March 15, 1922 Manhattan, New York

Charles' POV:

I hopped off the train to Manhattan late one evening, instrument in hand as I stumbled toward the club.

Prohibition had really put a damper on my ability to book gigs, since apparently people only wanted to listen to Jazz while they were drinking.

Luckily I'd seemed to catch a break, unlike many other performers in the area. Yes, I was poor, but I was far luckier than many of my colleagues. I'd managed to keep a stable job, even in these uncertain times. It didn't pay much, but it was enough to keep the lights on and bread on the table.

I looked at the business card in my hand. Robert Scotts. 1753 Broadway Avenue.. entrance to the club behind the old bookcase in the corner. Password is Hoover.

I frowned lightly as I followed the address. I couldn't believe it. My first real gig in months.. and it was in an underground bar, hidden behind a bookcase.

But I guess any gig was better than nothing, no matter how small. Money was awfully tight, especially now that my wife had filed for divorce. She'd lost all her money gambling, which meant that I know had to pay for the proceedings.

In my wildest dream I never thought I'd be working for a man like Robert Scotts. Growing up just a few train stops away from the bustling streets of Manhattan on the Long Island Sound, meant I'd heard all the city's hottest gossip.

Everyone in town knew that Scotts was a crook. Some even said he was a notorious gangster. But of course, having never met the man, I couldn't very well form my own opinion.

I made my way to the address I'd been given, hoping this gig would give me enough money to pay my lawyers. The once bustling streets of Manhattan were now oddly quiet, not even the newspaper salesmen were out peddling their hopeless swill.

I rolled my eyes as I strolled into the abandoned building, searching for the telltale bookcase. The books were all old and covered in dust.

Though I guess no one ever really came here for the books anyway. Prohibition had really taken its toll on everyday life, meaning people would come from miles around just to get a drop of booze. Which was good for performers like me, I guess, as the drunkards were always the best tippers.

I slowly approached the dusty bookcase, pulling a book towards me to open the secret door.

"Password?" The voice came from a small boxlike speaker in the wall.

I checked the note in my pocket, nodding slowly. "Hoover," I stated confidently.

The door behind the bookcase swung open, and I was greeted by an attendant, who I assumed to be working for Mr. Scotts.

"Ah, Mr. Milton! Welcome to Scotts Place, finest jazz club in Manhattan. Please come in, we've been expecting you."

I nodded slowly, stepping into the small room. The overwhelming scents of booze and cheap perfume flooded my senses as I was escorted to the stage.

A strange man stood in the corner, smirking lightly. Dressed in all black, his piercing blue eyes were the only facial feature visible within the dimly lit room.

"Ah, Milton!" he spoke. "We meet at last, old sport. Come, I've been expecting you."

So that's him. The infamous Robert Scotts.

I stepped forward to shake his extended hand, smiling softly. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Scotts," I whispered.

"Oh, no need to be so formal, Milton. Please, call me Robert."

I nodded slowly, albeit a bit weary of the man's intentions. His smile was dangerously crooked, his cold eyes staring across the room at one of the waitresses, who I'd just assumed to be his wife.

"Well, we've certainly no time for pleasantries. Madeline darling, could you please set the stage for Mr. Milton's performance?"

A young woman nodded from across the room, rushing to take the saxophone case from my hands.

"Quite a doll, isn't she?" Robert asked, slinging an arm around my shoulders as he watched the girl.

So that was her. Madeline Scotts, the most beautiful woman in all Manhattan.

She looked far too young and lively to be married to a man like Robert, who in his old age had thinning brown hair and wrinkling skin.

I shook my head nervously and took the stage. As I began my performance however, I couldn't keep the young girl from my mind. And as she danced, the audience cheered.

She was indeed an angel. The way her hips moved to the music was unlike anything I'd ever seen. She was absolutely mesmerizing, her beauty unmatched by any other woman in the world.

This woman enveloped my senses, making it difficult for me to concentrate on the music.

Madeline Scotts truly was a girl like no other.