Ethan looked at the people, at each one in turn.
"We'll come back for you."
The man shook his head.
"No. Just… finish it."
Silence.
Flash nodded.
"We'll finish it."
Ethan clenched the pass in his fist.
"You want Gérard?" the man asked quietly, almost in a whisper.
"Then forget about getting just one rabbit."
Bruno snorted.
"I knew it was gonna be shitty."
The survivor gave a crooked smile, one corner of his mouth twitched upward, but his eyes stayed dead.
"Gérard doesn't work alone."
Flash tensed, barely noticeable, but Ethan felt it like a faint electric shock.
"Explain."
The man raised one finger, dry, with a bitten-down nail.
"Gérard has a family. He has brothers and sisters."
"The old De Millier clan."
"Each of them sits in a key position. As long as they're alive and in place, Gérard is untouchable. Completely unreachable, politically and practically in every way."
Ethan stared straight at him without blinking.
"In order," Ethan said.
The man nodded slowly, as though he were agreeing with something other than Ethan.
"The De Millier clan isn't just a family, it's a web of shadows wrapped around the city. Gérard, the former mayor, was born in an era when streets were still lit by gas lamps and the night belonged to those who weren't afraid of the dark.
He wasn't born a vampire. No. He chose it. Back in 1789, amid the chaos of the French Revolution, when blood ran in rivers across the Paris bridges.
A refugee from ruined aristocracy, Gérard found his immortality in the embrace of an ancient being whose name has long been erased from memory.
Since then he has built an empire not of gold, but of influence, binding with ties of blood and loyalty everyone who could strengthen his power.
The clan isn't large, only about a dozen souls, but every single one is a key to the machinery of New York.
They don't gather around a dinner table. Their meetings take place in the dark halls of forgotten mansions, where the air is thick with secrets and the metallic taste of fresh blood.
Gérard rarely shows himself. He prefers to rule from the shadows, whispering orders through his 'children.'
But his will is law. Those who disobey vanish quietly, like morning mist."
He paused, letting the weight of the names settle in the air.
Bruno raised an eyebrow.
"So if someone knows too much…"
"…their case gets closed," the man nodded.
"Or they disappear during an arrest.
Any move we make, he'll see it first. And he'll act first."
Flash, short and emotionless:
"So the police are his first line of defense."
"Richard Hale. Chief of Police. One of the oldest in the clan. Turned in the 1860s during the American Civil War. He brought military skills, discipline, strategy, and ruthless efficiency with him.
Tall, with graying temples he keeps for the appearance of 'humanity,' Hale looks like the ideal of law enforcement: crisp suit, badge on his chest, eyes that drill into your soul.
But beneath the mask is a suppression machine. He personally oversees the 'special protocols': nighttime arrests where anyone suspected of rebellion simply evaporates.
His department is a network of informants. Every patrol officer knows, one wrong step and you become food.
Hale doesn't like getting his hands dirty. For that he has vampires who hunt in the alleys, erasing traces of anyone who gets too close to the truth."
He fell silent again.
The woman beside him gave a tiny shudder, barely visible, but everyone heard her boot scrape against the concrete.
"Elizabeth Crawford," the man continued in the same flat, almost mechanical voice. "The heart of the clan's medical empire. Turned in the 1920s, during Prohibition and the era of back-alley clinics. She is deceptive beauty personified, slender, with an eternal smile that never reaches her eyes.
Her hospitals are a facade of care. Donors come in for 'voluntary' check-ups and give their blood.
Crawford controls Prime-Blood, the synthetic blood that makes vampires stronger but ties them to the clan.
The hospital network, the donation centers,everything is under Elizabeth Crawford's control."
The woman whispered:
"She… smiles. Always. Even when they take people down to the basements."
The man went on without pause:
"Crawford controls the blood supply, the drugs, Prime-Blood.
All medical records pass through her.
If a patient disappears from the paperwork, they died of 'complications.'
No traces. No questions."
Ethan's fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
"So Maria was right under her nose."
"Yes," the man answered softly.
"And far too close."
Bruno gave a disgusted snort.
"Don't tell me the food too…"
"Yes," the survivor nodded.
He listed them without breaking rhythm:
"Michael Reeves. Master of provisions. Relatively young in the clan, turned in the 1950s during the post-war hunger years.
Short, stocky, with a face that seems kind. He runs the warehouses and rations.
Humanitarian aid, he distributes food to the loyal, making them dependent. To the disobedient he cuts portions, pushing them toward 'voluntary' donation. Reeves isn't openly cruel. He prefers hunger as a weapon.
His networks stretch from farms outside the city to street-level distribution points."
Flash grimaced.
"Control through dependency."
"Exactly. The loyal get food. Everyone else… becomes a volunteer."
Ethan already knew the answer, but he still asked quietly, almost without hope:
"The elections?"
"Corvin Kane," the man said.
"Gérard's right hand. A truly vile piece of work."