Savannah, Georgia. 2026. A city of dripping Spanish moss, honeyed streetlight, and secrets older than its cobblestones.

Inside Saint & Sinner, the air was smoke-soft and rich with bourbon, old wood, and the low thrum of a piano bleeding from hidden speakers. The bar was a deliberate study in vice and velvet—black marble counter, brass fixtures, leather booths deep enough to disappear into. Supernatural creatures mingled with oblivious humans, all of them drinking like the world wasn't quietly full of monsters.

Roman Visconti held court in the back corner booth like he'd personally ordered the shadows to gather there. Bourbon in hand. Boots on the floor. Jacket slung over the seat because the night hadn't earned its weight yet.

The door opened. Not with a dramatic creak—Saint & Sinner was too well-oiled for that—but with a soft rush of warm Savannah air and the faint scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet.

A young man stepped inside. Dark hair, thick and wavy. Sharp brows. A jaw that hadn't yet learned to be anything but stubborn. He moved with a lazy, spring-loaded confidence, scanning the room like he'd walked into a hundred bars just like it and found them all mildly disappointing.

Freddie saw him first. His drink paused halfway to his mouth.

The kid passed under the light, and for one clean second, the resemblance hit like a blade between the ribs.

Same nose. Same shape of the eyes. Same long line of the throat.

Roman's glass stopped moving. His jaw tightened.

What the hell is this?

But he didn't look away from the boy at the counter.

The young man settled onto a stool, propped an elbow on the marble, and glanced back toward the door as if waiting for someone. His fingers tapped once against the counter. Impatient. Familiar.

He looks like me. He looks like me at eighteen, right down to the goddamn attitude.

Roman crossed the floor like a shadow with intent. The crowd parted for him the way crowds always did—instinct, fear, or simple self-preservation.

At the counter, the boy didn't look around. Just lifted a hand to signal the bartender.

Roman stopped beside him. Close enough to see the exact shade of grey-green in his eyes.

The young man turned his head. Slowly. And when his gaze landed on Roman's face, his expression didn't flicker with surprise. Not even a little.

The word landed like a coin dropped in a silent room.

Behind Roman, Freddie and Henrik had both risen from the booth, frozen mid-step.

He knows what I am. And he knows me. And he said—Ma.

The door opened again.

This time, the air changed. The music seemed to dip. The room sharpened at the edges.

A woman stepped through the door.

She moved like someone who'd spent over a century learning to survive, settle, fight, and still walk into a room like it owed her an apology. There was no need for the light to find her. She found the light.

No.

His chest caved. His hands went numb at his sides. Every lie he'd told himself in five years of remembered grief cracked open at once.

She was scanning the bar. Then her gaze reached the counter. Reached the tall, dark-haired man standing frozen beside her son.

And the whole world narrowed to the look on her face.