In a flash, Tyler reached out and grabbed Rosalind by the chin, forcing her to look at him. Rosalind did not flinch, her jaw locked hard, and Tyler did not let go. They were all like this. Rosalind. Juliette. Pretty, loud, terrible girls who threw accusations braced knee-deep in the guise of morality, as if they weren’t just as guilty of this city’s teachings.
“I don’t need my name to protect me,” Tyler hissed. He eyed the smattering of glitter dancing across Rosalind’s cheek. “I protect my name. Just as I protect this gang.”
Rosalind managed a choked laugh. Her hand came up around his wrist and squeezed, threatening to claw her nails into his skin. Tyler felt the pain, felt the five sharp points dig in like blades, and then the cool wetness of blood dripping once down his sleeve.
“Do you?” she whispered.
Tyler finally let go, shoving Rosalind away. She regained her balance easily, never off-kilter for more than a flash of a second.
“Don’t get righteous, Lang Shalin,” he said again.
“It is not righteousness.” Rosalind eyed the red spreading on his sleeve. “It is goodness. Of which you have none.”
She pivoted fast, sparing one glance at the bodies near the bridge before marching away, her lips thinned in horror. Tyler remained, crossing his arms with a swallowed wince, trying not to touch the throbbing wounds at his wrist.
Goodness. What was goodness at a time like this? Goodness did not keep people fed. Goodness did not win wars.
Tyler leaned over and thudded a fist against the outside of the panel windows, waving for Scarlets to come out. They had to move the bodies. This part of Chenghuangmiao was White Flower territory, and if White Flowers caught wind of their own being gunned down and arrived for a fight, it could put the Scarlet facility at risk.
Goodness. Tyler almost laughed aloud as the Scarlet men came outside and started in the direction of the two dead White Flowers. What was the Scarlet Gang without him? It would crumble, and no one seemed to realize that, least of all Juliette and her miserable cousins. Hell, Juliette herself would be dead without him, from that very first time they were ambushed by White Flowers and she froze, unwilling to shoot.
“Back to work!” one of the assistants shouted from the restaurant door, summoning the Scarlets who weren’t needed around the corpses. Tyler watched them trek back, his head humming with sound. They all nodded his way in passing, some throwing a salute.
The Scarlet Gang recognized Juliette across Shanghai because they painted her face on advertisements and creams. The Scarlet Gang recognized Tyler because he knew this city, because the people had seen him at work, pushing for their victory at every turn, no matter how brutish his tactics were. Everyone else be damned, his people came first. That was what his father had taught him. That was what his father had died for, raging for the Scarlets in the feud, and for as long as Tyler lived, he would make that spilled blood mean something.
All the Scarlets eventually filtered back into the building. The rest of Chenghuangmiao resumed its bustle, its hawking and its sizzling, its infinite smells.
“You need me,” Tyler said, to no one in particular, or perhaps to everyone. “You all need me.”
Thirteen
In the weeks that passed, the dance that Roma and Juliette settled into grew almost predictable. In the most literal sense too, given how often they were dropping into the various dance halls across the Concessions. Show up, target a foreigner, get answers.
Juliette didn’t mind. Navigating a wǔtīng was far more palatable than navigating places like the Grand Theatre and the racecourse. Here, although it still required the same sharp tongue, although they remained surrounded by pearls and champagne and the knowledge that this was foreign-owned land, there were still Chinese tycoons and gangsters dancing the night away, blowing their cigarette smoke out without caring that it might bother the Frenchman at the next table. A dance hall was no different from a burlesque club in practice. Same showgirls onstage, same smoky interiors, same lowlifes lurking by the doors. The only reason they seemed so much fancier was because they ran on foreign money.
Juliette returned from the bar, offering Roma the second drink in her hand. Meanwhile, the French merchant who had approached them earlier in the evening continued chattering on, following right on her tail. Roma took the drink absently, his gaze remaining elsewhere in inspection. They had spent long enough here at Bailemen—or Paramount, to the foreigners—to have spoken with almost every wealthy elite present tonight. By now it was obvious that the flyers were not limited to those in the French Concession but the International Settlement, too, all the occupants of Bubbling Well Road gasping in confirmation when Juliette asked about them.