YoungBloods

Chapter 2

New York, 1920

The alley smelled like blood, piss, and regret.

A man knelt in the mud, his nose shattered, lip split open, coughing through broken teeth. His sobs echoed off the brick walls, thick with desperation.

“Please… please, DJ, I swear on my mother, I didn’t mean to short the count,” he whimpered. “It was a mistake, I swear—I’ll make it right. I’ll give double next week, I swear—”

Devon James Spencer stood over him, motionless. A single toothpick rested between his lips, shifting just slightly as his jaw tensed.

He said nothing.

His eyes—dark, unreadable, dangerous—watched the man like a predator studying prey that had already been claimed.

The city light from above cut between the buildings, spotlighting DJ like a figure out of myth. His skin was smooth and deep brown, his jaw sharp and tight with a clean, trimmed beard that lined it like perfect ink strokes. High cheekbones. Full lips drawn into a permanent line. His eyes were deep-set and intense, focused like they were carved from onyx. His expression never changed. Not even a twitch.

A clean light mustache matched the beard, and his hair was cut low and neat, faded on the sides, sharp at the line. He looked like he was sculpted out of discipline and rage—too good-looking for a man so terrifying.

His black pinstripe suit was tailored to perfection, pressed so clean it looked like the threads themselves were afraid to wrinkle. A deep red dress shirt glowed underneath the jacket, unbuttoned at the collar—no tie. He didn’t need one.

He didn’t need words either.

There was a reason they called him The Black Devil.

Behind him stood his crew: Aron, calm and leaning against the wall, flipping a coin; Lamar, arms crossed, built like a tank and stone-faced; Shaun, already counting the man’s owed debt out loud like an accountant at a funeral; and Dwight, casually lighting a cigarette with a devilish smirk, excited for what came next.

DJ lifted his arm.

The man screamed, “No, please! PLEASE!”

The pistol cracked once—just once.

Blood splattered the wall.

The man fell backward, twitching once, then going still. Right between the eyes. DJ never missed.

DJ holstered the pistol smoothly beneath his jacket. No blood on him. No hesitation. No emotion.

He turned his head slightly to his crew and gave a small nod.

No words. He never needed them.

Aron whistled.

“Grab him.”

Lamar and Dwight moved, wrapping the lifeless body in plastic and rope like they’d done a dozen times before. Cement blocks were already lined up in the back of the truck. Efficient. Quiet. Professional.

DJ walked ahead, out of the alley and into the street like he’d just finished a cigarette, not an execution. The lights of New York flickered above—bright, unforgiving, alive.

They dumped the body into the river under the Brooklyn Bridge before sunrise. It sank like it was never there. Just another ghost in the city’s bones.

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New York had made DJ.

Taught him how to move like a shadow. How to kill without blinking. How to lead men with a glance.

He had started small, running numbers, collecting debts, protecting doors with fists and fire. But it didn’t take long before the Boss—Salvatore Romano, one of the oldest, coldest names in the business—saw what DJ was.

Not just muscle. Not just smart.

Disciplined. Efficient. Unbreakable.

By the age of twenty-four, DJ was the youngest second-in-command in Romano family history. The Boss didn’t trust anyone easily—but DJ? DJ had earned it.

They called him the Black Devil because once he was sent in, it was already too late. You didn’t see him coming. You didn’t hear him knock. You just died.

But DJ didn’t care about the name. He didn’t care about the money, the suits, or even the respect. Not really.

He cared about order. About keeping things in line. About not repeating the chaos he came from.

And somewhere in the locked box behind his ribs, he still carried a memory—a promise made under a thunderstorm to a girl who smelled like honey and roses and believed in the best version of him.

But that was Chicago.

That was before.

Now?

DJ was fire in a world of gasoline.

The street outside the club burned with golden light and smoke.

Music thundered inside—jazz horns screeching like wild animals in heat, drums pounding through walls like gunfire. The line of girls outside was dressed in flapper skirts, fur shawls, feathers in their hair and gin on their breath. New York was alive, but its soul was twisted. You could feel it in the air—the tension, the seduction, the violence waiting to pop like a cork off a bottle.

DJ stepped out of the black car, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his silver lighter. He didn’t smile. He never did. He moved like a shadow in a tailored pinstripe suit, shoulders broad, face unreadable.

Behind him came his crew, the YoungBloods—and every head on the block turned to watch them.

Aron was first out. Shorter than the others, lean but cut like steel wire. His skin was caramel-smooth, a sharp jaw shadowed by stubble, dark curls hanging slightly over his brows. A small tattoo sat just under his eye, and his full lips were always halfway between a smirk and a challenge. His eyes were bright, mischief and confidence in equal measure. Aron walked like he owned the street—and maybe he did.

Lamar followed, towering over everyone. He was a walking tank—broad chest, thick neck, arms like tree trunks under his sleek gray suit. His skin was deep ebony, smooth as stone, his face hard, eyes slow but steady. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, people listened. A small scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone, a souvenir from a past fight no one ever talked about.

Shaun stepped out next—sharp and fast, the brains of the group. Hazel eyes darting everywhere, a perpetual smirk tugging at his lips. His hair was cut close on the sides with a clean part on top, neat mustache trimmed just right. His jaw was narrow but firm, cheekbones high, always dressed like he’d just left a high-stakes poker table. He could charm the teeth out of a banker and still talk his way out of jail.

Then came Dwight, the wild one. His grin was too wide, like he was always laughing at a joke no one else got. Medium build, smooth milk-chocolate skin, a clean-cut face, but wild eyes—always gleaming with the idea of fire. His suit was dark green with gold buttons, a little flashier than the rest. He walked with a bounce in his step like he had a stick of dynamite in his back pocket. Maybe he did.

The five of them entered the club, and the place shifted.

It was a shrine of smoke, liquor, and lust. Women danced on the floor and men watched them from the shadows. The jazz band played so loud it made your teeth buzz, and the bartender poured drinks like the world was ending tomorrow.

They settled into a booth in the back, where the lights were low and the air smelled like perfume and danger.

Drinks came fast. Shaun chatted up a dark-eyed woman in a red dress, making her laugh before he even got her name. Dwight had two girls on his lap before he finished his first whiskey, and one of them was touching the scar on Lamar’s arm like it was a bedtime story.

But DJ sat still, back against the wall, drink untouched. His eyes scanned the room—always watching. Always calculating. He barely moved, the toothpick back between his lips, jaw tight.

That’s when he saw her.

She floated across the floor like a memory—blonde curls, soft pink lips, skin like cream. A blue dress clung to her curves like it had been sewn on. Her eyes were icy, clear, curious.

She looked at DJ.

And smiled.

It wasn’t Aurelia.

But for a split second—something about her… the eyes, maybe the softness of her jawline… it twisted something in his chest.

She approached slowly, hips swaying, heels clicking on the tile. She leaned in, voice silky and sweet.

“You always this serious, sugar?” she asked.

DJ didn’t answer.

She slid into the booth beside him, her hand lightly tracing his arm. “You’re too handsome to sit alone.”

Still nothing.

She didn’t seem to mind. She kept talking—soft, flirtatious, lips close to his ear. Her fingers teased the edge of his collar, playing with his gold chain.

Eventually, DJ stood.

He didn’t speak.

She followed.

They slipped out through the back, her laugh trailing behind them.

His apartment was dark. Cold. Expensive.

The door clicked shut. She leaned in to kiss him—he didn’t stop her.

Hands fumbled with buttons. Clothes hit the floor. Her body was warm, soft, eager.

DJ was stone. Silent. Focused.

There was no love in his touch. No sweetness. It was precision. Control. A release. He never kissed her. He barely looked her in the eyes.

She gasped, moaned his name, begged for more like he was some kind of god—like her world spun around him.

He didn’t respond. He just kept thrusting inside her from behind, making her scream.

When it was over, she curled into him with a smile.

But DJ was already grabbing her clothes and tossing them to her.

“You should go,” he said, his voice low, rough.

Her smile faded. “Wait… that’s it?”

He didn’t answer.

She aggressively put on her clothes and left without another word.

DJ lay back in the empty bed, chest rising slow.

The city lights bled through the window. The sounds of jazz and sirens drifted in like ghosts.

He stared at the ceiling.

And he thought of Aurelia.

That sweet laugh. The way she used to hold him during storms. Her little hands around his when she taught him to write his name.

She had been his light.

The only softness in a hard, cold world.

And he had left her behind.