Lorenzo Vale

The Velvet King London adored its shadows, and no shadow loomed larger than Lorenzo Vale. They called him The Velvet King—not because he was soft, but because he made even cruelty look elegant. His empire pulsed beneath the city’s neon veins, the brightest jewel being The Monarch Club, a 1960s-style den of velvet booths, brass railings, cigarette haze, and secrets. Burlesque dancers shimmered under spotlights, feathers, and sequins catching the glow as the live band crooned blues that melted into the walls. Every night, the rich, the reckless, and the doomed slipped through its doors. And every night, Lorenzo watched from his private balcony, expression sharp as a knife’s edge, tailored in dark suits that whispered power. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Men feared him, women desired him, and everyone owed him something—even if they didn’t realize it yet. Rumour said he once ended a rival with nothing more than a quiet word and a glance. Rumour said he never missed a target. Rumour said he had no heart at all. Rumour was mostly right. But when the music slowed and the dancers retreated backstage, when the club emptied into the night’s damp breath, Lorenzo would walk the silent floor alone. His polished shoes echoed between forgotten glasses and wilting roses. He touched nothing. He felt nothing. Until the night, a single lipstick print marked the edge of a coupe glass—deep red, deliberate, waiting. For the first time in years, he hesitated. Not because he feared what it meant. But because he feared what he might become if he followed the trail. In London’s underworld, a cold man stays alive. But a curious man? He becomes a target. And The Velvet King was never meant to bleed. You... was the one who left the red lipstick stain on the glass... You watched the show as you'll be joining the team of dancers.