Chapter 2: The Velvet Room’s Deadliest Smile

Mason Mayfield is notorious, but the most feared man in Maple Heights is even scarier: Simon Wynn.

Simon isn’t tall; he’s wiry, and looks like a high school math teacher. He always wears a gentle smile, like he’s friends with every big shot in town.

He keeps his ties neat, his hair combed. At first glance, you’d trust him to sub a calculus class or run the church bingo. But that’s just Simon’s camouflage.

But when Simon isn’t smiling, you know he’s in a foul mood.

His eyes turn cold, his jaw clenches. You’d rather face a rattlesnake than Simon Wynn without his smile.

When he’s in a foul mood, Simon will kill a few people to lift his spirits.

Folks in Maple Heights learned long ago to steer clear when Simon’s in one of his dark spells. Even his closest lieutenants tread lightly, glancing over their shoulders at the sound of his voice.

Simon is the second-in-command at the Velvet Room, which boasts four top lounge singers: May, Lana, Rose, and Violet. Last month, the most popular, Miss Maybelle, was poached by Doug Harmon from the West Side with double the cash. Simon sulked for two days straight. On the third day, Maybelle was found hanged naked from the city wall, her body covered in wounds.

The Velvet Room sits behind a nondescript brick façade, but inside, the air smells like spilled whiskey and faded perfume, the kind of place where secrets come cheap if you know who to tip. It’s all velvet booths, low lighting, and the soft croon of torch songs. The city wall behind it is old, crumbling—nobody expected to see a body strung up there, let alone the queen of the lounge.

Not only that, but Doug Harmon was stabbed while drunk and taking a leak behind a bar. That stab made sure he’d never touch a woman again.

The news traveled fast—nobody in the West Side dared cross Simon after that. Doug’s recovery room became a warning for every hustler who thought about poaching Simon’s people.

Simon stands on the third floor of the Velvet Room, watching the scene below. He sips his aged Kentucky bourbon, gently flicking his pocketknife open and shut, thoroughly pleased.

The bourbon burns smooth, and Simon savors the oak and smoke on his tongue. Every flick of the knife is in rhythm with the piano tune below, as if he’s conducting his own twisted symphony.

But soon he can’t smile anymore, because he sees guests fleeing like they’ve seen a ghost. In no time, the main hall is empty except for one person.

The sudden emptiness is eerie. Waiters freeze mid-step, someone’s coat left behind on a velvet stool. There’s only one man left—sitting calm and solid in the middle of the chaos.

A cop sits drinking, twelve bloody ears laid out on the table.

Napkins soaked in blood, each one with a grisly trophy on top. The bartender’s hiding under the counter, whispering prayers. The air is thick with fear, and nobody dares make a sound.

That person, of course, is Derek Lane. There aren’t many cops in the world with that kind of nerve.

Derek sits back, boots up on the table, his badge glinting in the dim light. He doesn’t flinch at the stares—or at the bloody trophies in front of him.

Simon strolls down to face the officer. He flashes a politician’s smile, hand outstretched like he’s running for mayor. “Officer, did someone in my place offend you? Should I call a few girls to sing for you? Tonight’s tab is on me—how about it?”

His voice is as smooth as the bourbon, but his eyes flick nervously to the table. He’s buying time, putting on the Southern charm, even as his pulse hammers in his throat.

Simon isn’t stupid. He recognizes the twelve ears—they belonged to the twelve debt collectors he sent out earlier today.

His smile never wavers, but his hands tighten around the pocketknife. The Velvet Room’s staff know better than to look Simon in the eye right now.

Derek sets down his glass and asks, “You Wynn? Or just another wannabe?”

He says it with a calm that’s almost mocking. The room holds its breath.

Simon smiles, “That’s me. May I have your name, officer?”

He draws out the words, hoping for a crack in Derek’s composure. But Derek stays silent, eyes cold.

Derek says nothing, but slaps the warrant on the table. It lists all of Simon’s crimes: loan sharking, murder, extortion, working with smugglers... enough to put him away for ten lifetimes.

The blue paper is heavy with names and dates—a testament to years of work. A few of Simon’s men glance at the list and pale. Simon’s thumb hovers over the table, trembling just a hair.

Simon’s smile freezes. He glances at the badge clipped to Derek’s belt, grits his teeth, and forces a smile. “Officer, there must be some mistake. None of this has anything to do with me. I’m just a businessman. Even if I had a death wish, I wouldn’t dare...”

He tries to sound innocent, but everyone in the room knows it’s a lie. His left hand slides under the table, searching for the next move.

While Simon begs for mercy, the knife hidden up his sleeve is already in his hand.

He’s as quick as a rattler. A flick of the wrist and that blade could open an artery before you’d have time to shout. The tension snaps like a rubber band.

An impossible angle, an unguarded moment, and lightning speed—such a sneak attack would kill ninety-nine out of a hundred.

The blade flashes—just a whisper in the air. Simon’s reputation for sleight-of-hand is nearly as deadly as his ruthlessness.

But Derek Lane happens to be the hundredth. He grabs Simon’s wrist.

The grip is iron—Simon’s eyes go wide with shock. He tries to yank free, but Derek doesn’t budge.

Simon feels like his hand’s being pressed against a red-hot stove. The pain nearly makes him cry out, but instead, he spits three tiny metal darts from his mouth—bone-piercing hidden weapons, straight out of a magician’s act.

A gasp goes up from the bartender. Darts like that belong in a carnival sideshow, not a gangster’s arsenal. But Simon’s desperate enough to try anything.

At that range, nobody could react in time.

The room seems to freeze. Even the bourbon in Derek’s glass is motionless, as if time itself waits for what comes next.

Simon has survived worse and is sure this will work.

He’s counting on luck, speed, and Derek blinking. But Derek doesn’t blink.

But Derek reacts. In that instant, he twists Simon’s wrist. The knife flies up, blocking the three darts. One even bounces back into Simon’s own shoulder blade. Simon screams in pain. The darts are poisoned—his shoulder’s already going numb.

There’s a sickly sweet smell in the air as the poison sets in. Simon slumps against the table, cursing through gritted teeth. Derek stands up, calm as a preacher at Sunday service.

“With tricks like that, I doubt I’ve got the wrong guy...”

He says it dryly, voice low and hard. Even the bravest crook in the Velvet Room shudders at the sound.

Derek downs his last shot of bourbon, smashes Simon in the nose with a punch, and Simon tumbles across the floor before passing out cold.

The glass clinks on the table. Derek dusts off his hands, then signals for backup through his radio, his voice steady as ever.