Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heavy, sultry air of 1920s New Orleans clung to the streets like a secret, thick with the scent of cigar smoke and the low hum of jazz pouring from the speakeasies. A city that never sleeps where deals were made in shadows, and the line between sin and survival blurred with each passing day.

The Hazbin Hotel, a towering, gothic structure at the edge of the French Quarter, loomed over the city like a dark promise. It was more than just a refuge for the damned—it was the throne of power in this part of Louisiana, where the most feared mob boss in New Orleans held court: Don Lucifer Morningstar.

Lucien, the Devil himself, was the king of this dark empire, his influence stretching across every street and back alley of the Crescent City. The mere whisper of his name could send shivers down the spine of even the most hardened criminals. He ruled with a mix of charm and terror, his eyes always gleaming with a mix of cunning and amusement. Every move in this deadly game was nothing more than grand entertainment to him.

His daughter, Charlie Morningstar, was the heir to his empire but she was a different breed. Where Lucien was cold and calculating, Charlie had a dangerous spark of hope—a desire to bring something better to the damned souls under their rule. But in this world, hope was a weakness, and Lucien knew it. He watched her with a mix of pride and concern, always ready to pull the strings if she threatened to unravel the carefully woven tapestry of their control.

Alastor, the Radio Demon, was Lucien’s right hand, a consigliere with a devilish grin and a talent for making problems disappear. He thrived in the chaos of New Orleans, his loyalty to Lucien unquestionable, though his motives were often shrouded in mystery. Together, they held the city in their grip, their power absolute, yet always under threat.

As the fog rolled in from the Mississippi River, thickening the night, whispers of a new challenger began to spread—a rival family, rising from the shadows, with ambitions to take the throne from the Morningstars. And in the heart of the Crescent City, where the streets pulsed with danger and desire, the Hazbin Hotel was about to become the epicenter of a war that could tear the city apart, and force even the Devil himself to defend his crown.

A 50 acre land named "Old Lady Susan's" where the trees are left upkept, the moss is covering the grass and trees, and the house has a permanent stain of green and yellow from unwashed pollen. The owner of the property Susan was relaxing in an old rocker on the front porch listening to nature. Her eye cracks open at the sound of boots on the creaky wooden steps along with low voices of Lucien and Alastor coming back from what she supposed was an outing. Her old eyes land on Lucien and before he can make it to the last step she is out of the rocking chair and shuffling towards them "Lucien! Are you doing alright you old duck?"

She ignored the audible groan from the taller man when they were stopped by her only to in turn receive a sharp bony elbow to his side causing him to stumble a bit and get the slightest desire to push Lucien back down the stairs they just came up. Lucien turned his attention away from the older woman to look towards Alastor, “Do you have something you wanna say, Al?” He asked with one thick brow raised while his blue eyes slowly raked up the taller man’s form taking in the slightly tight smile that adorned his face.

“Not at all, Lucien.” He almost gritted out through his smile as his brown eyes looked towards Susan narrowing slightly before he had the nerve to speak to her himself, “If you will excuse us Susan we have a matter to address.” He said before grabbing the smaller man’s arm and almost dragging him inside the house. Before Lucien could protest he was roughly sat down in a chair next to the crumbling fireplace. “What the hell was that for Al?” He asked, looking up at the taller man in question.

“Must you be so daft Luci?” He said slowly, taking a seat of his own across from him coughing a bit when he roused some dust that was still buried deep in the cushions.

“What are you talking about, Al?” Lucifer spoke up after a moment trying to remember what the taller man was talking about. “The papers Luci! The article talking about the newest mob that has made itself known?” He asked, pushing the round wire framed glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.

Lucien tapped his chin, his blue eyes looking anywhere but the taller man as he thought for a moment, “Well yea I’ve read the papers but what makes you think they could do anything? We are the most feared mob in this damn city.” He scoffed leaning back into the chair, his eyes now focused on the taller man across from him. “Ugh, I suppose you are right Lucien,” He said hesitantly, leaning back into the cushions himself crossing his long legs.

Alastor sighed and reached a hand up to run through his hair before he spoke “Well now I must get into contact with Rosalyn to see if she has any other information on this new competition.” He said softly before standing up taking a moment to dust off his clothes taking one last glance at Lucien before nodding and leaving the room quietly leaving the blonde to sit there quietly and digest the conversation that had just taken place.

Alastor picked up the landline using a slender finger to turn the dial, putting in Rosie’s number with ease and memory. As he waited listening to the incessant ringing waiting for his long time friend to pick up absently tapping his foot until he heard a click and then a bubbly sweet voice on the other line, “Hello?” Rosie said before she heard the familiar voice of her old time friend.

“Rosie, I require your skill and brains, my dear” Alastor said his foot had long since stopped tapping against the floor when Rosie answered

“Alastor! I thought I wouldn’t hear from you for some time. What can I do to help you, doll?” She asked before going quiet waiting to see what he needed.

“I need you to see what you can dig up on this new mob that’s now made itself known, dear” He said quietly as one of his slender fingers came up to play with the coiled phone cord. “Oh! Are they actually trying to trend on our territory?” She giggled at the baffling thought.

Alastor turned at the sound of sudden footsteps descending the stairs turning to look at who decided to join them only to be greeted by the tall blonde man looking like he had just been roused from a good sleep.

“Ah! Apologies Rosie dear but I will have to call you back later let me know what you uncover.” Alastor said, hanging the phone back on its holder with a sharp click knowing he’d get an earful later from Rosie.

Alastor turned to look towards the blonde man that had joined him in the hallway “ Good day to you Anthony!” He said with a chipper tone the tall blonde’s heterochromic eyes looked at Alastor a bit confused.

“Uh good day t’ ya too Al,” Anthony said, reaching up to run a hand through the blonde mop that adorned his head “What was that weird phone call about?” He asked, staring at the man in question.

“That is not of importance Anthony” Alastor said, turning full towards him with a tense smile. “Uh, alright did ya need something from me?” The blonde asked, tilting his head slightly as he wore a slight nervous smile.

“Of course! I need you to fulfill a task that needs to be dealt with immediately,” Alastor said, his smile never wavering as he settled his hands against the small of his own back.

“You know I hate tha’ smile. It never leads to someone staying alive. Who’s the target?”

Chapter Text

Anthony walked down the streets with a song whistling happily to himself. His feet tapped against the pavement, almost dancing as the words repeated in his mind. “You know I hate tha’ smile. It never leads to someone staying alive. Who’s the target?” was the last thing Anthony remembered before Alastor gave him a quick debrief of the ‘target’: an older man in his late 50’s by the name of Louie de Montmorency who, from what he gathered, asked for Lucien’s help with opening a restaurant.

The restaurant in question, focusing on French and Creole-cuisine, was about a block from the French Quarter neighborhood full of bright, tall buildings with large, sparkling display windows. He walked down the crowded, cracked sidewalk; occasionally glancing into a shop display window as he passed. He was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when a glimpse of red fabric caught right outside his peripheral forcing him to stop and turn to look at the shop’s window in curiosity.

He looked at the red sparkling floor length dress with wonderment. It caught his attention and nearly made him forget his mission. He shook his head of the thought but made a note to return later. Turning on his heel, he continued on towards the restaurant where he was either supposed to get the money Lucien was owed or end up with more blood on his hands. As he walked through the crowded streets of downtown, he felt a tiny stone of anxiety drop in his stomach. But as he was trotting, the sudden smell of strong and alluring spices hit his nose, making him stop and take in a big lungful of air, allowing the smell to relax his anxious nerves just a little.

He turned towards the source and spotted his destination. The restaurant was the epitome of the grande and glam of New Orleans. He headed towards the entrance and sharply turned to the right. No need for the attention of every rich bigot in that place. Not yet, he would use the kitchen entrance for the poor fella. With swift long strides he arrives at the backdoor just as a busboy shakily throws away a garbage bag into the already full back alley.

“Hey handsome!” Anthony calls out giving a small wave.

The busboy looked up at the voice before his face contorted in disgust. “Ew, go away faggot! I’m not interested.”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, sweetheart.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, “Sadly, I’m here to discuss business with your boss. So why don’t you just let me in?” He smirks while reaching for the waistband of his pants, flashing his Colt 1911 pistol.

His flushed cheeks drained of color while his hands fiddled with the pockets of his apron. “Uh, y-yeah man just don’t hurt me.” He moved quickly to open the door and gestured for Anthony to enter.

“Oh, what a gentleman,” Anthony sarcastically commented as he passed by the busboy.

The kitchen was alive, humming with purpose and chaos. Heat radiated from the massive coal-fired stove at the center of the room, its surface a battlefield of bubbling pots and sizzling pans. Steam curled upwards, mixing with the sharp, savory tang of onions frying in butter and the earthy aroma of fresh bread pulled from the oven.

The light was stark, spilling from bare bulbs strung overhead, casting long shadows on the scuffed checkerboard tiles below. A long butcher block, its surface scarred with years of knife work, stood like a sentinel in the center of the room. Copper pots and pans hung in orderly rows along the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming in defiance of the frantic activity surrounding them.

At one end, a chef, tall and lean with broad-shoulders, sleek black hair pulled back into a tight bun, at a glance intricate tattoos of eyes lined his forearms, barked orders over the din; his voice was sharp as the knives flashing in the hands of his team. The younger cooks, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, worked furiously, chopping celery with a rhythm that matched the clatter of utensils. Behind them, a pastry chef hunched over a tray of éclairs. His hands were delicate and deliberate, as though shaping works of art instead of dessert. The flash of a name tag revealed him as Frank.

The icebox, a hulking white giant in the corner, emitted a faint metallic groan every time the door was pulled open, revealing treasures of fresh cream, meat, and butter. Shelves lined with jars of spices and preserved fruits gave off a kaleidoscope of color; their labels written in neat, looping script.

Through the swinging door, muffled laughter and clinking glasses seeped into the kitchen, a distant reminder of the glamorous crowd dining just beyond. But here, in the heart of the restaurant, there was no time for indulgence. The kitchen was a world unto itself—a place of heat and sweat, chaos and creation, where meals were forged like iron in a smithy’s fire.

Towards the back of the kitchen, there was a slightly worn wooden door with a golden plaque that read Louie de Montmorency.

Anthony knocked on the door.

“Whatever it is can wait!,” Came a slightly strained nasally voice.

Anthony doesn’t bother to announce his presence and pushes the door open.

The room was a study in contradiction: opulence and menace, refinement laced with the faint scent of danger. Warm, amber light spilled from an elaborate crystal chandelier, casting soft glimmers on the polished oak floors. A massive mahogany desk, its surface immaculate save for a gold-plated cigar cutter and an ashtray half-filled with the smoldering remains of hand-rolled cigars, dominated the room. Behind it loomed an overstuffed leather chair, its upholstery supple and gleaming, as though it had just been oiled. The man in question, Louie, sat there, nervously puffing a cigar.

Shelves lined the walls, laden with leather-bound books—some legitimate, others serving as hollowed-out hiding spots for ledgers and contraband. A discreet safe was set into the wall, its presence betrayed only by the faintest scratch marks on the surrounding wallpaper, an intricate Art Deco design in muted gold and emerald.

A Persian rug softened the room’s austere edges, its deep reds and intricate patterns tying together the desk, a pair of club chairs, and a low glass table set between them. On the table, a crystal decanter of bourbon and matching tumblers caught the light, their golden contents daring you to indulge.

The air was thick with the scent of leather, tobacco, and faint traces of cologne. Comfort was paramount here, but every detail—every subtle indulgence—whispered a warning: this wealth was hard-earned and well-protected. This was a room where power resided, a place where deals were made and betrayals ended.

“Not sure it can, Louie. The due date has arrived, daddy. Either pay up or get another hole.” Anthony shrugged. “ Your choice.”

“For fuck’s sake I need more time. Do you know how hard it is to run a restaurant, please–” Anthony boredly checked his nails, as Louie continued nervously rambling, “ W–wa–ait, wait! Fa–favors. I–I can give you connections. YES! Yes, connections, with some…eh… influential people I’ve met through the restaurant.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Ya know I work for da’ King, right? He’s already got connections.”

“We– well, th– these are special ones, from outta state, outta country even!”

He tilted his head in thought. “Hmmmm. Guess ya live another day, ya pussy! Let me get back to ya, with the big daddy’s decision.” With that he turned and left the office, weaving through the busy kitchen, and entered the back alley once more.

The punch came from the left, whipping his head to the side with the force. Anthony’s body followed along while grabbing his attacker’s sleeve, flinging them away. A sharp grunt burst out.

His wrist, reaching for his pistol, was wrenched away, while his back exploded in pain as he was brutally slammed against the wall by the attacker’s companion. A shocked gasp escaped his lips as his stomach met hardened knuckles.

The acid burned his throat as he retaliated with a palm smashing the guy's nose. Blood splattered his face. He twisted down and away, while his legs swiftly connected with the other’s.

A cacophony of trash, metal and shrieking cats accompanied heavy stomps.

He danced away from another punch. Adrenaline pumped through his veins when he whipped his hand back, striking a strong jawline.

Rustling had Anthony sharply turning to see stars. He blinked and the world turned horizontal. The crash of a trashlid caused his throbbing head to explode in pain. His already stinging stomach received a sharp kick, making the stars and bile return.

Groaning on the ground, the last thing he saw was two smirking mobsters and a dark figure stepping out of the shadows. Suddenly, he wished he had taken the time to try on that dress.