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VIoletta pushed open the door to the rundown apartment, and took a resolute stride inside. 

She was dressed in a slick, fashionable jacket, which boasted snappy silver buttons, and chic zebra print. 

Armando Iglesias, the proprietor of one of LA’s biggest up-and-coming goth clubs, and a bitter rival of the nosferatu Luke Lang, had recently met the final death. 

Sheriff Teach had told Violetta that he suspected Lang was behind the kill, and he had been given Prince Vannevar’s leave to deal with the problem accordingly.

“Mister Lang,” the ventrue greeted her target with icy, detached scorn, “I’ve heard some concerning things about the [i]Gorgon Pit[/i], and how you might be connected to its late owner.”

Vi lit herself a cigarette, with the scorching flame of her lighter. She slipped the straight into her mouth, and began puffing away.

“Miss Kyborowski,” Lang grunted at her, through rows of sharp, twisted teeth, “what brings a lovely little [i]polack[/i] like you down into the filth and much?” 

Lang’s abode was a messy jumble of old furniture, and scattered debris. He seemed to reside in a cluttered cave, that looked as though someone had dropped a bomb in a rubbish tip.

In the middle of the room, an old, baroque table had been turned upside down, and dumped on the floor.

“Nice piece.” Vi murmured, tightly wrapping her hand around one of the ornate wooden legs.

With a sharp crack, Violetta tore the table leg free, in a shower of jagged splinters.

She clutched the makeshift spike in her firm grasp. 

“Is there a reason yer stormin’ in here, ‘un breakin’ my furniture?” Lang growled.

“You know why I’m here,” she snapped, “because of Armando.”

Vi took a draw from her cigarette, fixing the nosferatu with a steely glare, whilst she blew out a mouthful of silvery grey smoke.

“You can’t tell me Vannevar is shedding tears over a chump like Armando Iglesias?!” Lang scoffed, letting out a throaty cackle, “that fucker was basically courting the second inquisition with his tatty fuckin’ goth club. I did the prince a favour!”

“The sixth tradition is sacred, Lang,” Vi told him, coldly, “we have laws for a reason.”

“Maybe it was an accident?” the nosferatu leered, “maybe I tripped, and nicked him with my knife?”

Violleta allowed herself one more drag of her cigarette, savouring the rich, familiar haze of nicotine. She cast the burning remains of her straight onto Lang’s floor, leaving it there to smolder, and crackle. 

“I don’t like being fooled around with.” Vi said, firmly.

“I ain’t a fool.” Lang snarled back at her. 

A potence-infused fist slammed into Violetta’s jaw, with what felt like the force of a frenzied haul truck. 

Vi let out a roar of pain, stumbling backwards. 

The nosferatu grabbed a hold of her lapel, and yanked her towards him, his breath stinking like an open sewer. 

“Fuck you! Camarilla cunt!” Lang growled, hissing at her, like a furious serpent, “who the fuck are you to judge me, you stuck up fuc-” 

The nosferatu let out a sudden gasp, as Vi plunged the sharp point of the broken table leg through his chest, and straight into his noxious heart. 

Lang froze up, trapped in motion, like a plastic mannequin. 

“Suck my dick, sewer rat.” Vi snarled. 

She wrapped both hands around the nosferatu’s throat, burrowing her talons into his flesh, and ripped his head clean off, with one mighty pull. 

A spurt of dark blood burst out of Lang’s corpse, like the jet of a furious fountain. His body shriveled and withered, contorting with age, as it tumbled to the ground, spewing toxic sanguine out of its twisted stump.

Violetta would have sooner drank from literal vermin than partake in that disgusting freak’s tainted blood. 

She gave his mangled cadaver a sharp kick, for good measure. 

Suddenly, Lang’s front door burst open. 

Violetta spun on her heel, just in time to see David come charging into the room.

“Vi!” He squeaked ,”shit just hit the fan?” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Teach called,” he explained, “I find it kind of hard to understand all these crazy cryptic codes the Camarilla make us use, but…” 

“What?” 

“It's Isaac Abrams,” David gulped, “he met the final death.”