Page 68 of His Dark Vendetta

The cop eyed us.

I tipped my head to the door beyond the front desk. “In with Mikey. Got here about twenty minutes before I did.” I answered her other question in Italian. “He got tackled on the job.” I doubted the idiot cop understood, but I kept my voice low regardless.

Gina’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line, but the judgment in her penetrating stare was edged with worry. Always a backdrop of worry.

The inner door buzzed, then opened, and Vito walked through. You wouldn’t know by the way he dressed or his deadpan features that he performed small surgery only a few hours ago in the dressing room of a strip club. Then again, Marco’s consigliere was anything but your run-of-the-mill lawyer.

Outside the gym, his classic three-piece suit screamed cutthroat attorney. He’d tamed his unruly curls, combing them back, and eliminated the usual stubble that usually covered his square jaw with a clean shave. But his stocky build, crooked nose, and an undercurrent of menace guarded him like a pit bull and told you not to cross Vito Balistreri outside the courtroom.

He spotted Gina and held out a hand. “Gina. Bene.” She took it, and he kissed her on both cheeks.

“Sta bene?” she asked.

“Andiamo fuori.” He turned to the cop at the front desk. “Mr. Barbieri’s second guest has arrived. Gina DeVita from the DeVita Foundation. We’re going to step outside to discuss my client’s case, then she’ll be back for her visit.” He didn’t wait for an answer, gesturing toward the door.

We exited the waiting room into the damp morning. Shallow pools of rainwater dotted the parking lot, the expanse of pavement covered in a sheen of wet. The sky had cleared to a calm, pristine blue, and the crisp air was fresh and clean, as if the events of the previous night had been washed away. Except they hadn’t. The evidence sat in a prison cell inside.

I had a meeting with Vinnie at one. I called him on my way over to assure him that the situation was under control and the half-million dollars’ worth of electronics safe in his Revere warehouse. It took the edge off his foul mood, but he wasn’t exactly pleased.

“Armed robbery, grand theft, and resisting arrest,” Vito said. “The bail hearing is Wednesday, but given the charges, it won’t be anything the DeVita Foundation can’t afford.”

Immigrants were drawn to areas where they knew someone or at least spoke the same language. But blood demons had another reason to stick to the Northeast—the DeVita Foundation. It provided not just community but representation, and no one wanted to travel too far from legal protection.

Blood demons as far south as Connecticut had the DeVita Foundation number either memorized or somewhere on their person. The average citizen rarely needed it, but in our line of business, that number was as important to survival as feeding. Marco’s team of lawyers, led by Vito, and immigrant services, led by Gina, kept our secret safe from law enforcement. They took responsibility for all blood demon affairs except the Source racket. Jail time was a death sentence for a blood demon without a means to feed. Our people were committed to protecting our secret and to consent, but when you’re starving, instinct threatens even the noblest convictions. The DeVita Foundation made sure no one had to face that situation.

“Any injuries?” Gina asked.

“No,” Vito said. “They roughed him up good, but not enough to cause questions.”

“When’s the last time he fed?”

“You’ll have to ask him. He looked healthy. Should be fine till you post bail.”

She nodded. “I’ll talk to him, make sure he doesn’t need a Source.” She moved for the door and grabbed Vito’s arm. He stiffened, and his eyes fixed on where Gina’s fingers wrapped around his elbow. “I’ll stay with him until you come back,” she said.

He gave her a terse nod.

She squeezed his arm and walked inside.

In less than a heartbeat, a lit cigarette materialized between Vito’s lips. He sucked it down in long drags, and I doubted it was only because of Mikey. Vito cared for Gina. They’d known each other for… longer than I’d been alive. He’d been as much a part of the DeVitas’ lives as my father. But the reverence with which he regarded Gina always made me wonder if his sentiments went beyond brotherly love.

“Kid, you are one unlucky son of a bitch,” Vito growled between puffs.

I snorted. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Talked to the cops before I talked to Mikey. One of the second-shift security guards at the warehouse forgot his fucking cell phone. Must’ve been inside when you started the lift. Saw the action when he came out and called the cops.”

“Dannazione.”

“Be glad that’s all it was and not an FBI tail.” He raised an eyebrow and placed the cigarette between his lips. “Or a setup.”

I shoved a hand into my hair and stared at my shoes. I’d been careful, followed all the rules—scoped the route, exchanged cars, used multiple locations—but you couldn’t account for shit like someone forgetting their goddamn cell phone.

He blew out a plume of smoke. “Doesn’t mean they’re not involved.”

My head shot up.

“Mikey said a stiff in a suit showed up last night. Asked a lot of questions. Said one of the cops called him ‘Agent.’”

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