Page 62 of Lourdes & the Mafia
Thankfully, he doesn’t make a comment and simply turns, looking away from us and to Ramiel. Ramiel’s brows are raised in what appears to be amusement as he looks once at our joined hands and then up to our faces.
I don’t pull away from Lorenzo, though, even if my body feels hot under Ramiel’s scrutiny. I wonder, for a brief second, if I should feel guilty. If I should feel bad about what I’ve been doing with Lorenzo after what Ramiel and I shared?
Whatdidwe share?
A hot vision, for one. And I’m not fucking blind. I’ve seen the way his eyes follow me around. I know Ramiel wants me. The way he looks at me, his face open with hunger, even while Lorenzo is holding my hand.
They’re close, brothers, and yet he’s looking at me like he’d steal me away from him, if I only asked.
But I won’t ask. I refuse.
Not because I don’t want him too, but because I’m not the kind of girl to come between relationships like that. Also because what Ramiel and I shared was a mere vision, practically a ghost of the past. What Lorenzo and I are sharing is present. Physical. It’s not a dream or a memory.
It’s real.
For however long it lasts.
“Ready?” Ramiel asks.
Lorenzo squeezes my hand and answers for the both of us. “Ready.”
Within moments, we’re swallowed up by shadows. The sensation of traveling like this still feels strange to me. My stomach dips and I tighten my hold on Lorenzo out of fear. It isn’t until my feet touch solid ground and the smoke clears away that my beating heart finally gets under control.
When it does, I’m greeted with flashing lights and music.
It bounces across the floor, vibrating through my entire body, nearly making my teeth chatter from the force. I look around at the nightclub we’re in. It’s a fancy place, elegant and rich. There are stripper poles with supernatural women dancing off them, some with extra limbs or tails or shifted into their magical forms. Enormous fish tanks hold mer shifters inside who sway to the beat of the music, some with the lower half of tentacles and obscene pockets and fancy cocks.
Waitresses dressed in finery walk around with silver trays filled with drinks in an array of vibrant colors and shot glasses filled with pills that I immediately know are illegal and catered to supernaturals. Patrons of the club sit in a relaxed state of bliss against plush couches. Some dance along to the pump of the music, while others shoot back drinks at their tables.
“This is…”
Lorenzo bends when I can’t find the correct words to finish my sentence. His lips graze the shell of my ear and his words carry a tone of amusement and darkness both. “Welcome to Sinful.”
“Let’s go.” Ramiel steps out into the flashing lights, Lorenzo tugging me close behind. Kane takes up the rear, and a quick glance back shows the way his eyes dart around like he’s searching for a threat. The most interesting part about being here is the fact that the moment we step out, all eyes swivel in our direction.
Immediately, I feel the press of magic surround us. Everything around me becomes cloudy, like a blanket of fog has been placed over my vision. I can still see, of course. I can see everything around us, but it’s almost murky. And when the patrons look back at us… they squint…
“We’re glamored,” Lorenzo explains. “Clouded in shadows so they can’t make out our true forms.”
I remember being on the other end of that. Of not being able to see them clearly, of having my vision almost… shrouded. It’s an odd sensation, particularly for someone like me who can see the future. To not see what’s going on in the present can be a daunting prospect.
“Why?” I find myself asking. “Why glamor yourselves at all?”
Behind me, Kane snorts. “It’s the mystery of it,” he answers. “It’s also because we are important here.”
I don’t get to ask what he means by that because Ramiel holds up a hand, moving two fingers to indicate we follow him as he turns down a quieter area of the club. He leads us up a flight of stairs and towards what I assume is the VIP section of the place.
There are tinted glass walls and doors and he takes one, opening it and stepping inside. We follow after and once we’re inside, I can feel the heavy press of the cloud around us drop.
The inside of the room is lavish, soundproof, and occupied.
Inside, a man in a suit sits on the couch with his arms spread wide along the back of it, like a cocky king on a throne. The lapels of his jacket and shirt are open, showing off a chiseled, golden chest. Glowing eyes cut across the line of us from beneath bushy, dark brows. A scar bisects his cheek, starting from beneath the eye and trailing down over his lip and to his chin.
“Aah, Morte brothers, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is gritty and rough, and he speaks with a European accent. Those glowing eyes find me, widening in what could either be surprise or recognition, I’m not sure. “Lourdes Rivera.”
Fuck.
His eyes are on me and I just feel fucking shocked. I steel myself, trying to look as cultured as Ramiel, Lorenzo, and Kane. Hell, even this guy in front of us looks cultured.
