Page 20 of Savannah Royals
I moved to aid Tony, lunging to land a strong punch across the bridge of the henchman’s bulbous nose. Tony followed with a blow to the back of his head that dropped him like a stone. When I looked across the room, Paul and Abe had their attacker on his knees, his hands behind his head. Abe stood menacingly over him. Paul backed away.
Damien was gasping like a fish on the floor. Sticky red blood oozed out of the hole from Paul’s knife. I wanted to look away, but Paul strode over and wrenched Damien’s head back by his hair. His mouth was inches from the Magpie’s face.
“You want her life? I chargedoublefor it. Nonrefundable.” Paul rose and walked to where Tony and I stood. Damien’s eyes were leaking, but they followed Paul’s every move. Quick as lightning, Paul slid the knife across the unconscious Magpie’s throat. I tried to control my expression as blood spurted out, spraying Tony’s pant leg. I stepped back.
“Fool me once,” Paul muttered, striding back to Damien, “shame on you. Fool me twice…” He considered before plunging the knife into Damien’s stomach. “Nobody fools me twice.” He withdrew the knife as Damien’s eyes shuttered.
I held my breath as Paul turned to the remaining Magpie. The man began to shake his head. “Please…I won’t…please…”
Without responding, Paul dipped his fingers into the pool of Damien’s blood. With a sweep of his free hand, he cleared the cards and coins from the rickety table, then began to paint the surface. His movements were short and brusque, tracing the shadowy, crude outline of a howling wolf’s head in blood on the tabletop.
He turned, wiping his stained hand on his pants, taking his time. The Magpie watched him prowl across the room and grunted when Paul’s fist sunk into his gut.
“Paul,” I started, finally finding my voice and stepping toward him.
He held an arm up, signaling me to stop. A ravenous glimmer shone in his eyes. A hunger. I held his gaze. Against all odds, Iunderstood. I understood the feeling all too well. I cocked one corner of my mouth in a small smile.
“Consider this an object lesson.” Paul turned back to our captive, sliding down to his haunches to whisper in the Magpie’s ear. “You want one of us, I taketwoof you. My price isdoublewhatever you lowlifes charge.”
The man nodded vigorously.
“What’s your name?” Paul asked.
“Craig.”
“Swell. Tell them, Craig.” Paul rose to his feet and turned to us. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” the man choked out. “Who…?”
“The Wolfpack.” Paul tossed his bloody knife on the table. “Tell them. Tell them all.”
Thatnightmarkedthebeginning of our new dawn, that run-in and cutdown of the Magpie gang. The Wolfpack burst onto the scene of Savannah’s underworld, leaving an unapologetic trail of blood and lore in its wake. Paul wrangled my interview at the Academy just after my eighteenth birthday, and the marks, capers, and infamy continued to grow.
When Paul first told me he was ready to buy a flat and move out of the Catacombs, I asked him why he wanted a hideout in the bayou when he could afford something nicer. Something closer to the city center.
“This is where we’re from, Katarina,” he said, using my full name for emphasis. “And this is where we work. We need to be here. Iwantto be here.”
At the time, I admired his principles and dedication to the bayou. Most people want to escape the place, but not Paul. He’s always been proud of where we come from. At least, that’s what I thought. But last year, he splurged and bought a glossy apartment in downtown Savannah.
To be closer to hisnewwork, he told me.
Both homes are nice, but the bayou loft will always be my favorite. It’s the first place we could call our own. The first place I ever truly felt safe. And Paul was right; this hideout is authentic to who we are—the colorful draped silks, stolen Persian rugs, scattered wicker crates, eclectic furniture, a tiny fire escape overlooking the swampy streets of the bayou…
This is the life—the empire—we built together. This place reeks of our early years, of both the struggles and the victories.
I let myself into the loft and call out a greeting to Paul and the boys. As I cross the living room, I pause to adjust a Parisian silk over an antique Turkish floor lamp, casting a hundred hues of red across the room. When I’m satisfied with the effect, I move to the Victrola phonograph. The cabinet doors whine when I tug them open. I place an old Billy Murray record on the turntable and set the needle. As the opening score swells, I slip inside the master bedroom to change for our night out. Paul is alreadythere, dressed in tailored pants and a half-unbuttoned, herringbone vest. A matching newsboy cap and pocket chain complete his look.
“What should I wear tonight?” I ask, sliding open the doors to an overflowing closet. I absentmindedly sway to the bluesy notes from the phonograph as I peruse my options.
“Something hotsy-totsy.”
“Well, that’s a given.” I pull out a whimsically draped confection of crimson chiffon. It’s a Lucile creation, one of Lady Duff-Gordon’s more risqué blends of lingerie and evening wear. I hold the dress up to my body and spin for Paul. When his eyes spark, I’m sold. I turn to examine my extensive collection of wigs.
“Blonde.” Paul reaches around me and pulls out a blunt-cut, chin-length, platinum bob.
“Hmm…short? Really?”
“Yeah. And a red lip.” He leans in and kisses me hard.
