Page 33 of Cry of Blood and Joy (French Quarter Vampire Enforcer #2)

Chapter Thirty-One

Enzo

He was fucking lying. The truth was written in every line of his face, every subtle shift in his posture. He had her—my Joy, my everything—and he would tell me where she was if I had to tear it out of him piece by bloody piece.

All the anger and rage I’d been holding back erupted like a dam bursting.

It surged through my muscles like adrenaline, centuries of restraint evaporating in an instant.

My fangs lengthened with an audible snick, razor-sharp canines sliding down as my body prepared for violence.

The taste of copper flooded my mouth, and all I could think about was blood—Angelo’s blood—decorating the pristine walls of this cursed place.

I charged at him with supernatural speed, my feet barely touching the hardwood floors. Angelo—my one-time brother, my maker, the bastard who’d given me eternal life only to use it against me—rushed to meet my assault head on.

We crashed into each other like colliding freight trains, the impact sending shockwaves through the entire building. Pain shot through my shoulder, and I tasted blood as two centuries of vampire strength met in explosive combat.

His claws raked across my chest, tearing through fabric and flesh like it was paper. My skin split open in four parallel lines, hot blood immediately soaking my shirt. But my hands grabbed his throat, nails digging deep enough to draw dark crimson that smelled of old copper and decay.

We rolled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and violence, crashing into the coffee table that splintered under our combined weight.

Angelo’s fist connected with my jaw in a bone-jarring blow that would have shattered a human skull.

Stars exploded behind my eyes, but I used the momentum to drive my elbow into his ribs, feeling something crack beneath the impact.

Blood filled my mouth, copper and salt coating my tongue. Pain blazed across my chest where his claws had found their mark, and my shirt clung wetly to my skin as we grappled with savage intensity.

Agonizing pain gripped me as he drew on his full vampire strength—the power of Dracula flowing through him like an unstoppable tide. He seized my shoulders and slammed me against the wall. My head snapped back, skull connecting with brick in an explosion of agony that made my vision blur.

But even through the pain, even as his superior strength threatened to overwhelm me, I refused to yield. Joy’s face flashed before my eyes—her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was worth saving. The memory gave me strength I didn’t know I possessed.

“Tell me where she is, Angelo!” I screamed, the sound echoing through the ruined room like a battle cry. Blood ran down my face from a gash above my eyebrow, but I didn’t care. “TELL ME!”

Strong hands—hands I didn’t recognize—gripped my arms with surprising force and hauled me backward.

My feet scraped against broken glass and splintered wood as I was pulled away from Angelo, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. I wanted to keep fighting, to tear him apart until he told me what I needed to know.

“Stop it.” The voice cut through the violence with familiar authority—deep, gravelly, and edged with the kind of menace that made even hardened criminals think twice. I recognized it instantly despite the blood roaring in my ears.

Lorenzo.

His grip tightened as I struggled. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of Pascal, his usually composed face tense with concern. Elena stood near the doorway, her eyes wide as she took in the destruction.

“He’ll kill you,” Pascal said quietly, his faded Italian accent unmistakable.

Lorenzo and Pascal. My own men holding me back from making a fatal mistake.

Lorenzo’s massive frame strained against my left arm—even with his considerable strength, keeping me restrained was taking effort.

Pascal had locked onto pressure points on my right arm, his grip precise and unrelenting, but I could feel both of them working to contain my power.

I could have broken free if I’d really tried, but some rational part of my mind knew they were right. I was driven by emotion, not logic. Angelo could use this against me.

Lorenzo and Pascal were my fellow enforcers.

Vampires almost as brutal as me, which was saying something in a world where brutality was currency and mercy was weakness.

The fact that they were restraining me—their superior, their leader—spoke volumes about how close I was to crossing a line even they wouldn’t let me cross.

Angelo stood there panting like a wild animal, his chest heaving with unnecessary breaths.

His fangs gleamed crimson in the dim light—red with my blood, droplets of it still clinging to the sharp points before falling to the floor with tiny plip sounds.

His usually immaculate dark hair hung in disheveled strands across his forehead, and his expensive shirt was torn and soaked with our combined blood.

A slender form glided up beside him with ethereal grace, her pale hand finding his muscled arm. The sight froze me as if ice water had been thrown into my face.

Serenity.

She was alive! Whole. Standing there as if she’d never been trapped in that hellish coma at all.

How? How was this possible?

Her golden hair was pulled up into a messy bun, soft tendrils escaping to frame her heart-shaped face.

She wore a simple blue T-shirt that perfectly matched her bright blue eyes—eyes that were alert and aware, not the vacant stare I’d expected from someone who’d been unconscious for days.

Her jean shorts revealed long, unblemished legs without a single bruise or mark of trauma.

She looked... normal. Healthy. Like she’d just woken up from a peaceful nap instead of a supernatural coma that should have killed her.

But then again, she was a Nephilim.

“Serenity,” I panted, her name falling from my lips in a whisper heavy with confusion and disbelief. The word echoed through the destroyed room, hanging in the air like an accusation I couldn’t quite form.

“You’re damn lucky she’s alive,” Angelo snarled.

His hand shot out and clamped around my throat like a vice.

His fingers squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter, cutting off my air supply with methodical precision.

The pressure built until I could feel my windpipe threatening to collapse, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

My hands clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron-strong, fueled by maker’s blood and centuries of supernatural power. The taste of copper filled my mouth as I struggled for breath that wouldn’t come.

“You’re lucky she woke from the coma,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, breath hot against my skin. “Very, very lucky. Because if she hadn’t...” His grip tightened another impossible notch, and black dots blurred my vision and my strength faded.

“Angelo, release him.” Serenity’s slender fingers wrapped around Angelo’s muscled forearm.

His grip loosened incrementally, his fingers uncurling from my throat like reluctant serpents.

The pressure released in agonizing degrees until finally, blessedly, air rushed back into my starved lungs.

I gasped desperately, each breath feeling like fire as oxygen flooded my system.

My hands flew to my throat, feeling the tender, damaged flesh.

I shook my head violently, trying to clear the black dots dancing across my vision like swarming gnats.

The world swam in and out of focus—the ornate crown molding blurred into wavy lines, the polished hardwood floors seemed to tilt and roll beneath my feet.

Crystal fragments from a shattered vase caught the light from the elaborate chandelier overhead, creating rainbow prisms that danced mockingly across the bloodstained Persian rug.

Through the haze of oxygen deprivation and rage, I managed to zero in on Serenity’s face like a lighthouse cutting through fog. The elegant sitting room—with its antique furniture and oil paintings in gilded frames—felt surreal as a backdrop from our brutal fight.

She moved with fluid grace, stepping in front of Angelo as if she were made of silk and moonlight.

Her positioning was deliberate—a protective wall between us in this hallway that now reeked of blood and supernatural fury.

The blue fabric of her T-shirt was like a patch of clear sky against the dark burgundy painted walls.

“Angelo, why did you attack Enzo?” Her blue eyes searched my face with genuine concern, the same expression she’d worn countless times in quieter moments in rooms just like this one.

“I didn’t attack him,” Angelo blurted. Blood still trickled from the claw marks on his throat, and his usually pristine appearance was a study in violence. “This traitor attacked me.”

Serenity’s gaze flickered toward Angelo from the corner of her eye—just for a split second—but she didn’t turn away from me. Her focus remained steady, unwavering. “He’s not a traitor. And Joy didn’t try to kill me.”

How could she know that? How could she be so sure when she’d been unconscious, trapped in that supernatural coma?

Angelo wiped the blood dripping from his arm onto his already ruined sleeve, the dark stain spreading across the expensive fabric like spilled wine. His movements were sharp, angry. “Release him,” he growled to Lorenzo and Pascal.

But Serenity held up her palm—small, delicate, yet commanding absolute attention. “Stand down, Enzo.”

The familiar gesture—one I’d seen her use countless times— sent a pang through my chest. I forced my shaking legs to stand firm, fighting against the tremors that threatened to buckle my knees. My whole body felt like it had been hit by a freight train, but I couldn’t show weakness. Not now.

“Where is she, Serenity?” I rubbed my neck, my throat raw from Angelo’s chokehold. “Please tell me.”

Her expression softened, genuine pain flickering across her features like candlelight. “Enzo, if she was here, I would tell you. Joy is my best friend, my sister.” The words carried absolute truth, and hope died in my throat. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here.”

I still didn’t quite believe anyone. Angelo might not have told Serenity that he was holding Joy prisoner. “But someone saw Dimitri drive away with her in his Corvette. Where else would he take her?”

Angelo frowned. “His black Corvette? That was stolen.”

His words cut into my heart. I could feel the blood drain from my face. My legs nearly gave out, and I drew on my vampire strength to keep from falling over.

Stolen.

I’d been wrong. Completely, catastrophically wrong.