck up. I mean, wow, talk about proving Demeter right. So I'm here to...errrr, positively affect the causality of events, we'll say."

That was all nonsense as far as Logan was concerned. He was tired, annoyed, and now really craving a cigarette on top of craving some sex. Logan scanned the room. Good; there were only a few people still around in the club, all of them violent thugs.

"Eddie," Logan said, turning back to the bar and throwing back a final shot of liquor.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Kill him," he said, nodding in the direction of the kid with face paint. The gunshot was immediate. Nine millimeter Sig Sauer bullet, singing loud in his ears. The remaining patrons began to shuffle out of their booths quickly, because once violence started at Pandemonium, it was usually difficult to stop.

Behind him, he heard laughter, and it pissed him off. He turned around, steeling himself because Eddie shot the kid in the head, right between the eyeballs, and the kid was still standing like nothing had fucking happened.

"Aww, Boss, I gotta hand it to you, you're as irascible as ever, even as a human."

"Eddie, give me the M4."

The bartender reached under the marble counter and handed the weapon to him wordlessly, and together they watched as the bullet hole in the kid's forehead stitched itself together until it was gone. Logan pointed the carbine at the kid, his nerves on fire. A man not dying from a close-range shot to the head, and laughing about it afterwards, definitely counted as one of the things that scared the shit out of him. "You some kind of fucking freak?" However scared he was, though, he kept his voice calm. He was outside the wire again, that was all.

"I'm a god," the kid said, smiling through his face paint. He put his hands up, showing he wasn't armed. "Some might say the final god, but I don't like to 'believe my own hype,' as the kids say these days."

Logan smirked. "Sounds like you need to see a shrink."

"Ah, no. You're the one who definitely needs to see a shrink. Only other time I've seen such a head case version of you was when you were running around with Lord Byron and Mary Shelley and you were coked out of your mind. Anyway, I didn't come here to fight, Hades— "

"Shut up!" Logan said, feeling a mind-splitting headache coming on at the mention of his nickname.

"Man, I love this, you're so freaking twitchy. You never thought it was weird that hearing such an old name would make you want to puke your guts out, eh, Hades?"

"Shut up!" Logan felt clammy and out of breath and he was, for some reason, hesitating to pull the trigger.

"Or how about, Hades Aidoneus Agesilaos? Didn't you ever think it was weird when everyone in your squad got blown to shit, you survived with just a scar on your nose and some shrapnel in your hip? No? Oh ho ho, I see you clearly now, Boss. All the shitty things you've done this time around. Your moral compass is pretty decayed these days. Gotta say though, never thought you'd turn into a crime boss. In the old days you would've sent a man's soul to Tartarus for some of the stuff you've done this time around. I guess maybe that's why it took me so long to find you. Guess I also shouldn't be surprised you've gone down this route either."

"I said shut up, you fucking freak!" He hesitated no longer, shooting the guy again, twice in the head and once in the chest. When the kid collapsed, Logan walked over to him and continued to shoot. Only when he had completely emptied the magazine—all thirty goddamn rounds—did he stoop down to check the guy's pulse. And it was there, strong as strong could be. And he was getting up again, stretching out his neck and yawning.

Logan backed away immediately, tripping over the steps to the bar and falling hard on his ass. "You're not—you're not fucking human! What are you? "

"Boss, we've been over this already. I'm a god."

"You're God?" He had to be dreaming. He mixed up his Vicodin and alcohol again and he was in a coma somewhere, because this could not be fucking happening. Eddie was gone; Bobo too. He was alone.

"No, not the big G, 'God.' If he exists, I haven't met him, and I'm definitely not him. But I am a god. One of many. Or few, now, depending on your point of view these days."

"I'm dying, aren't I? These are my neural synapses doing their last bit of firing before my pulse stops for good."

"No, no, you're not dying this time if I can help it. But what I'm about to do—well, it's not going to be very fun for you, and I don't have time to explain what it is. I have to get out of here before they notice I've spoken to you, much as I know your little mortal brain is swimming with questions."

The guy was right in front of him now, and the face paint didn't look like face paint any more. It looked like the skull was his face. I'm in hell, Logan thought. I died and I'm in hell.

"Now, brace yourself. This is definitely going to hurt you so much more than it's going to hurt me."

Belatedly, Logan noticed the large, black knife pressed directly against his sternum. Lack of situational awareness, recruit! You're going to get people killed!

"Wait—"

"No time," the Grim Reaper said. Because that's what he was, and Logan realized it too late. The blade pierced straight through his heart.