A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 14: The DeLucias

As they walked through the crumbling streets of Dead Town, Larry lit up a cigarette, the faint glow casting eerie shadows on his stitched face. He took a long drag, his skeletal features relaxing as the smoke curled around him. Michael, still shaken by what they'd seen in the warehouse, stayed quiet for a moment before finally speaking.

"So," Michael began, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his head, "who are the DeLucias? What's their deal?"

Larry exhaled slowly, the smoke escaping through the seams in his cheeks. "The DeLucias? Low-level mafia scum," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "They're not the biggest players in the Nightside, but they're dangerous enough. They've got their fingers in all the classic pots—smuggling, extortion, racketeering. They like to think they're the next big thing, but no one with real power takes them seriously."

"Dangerous how?" Michael asked, glancing around as they walked.

"They've got a few heavy hitters," Larry explained. "A couple of them are vampires. Mean ones, too—not the charming, sophisticated type. These guys are feral, the kind that enjoy ripping out throats just to send a message."

Michael's mind flashed back to the vampire that had attacked him outside Larry's office. "That's probably why one of them came after me," he muttered.

Larry nodded. "Yeah, that tracks. If the DeLucias figured out you were poking around, they'd send someone to scare you off. Looks like they underestimated you."

"Lucky me," Michael said dryly.

As they turned a corner, Larry continued his explanation. "The DeLucias have ties all over Dead Town. They provide 'protection' to some of the locals—meaning they extort the weak and use them as cover. They've got a reputation for being vicious, but they're not untouchable. You hit them hard enough, and they crumble like anyone else."

Michael frowned. "So why sell Manfred to that doctor? That feels... specific."

Larry shrugged. "Could be a favor. Could be punishment. The DeLucias don't care about people like Manfred. If he was sniffing around their business, they'd get rid of him any way they could. The doctor was just convenient."

"And now they know I'm involved," Michael said, his voice tightening.

Larry gave him a sidelong glance. "Welcome to the game, kid. You poke at the wrong people in the Nightside, they poke back. Hard."

They stopped at a dingy diner, one of the few places in Dead Town where the living and undead mingled without immediate violence. Larry slid into a booth, motioning for Michael to join him. A ghostly waitress floated over, her translucent form flickering faintly as she handed them menus.

"You guys want something, or are you just loitering?" she asked, her voice echoing softly.

"Coffee," Larry said, then smirked. "The kind I can drink without it leaking everywhere."

"Coming up," the waitress replied, floating away.

Michael leaned forward, his voice low. "So what now? If the DeLucias are tied up in this, how do we handle it?"

Larry tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, his glowing eyes narrowing. "Carefully. The DeLucias may be low-level, but they've got enough muscle to cause problems if you come at them directly. We need to figure out who in their organization made the call to sell Manfred. That's our target."

"And how do we do that?"

Larry smirked. "We start with their bottom-feeders. The lackeys, the enforcers. They're always the first to squeal when the pressure's on. And lucky for us, I know just where to find one."

As the ghostly waitress returned with their drinks, Michael couldn't shake the uneasy feeling settling in his gut. The DeLucias weren't just another problem—they were a dangerous, organized threat. But if Larry wasn't fazed, then Michael wasn't going to back down either.

"This guy we're going after," Michael asked, sipping his coffee. "Is he going to give us trouble?"

Larry grinned, his decayed face somehow managing to look smug. "Trouble? Oh, absolutely. But that's what makes this fun."

Michael sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Great. Can't wait."

Larry's grin widened as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "Relax, kid. You'll get the hang of it. Now, finish your coffee. We've got a rat to catch."

With that, they stood and left the diner, the next step in their search for answers leading them deeper into the shadows of the Nightside.

Michael followed Larry through the dim streets, the detective moving with the confidence of someone who knew Dead Town inside and out. They stopped outside a gaudy building illuminated by flickering neon lights, the garish pink and purple glow casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement. A sign above the entrance read Elysium's End, but the name was the only thing remotely elegant about the place. The bouncer at the door, a hulking figure with glowing red eyes and an inhuman snarl, made it clear this was no ordinary strip club.

Larry gestured toward the building with a skeletal hand. "This is it. The DeLucias run this place—front for their shadier operations. And our guy, Lorenzo 'Long-Tongue' DelVecchio, is in there."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Long-Tongue? Seriously?"

Larry smirked. "Yeah, I didn't pick the name. Guy's got a reputation for sweet-talking people right before stabbing them in the back. Word is, he handles a lot of the family's dirtier business."

"And you think he'll just talk to us?" Michael asked.

Larry chuckled. "He'll talk to me. You? Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Long-Tongue might be a bottom-feeder, but he's still DeLucia. That means he's dangerous."

Michael nodded, pulling his coat tighter around him. The swarm inside hummed faintly, a comforting reminder that he wasn't entirely defenseless.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the overpowering stench of cheap perfume. The club was packed with a mix of living and undead patrons, their eyes glued to the stage where dancers moved under shifting, multicolored lights. The music was loud and pulsing, the bassline vibrating through the floor. Michael followed Larry through the chaos, doing his best to keep his head down.

Larry approached the bar, leaning casually against the counter. The bartender, a wiry vampire with sharp features, barely glanced at him. "What do you want, Oblivion?"

"Good to see you too, Marcus," Larry said, grinning faintly. "I need a word with Long-Tongue. Tell him it's urgent."

The vampire frowned. "You think you can just walk in here and demand an audience? You've got some nerve."

Larry's grin widened, and there was a dangerous glint in his glowing eyes. "And you know I've got the teeth to back it up. Go tell him, Marcus. Or do I need to make a scene?"

Marcus hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Michael. "Who's the kid?"

"None of your business," Larry said smoothly. "He's with me. Now, stop wasting time."

Grumbling under his breath, Marcus disappeared into the back. Larry turned to Michael, his tone casual. "See? Easy."

Michael smirked faintly. "I'm sure that's exactly how it felt."

After a few minutes, Marcus returned, gesturing for them to follow him. They were led into a dimly lit VIP lounge, where Lorenzo "Long-Tongue" DelVecchio reclined on a plush leather couch. He was a slim man with slicked-back hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a sharp suit that looked almost too clean for Dead Town. His eyes gleamed with a mix of cunning and amusement as he watched them approach.

"Larry Oblivion," Lorenzo said, his voice smooth and dripping with false warmth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Larry dropped into a chair across from him, leaning back with an easy confidence. "We need to talk, Long-Tongue."

Lorenzo's smile widened. "You always need to talk, don't you? But it's been a while since you've graced us with your charming presence. What brings you to my establishment?"

Larry's grin didn't reach his glowing eyes. "Manfred. You sold him to the good doctor. I want to know why."

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Manfred? Now, that's an interesting name. Can't say I know much about him."

"Cut the crap," Larry said, his tone hardening. "We know it was you. The doctor spilled his guts—literally."

Lorenzo's smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, leaning forward with an exaggerated shrug. "Alright, let's say I did. So what? The guy was poking around where he didn't belong. My bosses didn't like it, and they wanted him gone."

"Gone?" Larry said, his voice sharp. "You handed him over to a mad scientist. That's not 'gone.' That's sadistic."

Lorenzo smirked. "Not my call. I just follow orders. You know how it is."

"And who gave those orders?" Larry pressed.

Lorenzo leaned back, his expression cool. "You know I can't tell you that, Oblivion. Family rules. I'd rather keep my tongue, long or not."

Larry's grin widened, and for the first time, Michael saw just how dangerous the undead detective could be. "Oh, I think you'll talk," Larry said, pulling Queen Mab's wand from his coat. The air in the room seemed to grow colder, and Lorenzo's cocky demeanor cracked.

"Alright, alright!" Lorenzo said quickly, holding up his hands. "It was Marcellus DeLucia. He's the one who called the shots. Said Manfred was getting too close to some... sensitive information."

Larry's eyes narrowed. "What kind of information?"

Lorenzo hesitated, glancing nervously at the wand. "Something to do with Bennett and Pembroke. I don't know the details—I'm just the middleman."

Larry leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "If you're lying, I'll know."

"I'm not!" Lorenzo insisted, his voice trembling. "I swear!"

Larry held his gaze for a long moment before standing. "Good. Then we're done here."

He turned to leave, gesturing for Michael to follow. Lorenzo slumped back on the couch, his bravado gone.

As they walked out of the club, Michael couldn't help but ask, "Do you always get what you want?"

Larry grinned. "When you've got a reputation like mine, it's hard not to."

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Michael muttered, shaking his head.

Larry chuckled, the sound dark and amused. "Smart kid. Now let's pay Marcellus DeLucia a visit."

Michael and Larry walked briskly through the dim streets, the gaudy glow of Elysium's End fading behind them. Larry's expression was unreadable, but Michael could feel the tension radiating off him. After a few moments of silence, Larry lit a cigarette, the small flame briefly illuminating his decayed face.

"So, who's Marcellus DeLucia?" Michael asked, breaking the quiet. "I'm guessing he's not just some low-level thug."

Larry exhaled a plume of smoke, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly. "You guessed right, kid. Marcellus DeLucia isn't just any vampire—he's a master vampire. That puts him in a whole other league."

"Master vampire," Michael repeated. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means he's old," Larry said, his voice flat. "Old enough that time doesn't touch him like it does others. Old enough that he's got power most vampires can only dream of. And most importantly, it means he's got a kiss."

Michael frowned. "A kiss? What's that?"

Larry glanced at him, smirking faintly. "It's what you call a group of vampires, genius. And Marcellus has a big one. Dozens of them, all loyal to him. Think of it like a family—but instead of Sunday dinners, they feed on the living and tear apart anyone who crosses them."

Michael's stomach turned slightly at the thought. "So he's not just dangerous—he's got an army."

"Exactly," Larry said, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Marcellus is a player in the Nightside. Not as big as some, but big enough to make life hell for anyone who gets in his way."

"And we're planning to get in his way?" Michael asked, raising an eyebrow.

Larry shrugged. "We don't have much of a choice. Marcellus gave the order to hand over Manfred, which means he knows why Bennett and Pembroke were involved. If we're going to figure out why they targeted you, we need him to talk."

Michael nodded slowly. "So, what's the plan?"

Larry snorted. "Plan? We're walking into the lair of one of the most dangerous vampires in the Nightside. Plans are a luxury we don't have."

"That's reassuring," Michael muttered, his fingers brushing the hidden compartments in his coat where his swarm rested. "But you're not planning to just knock on the door and ask him nicely, right?"

Larry grinned, his skeletal features twisting into something almost predatory. "Not exactly. Marcellus likes to think he's untouchable, but even master vampires have their weaknesses. The trick is figuring out which buttons to push—and how hard."

"And you think you can push his buttons?" Michael asked, his skepticism clear.

"I've dealt with his kind before," Larry said, his voice cool. "They're arrogant, greedy, and vain. Marcellus won't respect us unless we come at him from a position of strength. That means we need leverage."

Michael frowned. "And what kind of leverage do we have?"

Larry's grin widened. "That's the fun part. We don't know yet. But Marcellus doesn't operate in a vacuum. He's got enemies, debts, and secrets—just like anyone else in the Nightside. We just need to dig a little."

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So, what's the first step?"

Larry gestured down a side street, the faint glow of a hidden alley beckoning them forward. "First, we pay a visit to someone who knows Marcellus better than anyone else. If we're going to take on a master vampire, we'll need every advantage we can get."

Michael nodded, steeling himself for what was to come. Taking on Marcellus DeLucia was a daunting prospect, but if it meant getting answers—and staying alive—it was a risk he was willing to take.