The city never slept, but neither did Lucian Virelli—not because of work, but because sleep had long since abandoned him. For twenty years, he'd ruled the Virelli Syndicate with a cold hand and a colder heart. To his enemies, he was a ghost in a tailored suit. To his allies, a monster in plain sight.
They weren't wrong.
Lucian Virelli wasn't just the most feared mafia boss in the East End—he was something older, darker, and far more dangerous.
A vampire by blood.
A werewolf by curse.
A hybrid bound by no laws but his own.
The curse was a legacy he hadn't asked for. Born into a family of vampires, Lucian was turned at birth—an ancient rite of lineage. But at seventeen, during a violent turf war with a rival pack of werewolves, he was bitten by a dying Alpha. He should've died. No being had ever survived both infections.
But Lucian did.
The change nearly killed him. For weeks, he convulsed in a cellar soaked in blood and moonlight, bones breaking, healing, breaking again. His heart stopped three times. And when it beat again, he wasn't the same.
Now, under daylight, his skin burned faintly, but never blistered. Under the full moon, he transformed—but retained his mind. His eyes were silver, glowing faintly in darkness. His voice carried weight, even among immortals. And his thirst—for blood, for dominance—was unquenchable.
Most didn't know what he was. Rumors flew through the city's underworld: that he drank the blood of his enemies, that he could sniff out betrayal before it happened, that bullets bounced off him like raindrops. Some believed. Most feared.
And they should.
Tonight: The Summit
The five families were gathering—vampires, werewolves, witches, humans with old power. A fragile peace held the city together like frayed rope. But someone had been breaking the rules. Unmarked bodies drained of blood. Packs slaughtered in their dens. Magic wards torn apart. War was close.
Lucian arrived last, stepping into the dimly lit cathedral that served as neutral ground. He wore black—always black—and a silver ring etched with runes from both bloodlines.
The heads of the families turned to him.
"Lucian," said Soraya DelVayne, matriarch of the vampire court. Her voice was silk over steel. "You're late."
He smiled, teeth just a bit too sharp. "Was hunting."
"You always are," growled Darius, the werewolf Alpha, his yellow eyes narrowing. "And we're always cleaning up your mess."
Lucian took his seat at the stone table, looking each of them in the eye. "No. This time, someone's hunting me."
A hush fell.
He tossed a blood-stained crest onto the table. It belonged to the Nocturne Circle—an old death cult of hybrids long thought extinct. Creatures like him. Only far more savage.
"They're back," Lucian said, his voice low. "And they're not interested in peace."