The thick, smoky air swirled as the doors of the California Years speakeasy swung open with a finality that brooked no interruption. A wave of heat and noise, laden with muffled music and low murmurs, met the figure who had just entered. William Aballay, with a measured gait and an unwavering gaze, crossed the threshold, accompanied by two shadows that moved at his sides like extensions of his will. Although both men radiated danger in different ways, neither matched the silent intensity that surrounded the alpha.
He didn't need to speak. he didn't need to frown, bark orders, or flaunt her name. Her mere presence was enough to cause conversations to grind to a halt, half-lifted glasses to pause, and several heads to turn cautiously, feigning disinterest as they assessed, with more fear than curiosity, who had entered.
To her right, Bentral Aster strode forward, her face impassive as a war mask. The scar across her left cheek looked carved with surgical precision, and her golden eyes scanned the room leisurely, calculating and measuring.
To her other side, Xander Belmont clenched his jaw and struggled to straighten his back, striving for a poise she hadn't fully possessed since being promoted to enforcer. Her gray eyes, ever-vigilant, tried not to betray the lingering nervousness that had plagued her since she learned this would be her fate that night.
William didn't bother to pay attention to them. His reddish gaze scanned the room with cold disdain, like someone contemplating a scene he'd rather not tread upon, but does so out of obligation. His thick, ink-stained trench coat fell into the doorman's hands with a mere raise of an eyebrow. There were no words, not even a glance. A simple gesture was enough for the suddenly pale man to rush to assist him. The same happened with his hat, handed over as if it were a burden no longer worth carrying.
"Show us the table registered in the Aballays' name for Belmort," he ordered in a grave voice, without even deigning to look at the employee.
"Of course, Mr. Aballay," the doorman stammered, swallowing and signaling to a younger assistant, who hurried to put away the garments as if his job depended on it.
Guided by the worker, the trio descended the interior stairs to the main area of the establishment. The music, an indecipherable mix of jazz and synthesizers, barely managed to overcome the constant murmur of those present. A few glances followed them with the reckless mixture of fascination and fear that fools often instill in predators.
"Belmort?" "Xander murmured, moving a little closer to Bentral so his voice wouldn't carry any further.
"Routine code. For sensitive meetings in public places. Don't ask any more questions," the blond alpha replied without even looking at her, the dry tone of someone who has repeated that phrase too many times.
"Exactly," William chimed in without turning around. "Just enough to maintain discretion... without losing sight of the spectacle. Although to be frank, I doubt this place has anything worth seeing."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't change his tone. But the sheer amount of disdain in his posture was enough to make Xander flinch slightly, nodding with visible discomfort. William ignored her as if she were a misplaced piece of furniture. Bentral, on the other hand, gave him a quick glance, the kind you file away for future evaluation. It wasn't distrust yet, but a silent reminder that there was something to keep an eye on.
Upon arriving at his assigned table, a private booth with a good view of the stage but somewhat shaded, William took his seat with the controlled slowness of someone who dominates every second of his surroundings. He barely glanced at the stage. A raised platform, without much flair, where some singer would surely try to fill the void with irrelevant notes.
"When an alpha named Albares arrives, bring him here immediately. I don't want to waste any more time than necessary," he said in a neutral tone.
"Sure, Mr. Aballay. Would you like to order anything in the meantime?"
"An Everclear 190. Three glasses. Ice on the side."
"Aye."
The assistant withdrew with a slight bow, as if afraid of turning his back too quickly. William leaned back slightly. From one of his pockets emerged a small knife, with a thin, shiny blade, which he began to spin with precise agility between his fingers. It wasn't an act of threat. It was a habit, almost a ritual. A silent language that only his executors knew how to read: he was evaluating. Deciding. Perhaps even suppressing the impulse to act with immediate violence.
Minutes passed. The knife spun faster and faster, whirring softly between his knuckles. Until it stopped. Suddenly. As if time had suffered a sudden jerk.
Xander looked up, alert. Bentral barely turned her head. Neither of them asked. There was no need. They both knew William had just sensed something off.
His nose perked up slightly. The air carried an unexpected scent. Soft. Sweet. With a fruity note that pierced his defenses like a dagger.
Peach? No... something more complex. Deeper.
And then, as if the scent had been merely the threshold, came the sound. A voice. Not just any song, but a sequence of notes that seemed to defy all structure, hypnotic and ethereal. It wasn't the melody. It was her. That voice... that voice had a soul.
For the first time in years, something shook him. It wasn't desire. It wasn't carnal hunger. It was more of a primitive, disordered longing, like that of a wolf who, after wandering for too long, sniffs out an impossible trail.
He looked up.
And then he saw her.
In the center of the stage, wrapped in a dim light that barely touched her silhouette, an omega with platinum-white hair sang as if possessed. Or absent. Or both. Her body seemed not to belong entirely to her, but her voice… her voice was a call. A cry from the depths of the world.
William didn't know when the knife stopped moving and lay still on the table.
(Beautiful...)
The thought crept into him without permission. It was a statement, not an observation. Something irrevocable. Inevitable.
For the first time in a long, long time, William Aballay didn't feel in control of the situation.
And he knew, with absolute certainty: that night, everything had changed.