How Does 'These Violent Delights' End For Juliette And Roma?

Reading 'These Violent Delights' was an emotional rollercoaster, especially with how characters meet their ends. The most impactful death for me was Roma Montagov’s cousin, Benedikt. He dies protecting Roma during a brutal gang confrontation, sacrificing himself to give Roma time to escape. The scene is heartbreaking because Benedikt had always been the voice of reason in the Montagov family, trying to temper Roma’s impulsiveness. His death isn’t just a physical loss—it shatters Roma emotionally, making him question his leadership and the cycle of violence between the Scarlet Gang and the White Flowers. Another pivotal death is Marshall Seo, Juliette Cai’s loyal right-hand man. He’s killed by a monster—the literal madness infesting Shanghai—while trying to protect Juliette. Marshall’s death hits hard because he represents the collateral damage of the feud. He wasn’t even part of the gang rivalry; he was just someone who cared deeply for Juliette. His demise forces her to confront the real cost of power and revenge, stripping away her illusions about control. The deaths in this book aren’t just about shock value. They serve as turning points, exposing the futility of the gangs’ war and the personal toll it takes. Each loss peels back layers of the characters’ motivations, revealing their vulnerabilities and pushing them toward change. The violence isn’t glamorized—it’s messy, tragic, and ultimately transformative.

I've been deep into 'These Violent Delights' by Chloe Gong, and let me tell you, the spice level is more of a slow burn than a five-alarm fire. The romance between Juliette and Roma is charged with tension, but it's the kind that simmers under the surface, making every glance and touch feel electric. The book focuses more on the emotional and political stakes, with the romantic moments being intense but not overly explicit. If you're looking for something with a lot of steamy scenes, this might not hit the mark, but the chemistry between the characters is undeniable. The setting of 1920s Shanghai adds a layer of intrigue and danger that makes their connection even more compelling.

The monsters in 'These Violent Delights' are born from a mix of human greed and ancient alchemy gone wrong. The story hints that a secret society of alchemists in 1920s Shanghai tried to create immortality elixirs, but instead unleashed these creatures. They’re not natural—they’re twisted experiments, part human, part something else, with elongated limbs and mouths that split too wide. The scariest part? They spread like a disease, infecting others through bites or blood. The novel suggests these monsters are metaphors for colonialism’s corruption, physically manifesting the chaos of a city torn between foreign influence and local resistance. Their origins tie directly to the protagonist’s family history, revealing dark secrets buried in Shanghai’s underworld.

As someone who's read both 'These Violent Delights' and Shakespeare's original, I can confirm it absolutely is a retelling—but with way more blood and political intrigue. The star-crossed lovers trope gets a 1926 Shanghai makeover, where the Montagues and Capulets become rival gangs controlling the city's underworld. Juliette Cai and Roma Montagov mirror their Shakespearean counterparts with their forbidden romance, but their world is packed with monster-hunting, poison kisses, and a terrifying contagion spreading through the streets. The core tragedy remains, but the stakes feel fresh with added layers of colonialism and identity crises. If you liked the original's tension but wished for more action, this delivers.

I just finished 'These Violent Delights' and immediately went hunting for more. Good news—it has a sequel called 'Our Violent Ends,' which wraps up the explosive romance and gang wars between Juliette and Roma. The stakes get even higher with biological weapons, betrayals, and that heart-stopping finale. The author, Chloe Gong, also wrote 'Foul Lady Fortune,' a spin-off set in the same universe but years later, following a superpowered assassin during the Second Sino-Japanese War. If you loved the original’s blend of historical Shanghai and fantasy, these are must-reads. Gong’s writing stays sharp, and the new characters? Chef’s kiss.

The 1920s Shanghai backdrop in 'These Violent Delights' isn't just scenery—it's a character itself. The city's jazz-filled streets and opium dens ooze danger, mirroring the tension between the rival gangs. Foreign concessions create a powder keg of colonial power plays, forcing characters to navigate both local turf wars and international politics. The glamour of flapper dresses clashes with bloody alleyway brawls, showing how progress and violence coexist. Shanghai's riverfront becomes a battleground for control, while its underground tunnels hide secrets that fuel the plot. This era's social upheaval amplifies the protagonists' struggles, making their choices feel urgent and their world vibrantly alive.

I've read 'Blood Meridian' more times than I can count, and its violence isn't just shock value—it's the backbone of the book's brutal honesty about the American frontier. Cormac McCarthy doesn't flinch from showing the raw, unromanticized truth of that era, where survival often meant slaughter. The prose itself feels like a knife scraping bone: sparse, sharp, and relentless. The Glanton gang's atrocities aren't glorified; they're laid bare in a way that forces you to confront the darkness lurking in humanity's scramble for power. The Judge, that towering nightmare of a character, embodies this philosophy—his speeches about war being the ultimate game make violence feel inevitable, almost natural. It's not gratuitous; it's geological, like erosion carved into the narrative. The book's violence also serves as a mirror to its landscape. The desert isn't just a setting; it's a character that grinds down everyone equally, indifferent to morality. Scenes like the massacre at the ferry aren't exciting—they're exhausting, numbing, which I think is intentional. McCarthy strips away any notion of heroism, leaving only the mechanics of cruelty. Even the language reflects this: sentences about scalpings are delivered with the same detached rhythm as descriptions of campfire meals. That consistency makes the violence feel woven into the fabric of existence in that world, not tacked on for drama. The absence of traditional plot armor drives it home—when characters die mid-sentence, it underscores how cheap life was in that time and place.

Comparing 'American Psycho' the movie to Brett Easton Ellis's novel is like comparing a flickering candle to a wildfire. The book drowns you in grotesque, hyper-detailed violence—Patrick Bateman’s murders are described with clinical precision, from the tools he uses to the way blood spatters. It’s relentless, almost numbing. The film, while brutal, had to tone it down for ratings. Scenes like the rat torture or the homeless man’s mutilation are omitted entirely. Even the infamous chainsaw moment feels tame next to the book’s slow, methodical carnage. The novel’s violence isn’t just physical; it’s psychological. Pages of brand-name obsessions and hollow dialogue lull you before hitting with graphic horror. The movie captures Bateman’s detachment but can’t replicate the book’s suffocating monotony, which makes the violence even more jarring. Ellis forces you to linger on every cut; the film lets you look away. Both are disturbing, but the book is a marathon of dread.