Chapter Text
1923, 17 years old.
The low hum of jazz vibrated through the floorboards, a constant thrumming heartbeat to the dimly lit room. The scent of spilled bourbon and tobacco hung heavy in the air, a fragrant tapestry woven from the night's patrons. You, nestled behind the bar, poured a neat whiskey for a man in a fedora. It was a world you weren't used to, this seductive underworld of clandestine whispers and illicit pleasure. Yet, somehow, it felt like coming home.
Earlier that evening, Mitzi, a woman with eyes like twilight and a voice that could melt ice had approached you. You learned that her husband, a man of formidable presence with a smile that could illuminate the darkest corner, had been watching you since your first day. He saw something in you, a flicker of something familiar, a thread of connection woven tight in the fabric of your soul.
"Your parents," Mitzi said, her voice a silken thread against the clamor of the speakeasy, "they were good people. Kind. They were... benefactors, you see. Benefactors to this place, to Atlas."
As you grew up, you'd known your parents were a part of something bigger, something that unfolded in shadowy backrooms and whispered secrets, but you never knew the extent until you came to the Little Daisy. They were gone now, possibly swallowed by the same darkness that now enveloped you.
"They helped Atlas keep this place alive," Mitzi continued, a hint of melancholy in her voice. "During the dry years, they made sure we had the means to operate... discreetly, of course. They were quiet about it, always mindful of appearances."
You felt a knot tightening in your chest. Your parents, always so guarded, always so secretive. You thought it was just their way, a way to keep you safe, to keep you from the world's harsh realities. But now, the truth shimmered, a sharp, unwelcome light in the shadows of your memories.
"I found some old papers the other day," you said, your voice trembling slightly. “documents of them funding this place. That’s the real reason I came to the Little Daisy.”
"They were good friends," Mitzi added, her eyes softening. “They understood the spirit of this place, supported us when we were just a dream. Before it was a speakeasy, when it was just a basement filled with hope and whispers."
As you gaze into her eyes, you understand there’s more to Mitzi than her honey-sweet demeanor, a fierce spirit that carries her and her husband's vision forward.
"They were proud of you," Mitzi said, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "They always spoke of you with such warmth. And you remind me so much of them. Even though you might not be blood, you have the same quiet strength, the same kindness in your eyes. And now, you’re a part of that dream too. They may be gone, but their legacy lives on through you. Through this place."
The words, soft as a whisper, resonated within you. The eyes that stared back at you from the mirror behind the bar, were they the same eyes that Mitzi saw back then? The same eyes that held the quiet understanding of a world hidden from the prying eyes of the outside?
You spent the rest of the evening in a haze, the murmuring voices around you fading into a comforting drone. You poured drinks, served patrons, and kept the bar humming with life, but all the while, you were lost in thought. Your parents, their secret world, their legacy. It all felt woven into the fabric of this speakeasy, a hidden thread in the tapestry of your life.
Days turned into weeks. You became a fixture at the speakeasy, a familiar face behind the bar, a watchful eye in the swirling shadows. You learned the routines, the regulars, the whispered secrets that flowed like the cheap whiskey down the throats of the patrons. You even learned to mix a mean cocktail.
One quiet evening, with the jazz band playing a slow, mournful tune, Atlas joined you at the bar. He sat down in the stool across from you, a man of quiet power, a man who had built this world of shadows with his own hands. You poured him a glass of amber liquid, the scent of it a familiar comfort now.
"Mitzi tells me you're a fast learner," Atlas said, his voice low and gravelly. "She also tells me you're a good girl."
You try and fail to suppress a small grin. You had grown to admire Mitzi, and to hear she had extended her praise of you to her husband left a warm glow igniting in your spirit as you listened to his words.
"Your parents," Atlas continued, his gaze unwavering, "they trusted us. They entrusted us with a secret, a responsibility. And now, it seems, you're entrusted with it too."
He reached out, his hand warm on yours, a tangible connection to the world of shadows, a world you were now a part of. He squeezed your hand, his touch a silent promise, a silent warning.
"The world can be a cruel place," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "But here, in this speakeasy, you're safe. You're home."
And as you looked around at the dim lights, the smoky shadows, the murmuring voices, you knew that he was right.
_________
1927, present day.
You sit nestled in a corner booth, a worn leather book in your lap, its pages filled with lines of poetry. You’re filled with the anticipation of the upcoming run, the whispered promise of danger, and a growing, unspoken tension between you and Rocky. A slow, steady burn under the surface of your shared mission.
You catch his eye across the table. His gaze is intense, vivid blue eyes that seem to see right through you, into the very depths of your soul. He’s leaning forward, elbows on the table lost in thought, and you can’t help but wonder what’s swirling in that mind of his.
“You alright?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper.
He blinks, jolted back to reality. A ghost of a smile touches his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just thinking.” he says, his voice a low rumble. You raise an eyebrow, but don’t question him further.
His eyes check the clock on the far wall behind you, and Rocky rises from his seat, his movements a combination of grace and controlled urgency. He reaches for your hand, his fingers warm against yours.
“I believe it’s time. Ready?” he asks, his voice a low murmur and a wide grin painting his face.
You nod. You pull your coat tighter, the worn leather a familiar comfort against the chill of the approaching night. You’re about to head out for another run, another daring delivery of the illicit nectar that fuels this hidden world.
The two of you head for the bar, where Mitzi sits perched on a stool, her scarlet dress practically bleeding into the velvet upholstery.
"Mitzi," you say, your voice barely audible over the music. "We're leaving soon."
“Yep, we’ll be back in a little Miss M. No hang ups this time, I think we’re getting better at this.”
“Be careful,” Mitzi murmurs, her voice a silken caress as she touches your arm. Her eyes, pools of liquid gold, sparkle in the dim light.
“Always,” you reply, a tired smile playing on your lips. “Besides, who could resist a night out with Rocky?”
Rocky throws a playful wink, his eyes gleaming like mischievous stars. His eccentricities are legendary, his methods unorthodox, but his loyalty unshakeable. He’s your partner in this dangerous game, a chaotic force that somehow always gets the job done.
Just then, a tall shadow falls over you. Viktor stands beside you, his face a mask of indifference. His gaze is cold, unreadable, and yet, you sense a flicker of concern beneath the surface.
“I vill go too.” he says, his voice a low rumble.
You raise an eyebrow, surprised. You turn to Mitzi, a silent question hanging in the air.
“Viktor, wait.” Mitzi says, her voice soft., but he’s already making his way to the garage. She sighs, but nods at the two of you to follow along.
He leads you to the basement door, up a narrow stairway where the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting fruit. The sound of jazz hums around you, a low, persistent beat that gets farther and farther away once the three of you reach the hatch and step into the cool garage. Viktor nods, a quiet signal, and the three of you step into the car. The engine roars to life, the sound a symphony of power and rebellion against the suffocating silence of Prohibition. Rocky’s boisterous laugh fills the night air, and Viktor’s steady presence is a constant beside you, a silent promise of safety.
_________
You retrieve the goods from Kehoe without a hitch. As you pull into the garage, the car sputters to a stop, its engine coughing like a man with a bad cold. You glance at Rocky, his face lit by the moon, a manic grin splitting his features. He throws back his head and lets out a whoop, his laugh echoing against the garage walls.
"Another successful run, my friend!" he exclaims, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
You nod, your own lips curving into a tired smile. It went well, but tonight, something feels different. A prickle of unease, a tremor of something you can't quite identify, hangs in the air. You can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Viktor, the stoic, unflappable one, steps out of the truck, his face a mask of indifference. But his eyes, usually as cold and calculating as the frigid waters of the bay, seem to hold an edge of tension that wasn't there before. Did he feel it too?
“C’mon, we’ll be back with some individuals of a less noodly constitution to help carry everything downstairs.” He says to Viktor, taking you by the hand to the cellar door leading down into the speakeasy.
The air inside the Speakeasy thrummed with a low, electric hum. You could practically feel the champagne bubbles prickling your skin as you and Rocky pushed through the velvet curtain, the scent of cigar smoke and jasmine perfume thick in the air.
You spot Mitzi with Wick. He's seated at a table in the back, surrounded by a group of equally well-dressed, bored-looking individuals. His perfectly sculpted face is a perfect picture of relaxation as he leans into Mitzi, her voice a husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. She’s draped across the velvet settee, captivating as a siren, telling Wick a joke that earns her a flirtatious smile.
Rocky’s eyes, the color of stormy seas, dart around the room, settling finally on Wick as he sees the scene. Before you can stop him he’s striding towards the table until he’s in between them with a wild, strained grin, his presence as heavy as a ton of bricks.
“Hello Wick. So glad you could join us. How’ve you been? How are ya? What’s the rumpus?”
Wick's smile falters, his eyes darting to Mitzi, then back to Rocky. “Heh…Good. Thanks. Great. What’s the what…?”
You notice Mitzi give Rocky a pointed look. “Oh…Wick, you remember Rocky don’t you? From the band?”
“Yes uh, hard to forget a face like that.” Wick replies, voice dripping with false congeniality to conceal the discomfort he’s clearly feeling.
“From the band, yes. But tonight I’m here to rectify this lamentable lack of libation, ladyship. We have some special selections for you today sirs.” Rocky holds up the bottles in his hand with flourish. His movements are quick and fluid, a stark contrast to whatever emotion is simmering behind his eyes. “Forgive me - my French is terrible, but I believe what we have here is called the Cambouis Brun Repugnant. And for those with a more delicate palate, L’eau Rance De Rat. That is, the whiskey or the-”
“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” Mitzi interrupts, placing a hand on your and Rocky’s backs as she guides the two of you to the bar.
“We got it. We did good, yeah?” He says like an excited child, his smile a mischievous glimmer in the dim light.
“You both did good. Try not to horrify the guests, honey.”
Mitzi takes you to the bar, her silhouette draped against the amber glow of the liquor bottles.
"Alright," she says, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small honey-sweet smile. "The big boys are here tonight. The ones with the deep pockets and the thin patience." She winks. "Don't want them waiting too long, do we?"
You nod, your eyes darting to the dimly lit corner where the group of men are huddled with Wick, their expressions unreadable behind the haze of cigar smoke. You easily recognized the glint of expensive jewelry, the cut of bespoke suits. These were the ones who kept the speakeasy afloat, the ones who didn't care how the rum got there, just that it was there, and good.
"Time to sample your spoils. Let’s hope it doesn’t taste like Mississippi water." she purrs, her voice a silken whisper that sends a tingle down your neck.
Rocky sets down the bottles of liquor that are as illegal as they are desirable. Mitzi takes one, her fingers tracing the etched glass with an air of practiced expertise. She takes a sip, her expression scrunching up and fur standing on end.
“Well, this’ll either loosen them up or kill them. Worst case, I’ll just have to rummage through their pockets.”
"There's more where that came from," Rocky interjects, "We got enough to keep the party going all night long."
You lean your elbows on the polished countertop with a satisfied grin. "We need to get those crates unloaded. The sooner we get everything in place, the sooner everyone can enjoy themselves."
She gestures towards the musicians, their instruments gleaming under the dim lights. "Get the band to lend a hand unloading.”
You turn to the stage. Ben and Sy are sprawled across the corner leaning on each other, their faces lost in the hazy glow of the stage lights.The pianist, a lanky fellow named Mozzie, is picking at the keys, his head bobbing to the rhythm. And then there’s the saxophonist, Zib, who is staring out at the smoky crowd from under the shadow of his hat, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Up, you lazy bums!" you call as you walk over, your voice echoing in the room. "We've got a job to do."
Zib looks up, his eyes flashing. "What's the rush?" He asks, his voice gravelly.
“The sooner we're done, the sooner you can get back to the music,” you reply, staring pointedly at them.
"Music?" Ben groans. "I was having a lovely dream about a world where beer was free and women were always in a good mood."
You roll your eyes. "More like a world where you don't have to lug crates of booze, Ben."
"But we could hurt ourselves lifting heavy things, and then we’d be useless." Sy complains.
Zib lets his hat fall back over his eyes as he closes them. "Indeed, these arms weren’t designed for manual labor. I’m afraid I’m relegated to the arts.”
"But you're less like spaghetti. Besides, shouldn’t we revel in this opportunity to suffer for our art?” Rocky chimes in, gesturing wildly with his hands.
Mitzi leans over the bar counter to shout at them from behind you. “Zib, go suffer for your art.”
The band reluctantly stumbles to their feet, their movements slow and their expressions exasperated. You can't help but laugh a little at their grumbling, but you know that they’re just trying to put on a show. They’ve all been doing this for a while now, and they know the drill.
One by one, you all make your way up the stairs to the garage. Rocky is ahead of you, his bright eyes a beacon in the dim light as he looks back to Zib, saying something you don’t hear. As you reach the end of the stairway, Rocky lifts up the cellar door.
“Help has arrived!” He exclaims with a large grin. One that quickly falters, and you don’t get to see why before you hear the sound of a gunshot ring throughout the narrow corridor.