For Notes on Characterization and Trigger Warnings, Read This:

This is my newest Klaine story. It is an AU story in a slightly AU world, but that is all explained in the context of the story. This story does contain dark!Blaine, but I intend to explore how he got to that character from canon!Blaine, he is broken down and his layers are pulled back. Same with Kurt, who is a bit more placant and timid in the beginning of this story (although it is very much the broken down Kurt that we saw in Grilled Chesus and in his bullying arch).

While this story will not contain explicit sex scenes, there is implied sex and that is of dubious consent of the coerced sex variety. This will not be glorified, but be explored within the context of the story as a troublesome and problematic. While there are, yes, romantic elements in this story, it is a dark romance that does not lose sight of the consequence. If dubcon this is troubling for you, you shouldn't read this story.

Chapter 1

In 1933, the Congress of the United States of America did not pass the potential twenty-first amendment to the United States Constitution, which would had repealed the prohibition of alcohol.

The Prohibition had been started with the intentions that getting rid of alcohol would create a better society, happier families, and less crime. However, the unintended result was that bootlegging alcohol became the economic force that pushed organized crime from being gambling and prostitution rings to something big and profitable and powerful. It was what made people like Al Capone into household names. And these organizations were smart enough to know that if alcohol became legal again, they would lose their biggest moneymaker.

So, circles of organized crime across the country informally pulled resources, and threatened, bribed, and blackmailed the great Congressmen of the United States to vote down what would have been the twenty-first amendment.

Decades past, the millennium turned, the Prohibition stood. There were cues and hits and shifts in power, but mafias and mobs and crime rings reigned in major and not-so-major cities across the United States of America. Come 2014, Long Island was practically run by Blaine Anderson.

Blaine Anderson eyed the singing boy on the stage he lounged on the chair at his reserved table. Anderson was a handsome man in his mid-twenties, but few saw it. For he was also a hardened man and that was reflected in his reputation proceeding him, in the scowl on his face, and in his eyes like ice – if not in color, but in emotion.

He had a cigarette and a scotch on the rocks and his tie hung loose by an inch. He sat alone, but his bodyguard stood off to the side. Blaine was capable of taking care of himself, but he had a lot of enemies. Though, any of them would be stupid to step into this joint to cause trouble. He owned it, technically, he like he owned every business in this town, having his organization's dirty money in it. Plus, there were more than a few of his associate's here tonight, also relaxing in their off hours.

What Blaine was interested in was the piece on stage. They always had good talent here at New Directions Tavern and not just pretty faces. Too many places focused on just having good looks in the spotlight, but it often made Blaine's ears bleed. He knew a thing or two about music. There was a rotation of singers at this speakeasy. A Jewish girl with quite a set of lungs seemed to be the favorite. Blaine couldn't recall her name. None really held his attention before.

The young man was stunning. Porcelain, pale skin; high cheek bones; wide shoulders, and a slim waist, although he looked a little swamped in his suit, like he had recently lost some weight.

"Schuester!" Blaine called as the proprietor walked by.

"Mr. Anderson. What can I get you?"

Blaine suppressed a smirk at the man's immediate response.

"Who's that?" he asked, waving a hand at the stage.

"Our performer?" Schuester asked, a bit stunned. Blaine Anderson usually came for the drinks, but never showed any interest in the talent, or anyone else, before.

Blaine just raised an eyebrow at the question.

"Ah – his name is Kurt Hummel. He started here last month."

"Where's he from?"

"In town."

"That all?"

"I don't ask too many questions. All I need is for them to be able to sing."

"Alright. That's all."

Schuester opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, but then thought better of it and left.

Blaine drained his drink and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Puck," he said, waving over his bodyguard. "We're done here."

"Hey, boss."

"Santana," Blaine greeted us he shucked his overcoat.

She was seated in the front room, legs crossed, looking immaculate as ever in a business suit and a slicked back ponytail.

"You're here late," he said, then sat down in the armchair across from her.

"Just wanted to see if you need anything before you called it a night."

"You've never been that considerate."

Santana just smirked a sweet little smirk of hers.

"But now that you are here – I need you to find me everything about Kurt Hummel. Where he's from, whose his family, any skeletons in the closet."

"Hummel. Okay. What's he's – a new, idealic cop we have to deal with?"

"Not exactly," Blaine said. He stood up and started toward the grand staircase. It was time to sleep. Santana stood too.

"What you came here for," Blaine said over his shoulder when he reached the bottom step. "Is it about Brittany?"


"Tell Wes tomorrow morning. It will be taken care of."

It was quiet and Blaine didn't acknowledge it, but she said it, always, anyway. "Thank you."

"Kurt Hummel," Santana said, flipping open a manila folder. It had been two days since their midnight meeting, but Blaine had come down stairs this morning to find Santana sitting at the dining room, sipping coffee and eating pastry, from the breakfast his housekeeper – Mrs. Hudson – had set out.

"Age twenty," she said.

"Young," Blaine commented.

"Mother deceased, in a car accident that seem s to be a legitimate accident. Father, Burt Hummel, auto mechanic. Runs his own shop, all on the up and up. Kurt, currently employed as a singer at New Directions Tavern, although –," Santana pegged Blaine with a look, "I assume you already knew that."

Santana flipped through a few pages. "I've got his school records here. Nothing outstanding. Good student, overall… then comes the interesting part."

"You're pulling me along," Blaine commented.

"I just like my work to be appreciated."

"Don't I pay you enough?"

"Hmm, one would think."

"On with the 'interesting part' please."

"Well, three months ago, his father had a heart attack. The man was in a coma for several days. Didn't think he would pull through, but he did. Two months ago, the Hummel's sell their house. Their business is going under without Burt healthy enough to run it. Turns out Burt Hummel needs a transplant, until he works his way up that transplant list, his treatment is very expensive, on top of all those other medical bills they're paying from Burt's first stay in the hospital."

Blaine put down his fork. "Good job."

Santana stood and tugged straight her shirt. "I'd ask what you wanted that for, but I know you wouldn't tell me. But I'm going to take one of these back for Brittany," she said, plucking up another pastry and wrapping it in a clothe napkin. "They're divine."

Blaine sat with the folder of information on this Kurt Hummel, reading it through and though. Santana was right in that he wouldn't have answered the question of what he this for, but not for the reasons she would believe. Truthfully, he didn't know. As a crime lord, he had to have good reasons for each of his carefully calculated moves – to keep in power, to keep a step ahead of the authorities and his rivals, too keep the respect and loyalty of his the men and women that worked under him, and keep the fear of the public. Kurt Hummel didn't fit into any of that.

Yet Blaine couldn't get the boy off his mind.

"Sir, may I interrupt."

Blaine snapped Kurt's folder shut and looked up to see his second-in-command Wes standing in the doorway to Blaine's office.

"Do come in, and shut the door."

When Wes came to sit across from Blaine, Wes said, "The Smyth clan is becoming active again."

"The Smyths are nothing. Their head is a senile, old man – ever since his son died from an unfortunate case of food poisoning three years ago," Blaine said, and Wes smirked at the memory.

"Well, the long lost grandson has come back from school in Europe and they are treating him like the return of the Messiah."

Blaine placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. "Do we know anything about him?"

"Apparently he's a cocky little shit."

Blaine chuckled at Wes' bluntness. "Keep an ear to the ground. We'll squash him quickly if he tries anything."

Wes nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And pull on connections to find out everything you can about the Smyth heir."

"Know thy enemy," Wes said.

Blaine leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, eyes closed. When they opened, Wes was still sitting there, making no indication of leaving.

"Something else, Wes?"

Wes shifted forward in his chair. "Blaine – " he started and Blaine knew with the use of his given name it was a shift from a business visit into a friend visit. "This is a tough business. Harsh. Cruel. And if you don't have something to balance that out… I mean, I have Laura –"

"Wes," Blaine started.

"Please, hear me out," Wes said. When Blaine did nothing more to silence him, he continued. "I'm not saying that you should go out and fall in love. I understand why you wouldn't want to after Jer-. The point is, you need something to find joy in. It could be a pet cat or a model plane building for all I care. Just something."

Blaine blinked and Wes was tense.

"I'll take it under consideration."

It had been a week since Blaine had first spied Kurt Hummel when he found himself back again at New Directions. He had Santana confirm that the boy would be performing again this night.

"Should I arrange for a guest to stay over?" she had replied with a coy, raised eyebrow.


Santana said nothing more, but was undeterred in her attitude.

"Mis – Mister Anderson," Schuester fumbled. He seemed flustered. "Can I help you?"

"My usual drink… and that Hummel kid, send him over here when he's done on stage."

"Kurt?" Schuester asked, a wrinkled forehead betraying his confusion. "Why? I mean – he's just a –"

"It's not your business why," Blaine said, voice going dark. "Just send him over."

Schuester must've been shaken, for he instantly agreed and then disappeared. He even sent the bartender, Finn, over with Blaine's drink rather than coming himself. Finn was the housekeeper's, Mrs. Hudson's son, although Blaine had never had more than a few, brief interactions with him. He was dimwitted and harmless. Blaine had gotten him this job here, steady and out of the way of violence, as a favor to Mrs. Hudson, who had been nothing but a loyal and dependable member of his household for years.

Kurt was on stage again at the moment. His voice was high and clear and full of emotion. Not the voice you'd expect from a young man, but that was part of the intrigue.

The set didn't end for a half hour. Kurt left the stage to moderate applause to be replaced by that popular girl. Rachel, she introduced herself.

A few moments later, Schuester was walking over with the boy at his side. They stopped at the edge of his table. Up close, the young man looked tired, but no less handsome.

"Kurt, this is Mr. Anderson. Mr. Anderson, Kurt."

Kurt nodded silently. He seemed anxious, but that made sense. Catching Blaine Anderson's attention had the high potential for danger.

"Have a seat," Blaine said, directing the statement to Kurt, then to Schuester. "That is all."

Blaine always sat with his back against the wall, his table cinched against the side wall and a pillar running up the wall. He had already moved the other chair, usually unoccupied to next to his side of the table.

Kurt stiffly moved around the table and sat down. Blaine leaned back in his chair and surveyed the young man up close. He was pleased with what he saw.

"You know who I am," Blaine said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Kurt blinked down and up, drawing Blaine's attention to the boy's long lashes.

"Good," he said, punctuating his statement by putting down his empty glass. "I know who you are too."

"I'm no one," Kurt replied, startled.

"True," Blaine conceded. "You're father though…" Kurt's eyes snapped up to meet Blaine's. "He's ill, isn't he? Bad heart. Lots of unpaid medical bills. Needs a transplant. Business going under. Had to sell your house."

"So?" Kurt said. Blaine supposed it was meant to come out as a challenge, but there was a tremor in his voice, and a hand gripped tightly on the chair's edge. Maybe Blaine didn't pay Santana enough.

"So… I can take care of all that. I have enough money to pay all the bills. Have enough respect to get your father's name moved up the transplant list."

Kurt remained silent. Blaine continued, "Of course, I don't give out such favors without something given in return."

"But –" the boy started. He must have felt some gift was being dangled in front of him only to be snatched away. "I have nothing."

"Oh, Kurt," he said, quiet obviously surveying the young man's body up and down. "You have a lot to give."

Kurt had followed his gaze and looked up at Blaine in shock. "You want me?"

"I have a stressful job. I need something to balance it out."

The boy took a shuddering breath. "What exactly are you proposing?" There was a sense of defeat in those words.

A thrill of victory stung through Blaine's nerves.

"I do all I said I could… take care of your debts, bills, get your father the best doctors in the city. Get him that heart. In return, you're mine. You'll live in my house and stay out of the way except for when I have need of you."

He saw Kurt's Adam's apple bob up and down as he gulped.

"Okay," Kurt whispered. "I'll do it."

Aki- So, do you like it?

Also, I have the next chapter written, but I have to type it up (and also, I have to finish another Klaine fanfiction, but it is a few chapters from completion, but I am just going to fluctuate between working on this one and that one).