Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York
1932
Tick, tock—
Tick, tock—
Tick…
Jingle, jingle.
There’s routine in everything.
Routine controls the universe. It controls entire ecosystems. Jobs. Schools, humans.
It’s simple, since the beginning of creation. Alpha to Omega, predator to prey. Eat or be eaten. Live in prosperity. Accept death with a winning smile.
These are all phrases heard before.
And,
Angel Dust knows what’s coming before he has to think about it.
All due to routine.
By working at The Honeytrap casino as an escort, Angel Dust has realized that with every day that goes by, the novelty that once came with serving drinks and flirting in the downtown casino eventually becomes grueling when one hits the five year mark.
He’s 32 today.
Not that it matters.
Once that contract is signed, every pretty soul that ever stepped foot in the casino forgets who they were. Birthdays are the first to go. Maybe you’ll get a party in your first year at the Trap. Maybe a drinking session on your second. Beyond that? Nothing.
Angel pictures himself on a yacht. Surrounded by flappers with big feathers and a crowd of people with even bigger tubas and trumpets, blowing the brass with an extreme sense of pride and belonging. He dreams about making a toast to living, something sentimental that sticks long after he’s gone. Threading in some of those classic phrases, feeling like a big shot.
He dreams, and seems to forget that the roaring 20s have come and discarded him, just as he is.
There’s routine in the air, at least. Feet shuffling the sticky ground, sweet jazz crooning distantly, escorts getting ready in other rooms, and the occasional sound of a lucky man singing his own praises.
He notices how those winning men always seemed to sound the same. Nonsensical babbles or drunken bellows. There’s nothing in between.
And they usually have the same look too. Old, greasy, balding, and filthy in their mannerisms. Making the poker chips sticky with their fingers . . .
Angel can't blame them. Couldn’t if he tried. These gamblers probably thought that they were leaving with millions to spend on alcohol or drugs, anticipating the kiss of a lifetime high. Nothing to worry about anymore, now that they’ve got all the money in the world. Idiotic, really.
That much money doesn’t get you the good shit.
It’s better to be desperate for your next fix. You get to savor the material.
Dealers begin to grow comfortable. See one’s cash and think, maybe if I sell them the cheap stuff, I can save money supplying.
It’s a double edged sword.
So, he doesn’t blame. In the industry, those men were just the same as him. Sorry losers chasing a pipe dream.
Instead, he pities. He pities the poor men, who will never be able to experience the first taste of aristocracy. He learned long ago.
Tick, tock,
Jingle, jangle . . .
Angel Dust’s bangles swing on thin, freckled arms. He leans over in the dressing room mirror, giving himself a once over. A tight, black suit clinged to his body, undeniably suffocating him as the clock ticked. His slacks no better, purposely a size too small to enhance ass that he barely had in the first place—
Well.
He likes to think that some beg to differ.
His littlest finger dabs at his pigmented lips, ensuring that the lipstick stays in place. It travels to his eye, adjusting the sharp cat eye, smudging just a bit to scandalize. And then, Angel Dust comes up to his hair, fluffing it up at the edges.
He steps back a few. Nods at himself approvingly.
The perfect whore.
He tries a pose. Practicing for eyes, pursing lips.
“Heya, Mista’,” he murmurs. And Angel winks, despite himself.
It was hard to hate the job when he liked the way he looked.
Knock, knock.
He glances at the door and doesn’t bother to open it before the hinge is already creaking. Someone steps inside. Angel Dust counts to ten, resting his hip on the dresser.
“Angel!” He yells, as if he’s not already inside and seething enough for Angel to hear him miles away over the rickety trumpet.
“Right here, boss,” He replies dryly. He’s gotten used to this.
Valentino is a very simple person. Like most, he valued money more than he valued life. A few hundreds here, a couple of thousands there. (He’d once made the mistake of thinking Valentino wouldn’t notice if he took one stack. Even months after, Angel Dust still feels the aftershocks). From what he’s heard amongst gossip, he started this casino all on his own.
But, he knows that’s a lie. He’s seen the other two, although they were quite mysterious in their own ways. One while rummaging for the cash, short with a deep complexion and hair swooped down in a headband. Another amidst an encounter he’d rather forget, dark hair with a curious white streak present in the strands and black glasses. Never anywhere near any escorts, unless the girl was adjusting flappers' outfits and the boy was trying to get word out about The Honeytrap or watching the surveillance cameras.
He wonders where that rumor came from.
Maybe if he’d known it was a team effort, he wouldn’t have been so stupidly drawn to—
“What’s the holdup?” Valentino looks down at him through his sunglasses. “You’re taking forever. People are starting to ask about you.”
“Asking about me?” The infliction raises high. A small smile quirks on his lips. “I’m pretty flattered. Is my rate goin’ up by the hour?”
“There is no rate,” Valentino spits, beginning to circle the room. “But people are starting to leave because they haven’t seen you yet.”
“I didn’t know I was that important.”
“Important merchandise. You’re important merchandise. And you need to get your ass out there before we lose our guests—“
“—Relax, Val. You got other things to use.” Angel Dust picks up a mascara bottle just to do something with his hands. “what’s so special ‘bout me?”
Valentino stops roughly at the corner. He turns around, crossing the room in two strides,
And it comes like a flash. Like a lightning strike or the spark of fire. Suddenly, his back is against the dresser, heavily jostling the materials on the counter. Hands settle roughly at his sides, bunching in the expensive suit, and—
He doesn’t dare look. Looking meant asserting dominance, and he wasn’t exactly in the position to gain control right now. Angel Dust bows his head. His chest is moving fast now, and he tries to kick it back into gear, digging his nails into his fists.
Valentino leans in. Angel can’t resist the way his head moves to avoid his gaze, down , smaller.
“Special?” The words are cold and chilling, just like the smirk that grows on Valentino’s face. His hands travel up to his collar, fisting tight and jolting him. “There’s nothing special about you. You just serve as eye candy to the little shits that are out there, waiting for a good time. And it just so happens that they like you the most.”
A beat.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But it needs to stop tonight.”
After a while, Valentino’s posture relaxes. Angel Dust dares to glance up.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out of his mouth like molasses. “But . . . you-you know I never disappoint. I’ll get’cha your money.”
Valentino’s eyes seem to soften. A half beat down, and he lets go. Angel dust’s knees slightly bend, and he tries not to notice how unbalanced they are.
Valentino starts for the door.
“Control your mouth out there,” he calls. “Don’t forget what you owe.”
The door slams so hard the paintings on the walls shake.
Tick… tick…. Tick—
Angel Dust looks up to the clock.
7:29PM.
He uses the dresser as support to rise to his feet. Strong, this time. And with another glance at himself in the mirror, Angel Dust straightens out his collar.
Showtime.
🂲🃍🂶
The casino is a beautiful mess of golden lights and machines. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Slot machines stutter. Music continues to play from a fancy phonograph.
Angel’s walking with a tray of drinks balanced in his hand.
He passes a few coworkers on his way to the main ballroom. A girl who he found crying most days and throwing up most nights, was wearing a glittery black dress and a furcoat while waving at him with a huge grin. Another stepped out of a nearby room, thoroughly wrecked. People come in through the front doors to be greeted by men in suits, ushered to a table that would essentially be a gilded cage.
There were about sixteen escorts. Two at the slot machine, one at the bar, others walking drunks to the complimentary hotel rooms, blood to be on their hands later.
Because the steps to lead someone to their own death were simple.
Step one?
Find a target.
Usually someone sweaty, thrilled, and too righteous from a new win.
He scans the room, looking for one.
The corner—three men crouched over the table, mumbling to themselves.
No.
The other—six beginning to yell and berate each other.
God.
He takes another step forward and narrows his eyes.
A table near the center, right under a chandelier. Smooth, saccharine words fluttering around the table.
If Angel was focused on humor tonight, he’d say jackpot.
He struts over to the active poker game, buzzling with the sound of shuffled hands and clinking chips. He looms over chairs, flashing his best sly smile.
“Hey gentlemen,” he murmured, watching as all eyes turned on him. “You don’t look drunk enough.”
The drinks settled on the mahogany, the table chorusing with whistles. Angel’s eyes settled on one particular man.
Lorenzo Bianchi. A regular. His greasy smile widened as he turned to Angel, hands reaching out to ghost his waist.
“Angel, caro,” Bianchi crooned, hands finally finding purchase on his hip. “It’s been too long.”
Angel holds back the urge to stiffen.
Step two.
Flirt.
“Didn’t know you boys missed me this badly,” he drawled, leaning into the touch. “Maybe it’s time to catch up.”
“It’s a great time to catch up,” one chimed in, leaning over the table. “It’s the 1920s! We should be dancin’ and singing! Say, ain’t you heard about the booming stock market?”
Angel blinks, momentarily caught off guard.
“I-“
“—Of course not,” another cut in. “Not a single thought in that pretty head about stocks. There’s only one thing he’s thinkin’ bout doing tonight . . .”
Laughter erupts around the table. He stands there, still and trying his hardest not to wrinkle his nose, waiting for it to cease.
And eventually it does. Potential winners never laughed long enough with each other to enjoy it. At a moment, the temperature drops, and suddenly they remember that there’s money on the line.
“So, who’s gonna give me a seat?” Angel Dust tries to shift control. I’d love to watch.”
“What, never played poker before?” Bianchi drawls, setting the deck down. He spreads his legs wide and leans back in his chair, and Angel catches the scent of his cologne. Strong and cloying, like a room full of gas.
“Never,” he lies. “But maybe . . .
His hands travel down to toy with the buttons of Bianchi’s suit.
“You could teach me.”
Bianchi’s eyes darken in the way Angel’s seen many times before. He reaches across the table, gathering the deck, eyeing the men as his fingers deftly shuffle the cards. Once he’s done, his hands come out to grip Angel’s waist, dragging him down to sit on one knee.
“Take a look,” he murmurs in his ear.
And the game begins.
Step Three. Watch.
Angel Dust knows how poker works. He’s played enough games in the past to get a good grasp on it.
But the hardest part was always watching. Watching the cards fly around the table, seeing an ace flash and chips click. He hears the jazz faintly in the background, suddenly not as loud as before.
When feeling this way , sober and too aware of everything, Angel likes to place his own bets. Bets on who would get drunk and lose it all. Who would get angry and throw it all away. Disappear into the scenery. Gasping and giggling at the outbursts that rise. Playing the part.
Because he was good at his job.
A hand traced up his stomach. Up, up, until it rested against his chest, only for the other to join.
“Enjoying yourself?” came the low whisper.
Angel leans into it.
A squeeze.
“Heard it was your birthday tonight. Whaddaya say we get out of here once I win this, and I take you home?”
Angel laughs that innocent, teasing laugh he’s practiced for years in the mirror. “Oh,” he drawls. “If you’re saying that, you gotta mean it. Don’t get my hopes up.”
They both laugh, and it’s funny how he doesn’t see what’s coming.
Easy.
The game ends with an uproar. Bianchi wins. Angel predicted so from the start. It ends like any other poker game he’d sat through:
Exchanged curses and insults.
A rough shake of the hands.
Bianchi leans back in his chair, satisfied.
“Gentlemen,” he says, smugly dragging the word out. “A pleasure, as always.”
Angel claps lightly, delighted grin locked in place. He leans in, pressing quick kisses to cheeks, murmuring congratulations like it’s something he genuinely means. His hand lingers on Bianchi’s shoulder just long enough to feel the tension there ease.
Money changes hands. Promises are made and broken in the same breath. The table dissolves into separate little worlds again, attention wandering, prey already forgotten.
The jazz swells back up as they rise together.
Bianchi’s hand doesn’t leave him this time. It slides down Angel’s back, possessive, steering him toward the exit. Angel allows it, posture easy, steps light despite the heels.
“Hell of a night,” Bianchi says, breath heavy with alcohol. “Worth the wait.”
Angel hums, leaning just enough into his space to keep him wanting. “Told ya luck was on your side,” he teases. “Birthday blessings and all.”
They pass through the casino floor, past the bright lights and ringing bells, past the tables Angel’s watched bleed men dry a thousand times before. The noise fades behind them as the doors swing open, replaced by the hum of the city and the wash of night air.
Outside, it’s quieter. Cooler.
A valet straightens when he sees them, eyes flicking briefly—professionally—to Angel before settling back on Bianchi. There’s a nod exchanged, subtle and familiar.
“Evenin’, Mr. Bianchi,” the valet says.
“Evenin’,” Bianchi replies, handing off his ticket. “She’s out front.”
Angel folds his arms loosely, rocking back on his heels as he waits. He glances up at the casino sign, neon buzzing softly overhead, and for half a second his smile drops—just enough for the night to see it.
Then he smooths it back into place.
Headlights sweep across the curb as the car pulls up—sleek, polished, absurdly expensive. The engine purrs when the valet eases it to a stop.
The door opens, a driver steps in, and they pile inside the backseat together, giggling and smiling.
It’s the usual route, he assumes. The routine should be maintained—the highway, then an alley, then—
Bianchi’s hands fly to his blazer, shredding it off of Angel’s shoulders and then, just as quickly, undoing his buttons with swift ease. Angel feigns a surprised moan, managing to maintain eye contact.
“You’re very—eager tonight,” he gasps out, feeling fingers dig into his sides and the mouthing of lips against his neck. His arms come to rest around his neck, pulling him in just to distract from the turn.
“Do ya like that?” It’s barely a breath in Angel Dust’s ear.
He answers like he always does.
And quickly, things began to escalate.
First, Angel receives the sensation of his thighs being grabbed, and second, the sensation of lips slamming onto his. The force of the action shoots him back a few, and barely attempts to catch his breath before those lips are chasing him again.
“Been waitin’ to tie ya down for months,” he says against Angel’s lips. “God, you’re irresistible—“
“Dont’cha wanna wait till we get to the bedroom?” He spits out in a hurry, hoping that it wouldn’t show. His arms shake in their position around Bianchi’s neck. “Could give you a better show there—“
“Can’t wait,” He grunts, and in a flash, he takes hold of Angel’s arms, taking them down to the seat and holding them there.
Angel’s heart drops.
The driver takes another, agonizingly slow turn. Not enough time. Not enough to reach that damned corner that’d have someone there to take away this nightmare.
Tick,
Tick,
Tick . . .
His body acts before his mind can react.
He pushes Bianchi off and springs for the front seat, trying to reach the wheel. The driver, (who he’s actually come to know over time), looks at him with perturbed confusion. Angel doesn’t take the time to explain. He pops the front door open and with all his might discards the poor driver, collapsing in the front seat. Before his feet reach the gas pedal—
“Get back here,” comes through gritted teeth like venom. Nails root in his hair, tugging him back enough to jostle the automobile, tearing a pained cry from his throat. Bianchi climbs over the console, roughly settling into the front seat, and Angel sees stars explode in his vision before he can register it—
A fist punching directly into his nose.
Crack.
The car is swerving. He’s at least sure of that in the whiplash. His head knocks against the window, and something warm slides down his face.
“—fuckin’ whore, never listen and always—“
His eyes flutter in an effort to clear the blurred sight he was seeing.
One,
Two—
A shadow looms over him. A smirk breaks through the static.
The car comes to a slow roll. Sparks fly off the side colliding with the railing of the highway. And movement entirely ceases.
Angel’s lungs burn. His fingers scrabble uselessly against the seat, searching for something—anything—but finding only fabric and panic.
The glove compartment.
He fumbles for it blindly, fingers slipping before finally cracking it open. His hand plunges inside without looking. He can’t see anyway, not really. Just color and motion and pain.
He misses. Receives another strike at the left eye.
“You sluts don’t ever know what you want,” he says. “Takes someone hittin’ you to behave.”
Angel’s hands close around something cold.
Solid.
Wrong and right, all at the very same time.
Bianchi’s fist closes around his throat, cutting off his airway. Angel’s hands tremble, barely gripping the hard metal—
And there’s no thought in his mind when his fingers squeeze the trigger.
He doesn’t hear it at first. Doesn’t see the roof of the car blasted open from the impact—can’t see much with someone this heavy slumped over his body. His ears ring. Cars honk.
Bianchi’s weight stays on him, crushing, squeezing…
Then it changes.
His body falls to the side, like a ragdoll. Stays there, unmoving, and face frozen in shock, like it’s just been petrified. A rose blooming on the white of his undershirt, with a delicious dark red core.
Angel’s holding the gun. Chest rising and falling more than he can count, and sitting amidst traffic after just killing a man.
The thoughts rush back faster than anything—
This wasn’t supposed happen—
What did I just do?
This isn’t the routine—
Escorts weren’t supposed to kill the men they lured in, only to stage a trap. They had people for that, Angel had witnessed it time and time again, the collapse of a body that only occurred once a shot came from behind. But he was never meant to be the one delivering the shot.
Temperatures collide. The icy cold feeling of the pistol, and the warmth of Bianchi’s blood, cooling against his hands.
They would kill him for this—kill him for disrupting the routine Angel had tried so hard to keep. He could picture it, that dark room the missing eight disappeared into last May.
Angel crawls over Bianchi’s body, scrambling for the passenger door. He steps out into the cold New York night, momentarily blinded by a car’s headlights flashing past.
Blood on his hands.
Blood on his clothes.
Blood spreading in that car.
He looks around frantically, up buildings and down low, running hands through his hair. He takes one step forward, then another, walking alongside the highway, then into traffic.
A car honks at him, shouting profanity. But all Angel can see is the lone sniper atop a building, ready to shoot an already dead man. The sniper rises from his post—
Angel quickly turns and picks up speed, wrapping his hands around his middle—
And then he’s running. Feet hitting the ground and heating up, heating like fire carrying him wherever they could. His hair flies wildly, and he violently dodges cars swerving around him.
They’re going to kill me.
They’re going to sell me—
It all ran inside of his head like a broken record. What would they do first? Tear his fingers off one by one? Gouge his eyeballs out? He’d seen—they’d shown them.
Something clips his shoulder. Pain flares, sharp and bright, but he doesn’t fall. He can’t afford to.
He runs until he hears the telltale sound of a train leaving its stop. He stops, dead in his tracks.
The UNION DEPOT sign looms in front of him like a beacon of light. Buzzing, glitching.
Angel falters, hand slapping against a stone pillar to keep himself upright. His vision swims, turning his stomach. The world tilts. For one terrifying second he thinks he might pass out right here, in the open, under a hundred watchful eyes.
He forces himself forward.
Blood has dried sticky in his nails, crusted on his fingers. He wipes his hands uselessly on his suit as he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the way people recoil, the way heads turn.
He staggers through the crowd, looking around for an opening. A way to get the hell out.
“Last call!”
It echoes clear through the air along with the whispers of concern and judgement.
“Boarding! Boarding now, last call for the westbound!”
Angel turns with the crowd without really deciding to. People surge forward in a wave, coats brushing his arms, elbows knocking into his ribs. He lets himself be carried, feet tripping to keep up, heart hammering so hard it makes him dizzy.
He’s vaguely aware of a conductor shouting destinations, names float through the air, meaningless, far away—
“—Vegas!”
Angel’s head snaps up.
He doesn’t look for a ticket. Doesn’t fish in his pockets for any change to pay for one. The crowd thickens, and Angel blends in somehow, ducking under people's arms and children.
He spots it at the last second—a door still open near the middle cars, a porter distracted, shouting at someone else. The train lurches, metal screaming against metal.
Angel sprints.
His fingers catch the rail, blood tightening the grip. His heel slips on the platform, a sharp spike of fear shooting up his spine, but, just as quickly, he’s hauling himself up with a strength he didn’t know he had, scrambling inside just as the train jerks fully into motion.
The door slides shut behind him with a final, echoing clang.
Silence. At least , in his head.
He slumps against the door, eyes darting back at the windows as if he could be snatched just from looking behind himself. The train moves fast, and Angel moves slightly with it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” a voice scratches on the loud speaker. “This is the westbound night train now departing for Las Vegas. Please remain seated while the train is in motion, and . . .”
He finally looks back at the city lights, growing smaller in his haste. A hand comes up to wipe the blood trailing from his nose.
Fuck.
The clock hits twelve.
Tick.
And Angel’s already far from home.