Page 90 of His Dark Vendetta

I hadn’t attended a game in years. Vito never missed, but Marco had an engagement with Anna’s family, so I was Vito’s plus one.

As much as I wanted to spend another night buried between Siobhán’s legs, I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to ingratiate myself with Assane Durand. Information was the most precious form of currency, and Durand held the equivalent of gold in the Fort Knox vaults. Unfortunately, he was as guarded with his information as the US was with its reserves.

I also needed to blow off steam. It had been a rough week with Vinnie breathing down my neck about moving those game consoles, Matteo’s constant messages about booking Sources, and the usual fuckery that went down at The Dollhouse. Nothing like dropping a stack of Gs to distract my racing mind.

Slot machines buzzed and clinked, laughter and applause broke out from the craps tables, and beneath the raucous melody, the conversations of a packed casino provided a bassline. We strode quickly to the elevators at the back of the main hall.

“How are things at Pompeii?” I’d been intrigued by the acquisition since Marco first toyed with the idea of claiming a foothold in the financial district. The location had potential, and if things had gone differently, I’d have thrown my hat into the ring to manage the new club.

“Mired in paperwork,” he said. “That historical classification is a real pain in the ass.”

I snorted, and we stepped into the elevator.

“But we’re pushing it through.” He eyed me. “With the help of a few city officials who can’t stop betting on the Pats.”

I cocked a knowing grin. “Hey, whatever works. The sooner that place opens, the better. I’m getting real twitchy about the Irish. More than usual.” He raised an eyebrow. “That thing with Mikey, the feds showing up all the way out in Framingham. Cops aren’t that motivated without being clued in, and we all know whose take they’re on in this city.”

“Here’s where I say, your vendetta is making you paranoid.”

“But you’re not going to say that, are you?”

He stared back at me, lips pursed.

“I didn’t think so.”

We stepped off the elevator into the lobby outside the penthouse. The guard at the double doors recognized Vito with a nod, keyed in the passcode, and opened the door. We walked into the luxury suite turned private gaming hall, and another guard waited next to a strongbox the size of a small cabinet. He held out a metal detector and waved us forward.

“Weapons,” he said and unlocked the cabinet.

I pulled the gun out of my shoulder holster and handed it to him. Vito did the same. He placed them in the strongbox, locked it, and ran the metal detector over both of us, focusing on our ankles and torsos.

“Go ahead,” he said and waved us through.

I rebuttoned my jacket, and we moved toward the back of the entryway and through another set of doors.

Thick damask drapes with gold brocade, gilded Louis XIV mirrors, tables, and chaise longues, and a sparkling crystal chandelier made the opulent space look as though we’d walked into a ballroom at Versailles instead of a casino penthouse in Worcester, Massachusetts.

Beneath the bright lights, a full-sized poker table took center stage complete with one of the casino’s dealers. Vinnie sat at the table, huffing down a cigar. A cocktail waitress sat across his lap, and I was surprised the antique chair didn’t give out under their combined weight. He whispered something in her ear. She laughed, swatted his arm, and launched herself out of his lap toward the bar at the back. He turned to the two men sitting on his right.

To Vinnie’s left, Assane Durand quietly stirred his drink, his ebony skin stark against his high-collared white dress shirt and fat tie. Thick horn-rimmed glasses were perched atop a broad nose that, given his long, thin face, made for a distinctive profile. The glasses amplified the unique color of his calculating eyes—light brown, almost gold. Such a stark contrast to his dark complexion, you couldn’t help but stare.

“Welcome,” he said, and his velvety French accent added to the palatial ambiance. “Have a seat, s’il vous plaît. We’re about to begin.”

We moved toward the two empty chairs on Durand’s right, and that’s when I saw him.

“What thefuckis he doing here?” The vitriol escaped before I could contain it.

The room fell deathly silent, and the eyes of every man descended on me. I felt their focus even though mine was locked on the source of my outburst.

Ciarán Shaughnessy lifted his gaze from his drink, curiosity alive in bright blue eyes that matched those I’d left only hours before.

The tips of my fangs pressed into my bottom lip, and I started, ready to end my vendetta right then and there. But Vito squeezed my shoulder and held me back.

“Cool it, boss,” he mumbled and brushed past me to take the seat next to my enemy.

If it were possible to murder someone with my eyes, Ciarán Shaughnessy would already be dead. I closed them, not wanting the humans to see me turn, and breathed steadily through my nose, fighting the power in my blood and willing my fangs to retreat.

“This is neutral territory, messieurs.” Durand’s cool, conversational tone only made his pronouncement more imperious. “All are welcome.”

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