Page 49 of His Dark Vendetta

“Give me the passcode to unlock it. Tell me who you need to call to reschedule your interviews.”

My mouth hung open, the lump of bread stuck between my teeth.

“And don’t get any ideas,” he warned. “I’m putting it on speaker.”

I swallowed and gaped at him. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well… I’m not about to be compared to Ciarán Shaughnessy.”

I nodded, dumbstruck by the conflict plainly written in the twitch of his jaw and the way he shifted his weight.

“I need to get to work,” he snapped. “Let’s make this quick.”

I got down from the barstool. “Excuse me.”

He moved out of my way.

I went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water.

Nothing made sense. Not him keeping me here and certainly not this latest foray into benevolence, however reluctant or relative. But one thing was clear—I needed to get out of there. I needed to escape Luca Moretti’s bizarre jail. And once I did? I needed to get out of Boston, away from Luca and back to safety.

ChapterSixteen

Luca

Sunday nights at The Dollhouse were slow, at least the front of the house. Trixie thrust her breasts forward and pressed her backside against the pole, gripping it over her head. She slinked down its length until she squatted at its base, knees spread wide. The handful of regulars around the stage chatted, drank, and smoked cigars, only half tuned in to the mostly naked woman writhing in front of them under the stage lights. A few patrons watched the Sox play Tampa—what a shitty game. The rest of the club was empty beneath the dim lights and thin layer of cigar smoke.

I walked past the bar and lifted my chin to Joe the bartender, a grizzled, tight-lipped blood demon as old as Boston itself. It was a common misconception that blood demons didn’t age. We did, although not in the same way as humans and not at the same rate. Somewhere between forty-five and sixty, blood demons reached maturity, and with each passing year, the rate at which we aged decreased logarithmically until it appeared as though we weren’t aging at all. That’s why you had so many blood demons walking around looking like they were fifty, fifty-five years old.

But no amount of immortality could erase the signs of a hard life or hard living. Years wore you down, immortal or not. You could see it in their eyes, the way they drilled right through you. Or in the set of their faces. It took a lot to ruffle the feathers of an old bird. They’d lived too long and seen too much.

Vito was like that—the way he looked at you, the way he held himself, his patience. And he was only a hundred and forty, give or take. Not even middle-aged by blood demon standards.

Through the double doors, the back of the house was as big as the front and where we made our real money on Sunday nights. Written off as offices for the Valenzano Trading Company, the rooms off the main hallway provided spaces for private dances and appointments with Sources. They were locked now, but in an hour, blood demons would start arriving for their meals, and I’d have four revolving doors to monitor.

Down the hall and through another set of doors, my office and the girls’ dressing room occupied the rest of the property. I poked my head into the dressing room, ready to take out my pent-up frustration on the girls if the place still looked like a shithole. Luckily for them and for my sanity, they’d created a semblance of order. The floor and countertops were visible, and I didn’t spot a single empty pizza box.

Laura, Dani, Mia, and Jenny were dressed and ready for the night. They lounged on the couches and flipped through magazines. Dani and Mia sipped Kool-Aid.

“Jenny.” She looked at me with doe eyes, and I groaned inwardly. I didn’t want to deal with her tonight, but I needed to feed. Probably needed a blowjob too. Take the fucking edge off. “Room three. Twenty minutes.”

She smiled like she’d won the lottery. “Okay, Luca.”

I pointed a finger at her. “No blow before I feed, capisce?”

“Fine,” she said, irritated.

I hated that shit. I could taste the coke in her blood. It was bitter and foul and made me even more neurotic. And twitchy. It was getting really fucking old.

Across the hall, the main office was as big if not bigger than the dressing room, complete with a fridge and small bar, lounge chairs, and a window, a nice feature when your boss has a cigar permanently wedged between his lips. Speaking of the demon, Vinnie Valenzano sat at the card table across from Gio playing poker. I walked around them to my desk.

“Nice of you to show up for work,” Vinnie said, not bothering to look up from his cards or remove the cigar from between his teeth.

I took off my suit jacket, slung it over the back of the chair, and leaned against my desk. “I was here earlier. Made sure everything was in order.”

He puffed on his cigar. “Everyone around here’s on their own fucking schedule,” he grumbled and tossed a couple of chips into the pot. “Taking their damn time.”

Gio grunted. “Sì, sì.”

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