Page 67 of Bound in Blood
Chapter
Twenty-Two
NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER 1950
MATEO
Mateo wasn’t looking for a fight. No,really.He wasn’t. He was perfectly happy letting Marco and Jiro be in their stupid happy love bubble, even if it didn’t include him. Mateo hadn’t been happy in eleven years. Not really, anyway. But when Marco came to him to tell him he’d foundlove,Mateo was as close to happy as he got those days. His brother was smiling. Really, truly smiling. It was great. Really.
Until he moved out of their room in the house they shared with the other vampires. Until he went from telling Mateo everything to maybe speaking with him once a week. Until, most recently, he’d narrowed his eyes at Mateo, declaring Mateo wasjealousof Marco, because Marco was happy and Mateo was miserable.
Yeah, Mateo was real fucking miserable.
And Marco was real fucking stupid.
Mateo wasn’t jealous of Marcofinding love,or whatever fairy tale bullshit he thought this was. Love couldn’t exist between the damned. Isabella and Eleanor made a really big show about their so-called ‘mate-bond,’ whatever the fuck that meant, but Mateo wasn’t stupid. If the love Mateo felt for his brother wasn’tenough to last eleven years of immortality, thennobody’slove was real.
Marco, the poor stupid man, washorny.
Mateo wanted to inform him that the feeling he got around Jiro could be manufactured by literally any human man in the city. Onlybetter,because human men could be drank from and discarded after. Human men wouldn’t tear Marco from the only one who had stuck by him his entire life.
Marco was immortal, and had a boyfriend, and wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore, which meant Mateo was no longer needed.
Mateo was lying in his bed, in his own room, staring at the ceiling when he’d heard the voices through the wall.
“He’s holding you back, Marco.”
Mateo hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. It wasn’t his fault he had fantastic hearing, even by vampire standards. Like when he’d been turned, it had specifically been to make him into some sort of bloodthirsty super spy. And Jiro’s voice carried, sort of. Mateo’s ear being up against their shared wall hadnothingto do withanything.
“I don’t understand why you insist on allowing him to… invade your life. I understand he’s family, but what is he doing for you? Other than rampaging through our home and?—”
“Stop.”
Marco’s voice interrupted, but it was more pleading than sharp. Ifanyonetalked to Mateo about Marco that way, he’d light them on fire. But Marco wasn’t fighting. Marco’s tone said ‘I know he’s insufferable, but he’s my brother.’ A plea for Jiro to just drop it.
Mateo had heard enough. He needed to get drunk.
The bar wasfilthy.
Sticky floors and stale beer. The thick, cloying stench of sweat and cigarettes and blood that may or may not be inside the body where it belonged.
This was Mateo’s favorite spot in New York.
The regular bartender behind the counter was handsome, even if he was a little mean to Mateo for being an Italian immigrant. He was an Irish immigrant, though, and Mateo thought it incredibly American of him to hate someone for being thewrong typeof settler. On top of being handsome, he kept his mouth shut when Mateo picked up men, and he was very good at his job, making shitty alcohol almost taste like mediocre alcohol, so Mateo put up with his bullying.
Mateo slid into his usual seat at the bar, drumming his fingers against the sticky counter. The handsome bartender in question, Patrick (or Paddy, if you wanted to get on his nerves) gave him a once-over, unimpressed as always.
“Well, you look like shit,” Paddy greeted, wiping out a glass that had seen better days with a rag that haddefinitelyseen better days.
“Modern day Sherlock Holmes right here.”Mateo held up two fingers. “Whiskey.”
“Didn’t think you mobsters could read.” Paddy snorted, sliding the glass toward Mateo before picking up a bottle for himself.
Mateo smirked. Not a smile, not really. More like an amused grimace. “Yeah, they teach us our ABC’s between How to Make Cement Shoes 101 and Loan Sharking class.” He knocked backthe whiskey in one go, setting the empty glass down with a sharpclink.
Paddy scoffed, pouring him another without asking. “But then when do you take Illegal Casinos for Beginners?”
Mateo snorted, shaking his head before taking another sip. The alcohol barely burned and wasn’t nearly as quick to take effect as when he was human, but it was something at least. Something to keep his mind clear. “I think that one’s only offered as a night class.”
