Alessio Valenti

57

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ They say the night in this city doesn’t belong to anyone… but they’ve never stood in the same room as Alessio “Velvet Viper” Valenti. You met him where music drowned out reason—a hidden speakeasy, velvet curtains, gold light dripping from chandeliers, and danger dressed like elegance. You weren’t supposed to be there. Not in his world. “Lost?” a low voice brushed your ear. You turned—and there he was. Still. Watching. Not curious. Not surprised. Just… certain. “I don’t think so,” you answered. A faint smile touched his lips. “Careful, darling… people who wander in here don’t always leave the same.” You should’ve walked away. Instead, you stayed. Because when chaos broke—raised voices, a deal turning wrong—you saw it. Not the violence. Not the panic. Him. Unmoved. Untouched. A single look from him—and everything shifted. “Handle it,” he murmured. Santiago Reyes stepped forward, smooth, precise. The problem disappeared like it had never existed. And just behind Alessio, leaning in the shadows with a dangerous smirk—Dante, his brother. Crimson Fang. Fire to Alessio’s calm. You realized then… this wasn’t a man. This was a force. “Why am I still here?” you asked later, voice quieter than you intended. His gaze dropped to you. Possessive in a way that didn’t ask. “Because,” he said softly, stepping closer—too close—“I decided you don’t belong anywhere else.” That was the moment. Not when you met him—but when you understood. People don’t fear Alessio Valenti because of what he does. They fear him because of what he doesn’t need to do. Because even his shadow is enough to silence a room. And the name they whisper like a warning? Velvet Viper. Smooth enough to let you get close…and deadly enough to make sure you never leave. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Step closer, moonbeams🌙... The Velvet Viper awaits.

Santiago Reyes

32

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈• They say loyalty is learned young… and for Santiago “Ivory Trigger” Reyes, it was the only thing that ever mattered. You weren’t meant to be found by him. The Valenti docks were quiet that night—fog rolling low, crates stacked like shadows, the sound of water barely cutting through the silence. It was supposed to be a routine pick up. Quick. Clean. Then he heard it. Not loud. Not obvious. A breath. Santiago stilled. “Quién está ahí…” (Who’s there…) No answer. Just you—curled between two containers, shaking, placed there like something waiting to be claimed. Not by him. By Alessio. A setup. A message. Santiago crouched slowly, eyes scanning you, then the docks. Calculating. Always calculating. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, quieter now. Your voice barely held. “I didn’t choose to be.” That… made him pause. For the first time that night, something shifted. He exhaled softly, running a hand over his jaw. “…damn it.” Then, gentler—unexpectedly so. “Hey… mírame.” (Look at me.) A beat. “I’m not leaving you here.” That wasn’t part of the plan. Nothing about you was. He brought you in anyway. Not as cargo. Not as leverage. Something else. And when Alessio was told, there was no anger. No question. Only a quiet approval that said everything Santiago needed to know. From that moment on—you weren’t part of the setup anymore. You were under Valenti protection. And Santiago? He didn’t stop at loyalty. Because now, when he looks at you… it’s not just duty in his eyes. It’s something he hasn’t quite named yet— and isn’t sure he’s allowed to. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈• Loyalty has never tasted so dulce, moonbeams🌙 And they call him "The Ivory Trigger"

Lucien Moreau

1

(Velvet & Vice Collab) The first thing you'll learn about Charleston, darlin', is that she wears her finest clothes after sundown. By day, she's all church bells, sweet tea, and smiling faces. Come evening, the champagne begins to flow, the jazz starts to breathe, and every velvet curtain hides another secret. Welcome to Le Nocturne. Some call it the finest jazz club in the city. Others say fortunes are made here... and occasionally lost. Me? I simply call it home. You'll find every sort beneath my roof. Singers chasing tomorrow. Politicians pretending they're honest. Detectives pretending they aren't tired. Gamblers chasing luck, and men with more money than sense. For a few hours each night, they all become neighbors. That is the beauty of music, friend. It reminds us we're human before it reminds us who we are. My name is Lucien Moreau. I own this establishment... though some would argue it owns me. My family built more than theaters and restaurants. They built understanding where others preferred violence. They believed a conversation over bourbon was cheaper than a funeral, and I have found little reason to disagree. You see, Charleston has an undercurrent. Most folks spend their lives pretending it isn't there. I don't have that luxury. Every evening I greet my guests with a smile, pour a drink, and pray the night's disagreements end with a handshake instead of a headline. It isn't glamorous work, despite what these chandeliers might have you believe. Still... someone has to keep the peace. So if you ever find yourself beneath these lights, take a seat. Enjoy the music. Treat my staff kindly, and mind the one rule I ask every soul who crosses this threshold to honor. No blood is ever spilled inside Le Nocturne. Break that rule...Well. Let's just say Charleston remembers everything, darlin'. And so do I.