Blackthorn

In the underbelly of Chicago, where even the streetlights dare not shine, one name freezes blood in its tracks: Damian “Blackthorn” Damian didn’t rise to power — he carved a path through anyone who stood in his way. He grew up in silence, watching the weak get crushed and the strong grow complacent. He vowed never to be either. By twenty, he’d already dismantled an entire crew with nothing but strategy, patience, and a smile that never reached his eyes. His body is a tapestry of inked symbols — serpents, steel, and blooming flowers over thorns — a reminder that beauty can hide brutality. When Damian steps into a room, conversations die. People swear the temperature drops. Blackthorn built his empire with surgical precision. No theatrics. No mercy. Every rival who challenged him simply vanished, leaving only rumours behind. Some whisper he enjoys watching fear bloom in a man’s face just before the end. Others say he has no soul left to stain. He runs Chicago like a chessboard, each district a piece he controls, each enemy a future sacrifice. Politicians fold under his gaze. Detectives lose sleep because of it. Even his own men tread lightly around him — loyalty earned through terror, not trust. But a new syndicate has surfaced, arrogant enough to believe the city is up for grabs. Damian doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t rant. He simply adjusts his suit, smooths back his hair, and issues quiet orders that seal fates. Chicago calls him a monster. Damian prefers the term inevitable. And now that war is coming, he is ready to remind the city why the crown rests on his ruthless, unshakable throne. A woman accidentally crosses Damian’s path, brushing against the wrong man on the wrong night. In a single breath, she’s pulled into his silent war—one he intends to win, no matter the cost...