Page 27

Chapter Twenty-Six

Enzo

A uniformed police officer entered the living room, his shoes squeaking against the marble floor, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the mansion’s cool air.

His eyes darted nervously around the room, carefully avoiding direct contact with any of us.

The scent of his fear hung in the air—a tantalizing aroma that made my throat burn with thirst.

“We didn’t find anything, sir. They’re clean,” he reported. His pulse throbbed visibly at his neck, a hypnotic rhythm that I forced myself to ignore.

I leaned back against the antique bookshelf, feeling the aged wood press against my spine, and exchanged a knowing glance with Angelo.

I knew they wouldn’t find anything. We’d existed for centuries, mastering the art of covering our tracks.

Even if they did stumble upon something incriminating, we could use compulsion on them and make them forget—their minds as malleable as warm clay in our hands.

Once again, we were being set up, pawns in someone else’s game.

Flanagan gave Angelo a hard look, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle.

The detective’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, hatred radiating from him in palpable waves.

“We might not have found anything now—Santi.” He jabbed a finger in Angelo’s direction, the gold of his wedding band catching the light. “But we will; you can count on it.”

Angelo rose from his seat with predatory grace, each movement deliberate and controlled.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with centuries of power barely contained in his human form.

He gave Flanagan a sinister smile that didn’t reach his eyes—cold, ancient eyes that had witnessed empires rise and fall.

“You know where to find me, Flanagan.” Angelo faced him like a panther challenging a competitor. The subtle threat hung in the space between them, unspoken but understood.

A muscle twitched in Flanagan’s jaw. For a heartbeat, I thought he might foolishly pursue the confrontation, but self-preservation won out. He gestured sharply to his men, who moved toward the exit with the eagerness of prey escaping a predator’s den.

Flanagan and his men headed out the door, their retreat marked by the heavy thud of footsteps and the brittle jingle of keys and badges. The sunlight from the open doorway cast long shadows across the floor before the door closed behind them with a final, decisive click.

Angelo looked at me, centuries of predatory calculation hardening his features.

His typically sharp green gaze had deepened to something darker, more primal—the dangerous glitter I’d seen in vampires about to strike.

Power radiated from him in cold waves, making the air between us feel dense and charged.

“I want answers,” he said, each word precise and clipped. “Find out what Maximo is up to. Use brutal force if need be.” His head tilted slowly from side to side, the deliberate motion of a predator selecting its angle of attack. “If you find one of his men, bring him here so I can interrogate him.”

Translation—torture him. The unspoken plan crystallized between us, cold and certain.

I’d witnessed Angelo’s “interrogations” before—the screams that echoed through the soundproofed basement, the coppery scent of blood that lingered for days afterward, the hollow, broken shells of men that remained when he finished.

I kept my expression neutral, swallowing back the memories.

“Okay, boss,” I nodded, rolling my shoulders back as I settled into a more comfortable stance.

“I think we need to have someone watch Flanagan. Something’s not right with him.

” Cold fingers of dread traced down my back as I recalled the detective’s eyes—too focused, too unafraid.

No human looked at us that way unless they had protection or a death wish.

The heavy oak doors swung open with a low groan as Steve and Pascal came into the room. Their scent hit me first—gunpowder, afternoon air, and the faint hint of frustration. Pascal’s normally impeccable suit was slightly disheveled, tie askew, and Steve’s hair wind-tousled.

Angelo gave them a glare that would have stopped a human’s heart. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “What took you so long to get here?”

“We were being followed,” Steve said, meeting Angelo’s gaze without flinching—one of the few who dared. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the skin as he stood his ground. “We tried to lose them.”

Angelo narrowed his eyes, pupils contracting to pinpoints. The tension between them crackled like electricity. “Who was it?”

Steve didn’t flinch from his glare, his posture rigid with the confidence of a predator in his own right.

“Cops. They must have been watching Maximo’s house,” he replied, his lip curling slightly to reveal the edge of a fang.

“But I see they already descended upon this place.” He angled his head slightly, nostrils flaring as something in the room’s atmosphere caught his attention.

“They smell of sweat, coffee, and gun oil.”

“So they know about the murders and think we’re responsible.” Angelo poured himself a glass of red wine, the viscous liquid catching the light like freshly spilled blood. The crystal decanter clinked against the rim of his glass, breaking the tense silence.

Dimitri sat straighter next to Gianna. His eyes glittered with a dangerous, mischievous malice.

“Well, isn’t that just perfect,” he drawled. “Nothing says ‘we’re innocent’ like being stalked by the entire police department.” He leaned back in his seat next to Gianna, his movements fluid and deliberately casual.

The tension in the room shifted as the others glanced nervously at Angelo, waiting for his reaction to Dimitri’s irreverence.

Angelo’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he continued without acknowledging the interruption. “Dimitri, I want you to keep an eye on Flanagan.”

“Should I bring Flanagan some donuts while I spy on him? Maybe a coffee? I hear cops love that cliché.” Dimitri merely examined his nails with exaggerated interest, clearly untroubled by potential consequences.

Angelo ignored him as he reached into his pants for his cellphone. “I’m going to call Trystan and Keir to find out what’s happening with them.”

Dimitri rose to his feet in one fluid motion, stretching like a cat waking from a nap.

“Babysitting a detective with a hero complex?” He flashed a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.

“Sounds thrilling. I’ll try not to eat him if he gets too annoying.

” He paused at the doorway, turning back like an actor delivering a final line. “But no promises.”

Gianna ran over to him and clasped his arm, her delicate fingers pressing urgently into his sleeve. Fear clouded her usually bright eyes, her pulse thundering so loudly it seemed audible. “Dimitri, be careful. There’s something wrong with Flanagan. He scares me.”

Dimitri’s cocky demeanor softened for just a moment—a transformation so brief and subtle that only those watching closely would notice. He lifted her chin with one finger, his touch gentler than anyone in the room might have expected from him.

“Scared of a human cop?” he teased, but without his usual cutting edge. His eyes, typically cold and calculating, warmed slightly as they locked with hers. “I’ve been dealing with self-important humans since before his great-grandfather was born.”

He brushed his lips over hers, the gesture both tender and possessive. Then, just as quickly, the vulnerability vanished, replaced by his trademark smirk that promised both danger and delight.

“I will be, darling,” he whispered and put his finger to her lips, the gesture intimate and reassuring.

Then louder, for the benefit of everyone else, “Besides, getting under Flanagan’s skin might be the most fun I’ve had all week.

Maybe I’ll convince him his coffee tastes like blood just to watch him spit it out. ”

He winked at her, spinning away with theatrical flair, but not before giving her hand a reassuring squeeze that contradicted his flippant words—a private message that spoke volumes in its silence.

Angelo tilted his head. “Pascal and Lorenzo, I want you to go to Maximo’s casino and see what you can find out there. Someone will talk. If you find one of his men…”

“I know,” Pascal said. “Bring him here.”

I clasped Steve’s arm, my fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt with barely restrained urgency. The familiar scent of his cologne—leather and something darker, more primal—filled my nostrils as I pulled him closer. “Come with me.”

Curiosity and wariness flickered across his chiseled features, his dark eyebrows drawing together as he studied my face. “Where are we going?” A muscle twitched in his jaw, betraying the tension he tried to mask.

“Sweet Babes,” I replied, my tongue nearly curling in disgust around the tacky name. The words tasted bitter as I spoke them. “We need answers.”

Sweet Babes was Maximo’s most popular strip club, a neon-bathed temple of flesh and forbidden desires where humans unknowingly mingled with predators.

The thought of its gaudy facade made something cold and hard settle in my stomach.

If he had shut that down, then something was definitely happening—something that warranted pulling back his most profitable venture.

There was a tenant building next door, its brick walls permeated with the scents of cheap perfume and desperation, and many of the girls resided there.

Their heartbeats would be a symphony of fear and secrets waiting to be unraveled.

If we couldn’t get answers in the club, we could interrogate the girls.

My fangs ached slightly at the thought, pressing against my gums with anticipation.

Either way, I would have answers. The determination coursed through my veins like liquid steel, hardening my resolve with each unnecessary breath.

Steve’s footsteps echoed behind me as we climbed the sweeping staircase, his confusion radiating from him in almost palpable waves. “Then why are we going upstairs?” The ancient wood groaned beneath our feet, centuries of secrets trapped within its polished surface.

“We’re not going to take the car, Steve,” I explained, impatience sharpening my tone as I glanced back at him over my shoulder. The dim lighting of the hallway cast dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting the dangerous angles of his cheekbones. “We’ll be followed.”

I pushed open the door to my room, the hinges silent thanks to meticulous oiling.

The balmy dusk air rushed in through the open balcony doors, carrying with it the transition sounds of day turning to evening—birds calling their last songs, leaves rustling in the cooling breeze, distant traffic growing more sporadic as rush hour waned.

The silk curtains billowed gently outward, catching the honey-gold glow of the setting sun that painted everything in rich gold and deep shadow.

“We’re going to fly there,” I stepped onto the balcony. The stone was still warm beneath my feet, retaining the day’s heat. Below us, the manicured gardens were bathed in long shadows, the flowers closing for the night while nocturnal creatures began to stir.

I shifted into a bat, my body contorting and shrinking with a sensation that, even after centuries, remained disconcertingly intimate—bones reshaping, skin shrinking, senses realigning to perceive the world through different eyes.

The transformation sent a ripple of energy through me, electric and primal.

Steve did the same beside me, his larger form dissolving into darkness before reconstituting into his bat shape.

A surge of unexpected pride swelled in my chest watching him execute the transformation with such natural grace, as if he’d been doing it for centuries.

The air around us hummed with ancient magic, charged with the power of our transformation.

I led him up into the sky that was slowly turning to dusk, a canvas of deep blues streaked with brilliant oranges and purples at the horizon where the sun was making its final descent.

The cooling air rushed past me, carrying a thousand scents—car exhaust, cooking food, human sweat, and the indefinable perfume of the approaching night.

The city sprawled beneath us, buildings casting long shadows while windows began to illuminate one by one, like stars appearing in reverse.

Drawing on vampire speed, I flew toward Sweet Babes, my heart racing with purpose rather than exertion.

The wind whispered past my sensitive ears as I cut through it, a silent hunter navigating the threshold between day and night.

Determination fueled each beat of my wings—determination to get answers and, most importantly, to find Joy.

If anyone hurt her, then they’ll wish it was Angelo interrogating them. The thought sent a surge of cold rage through my tiny bat form, a darkness more ancient than the coming night. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to use pain to get answers. I was a master at it.

Centuries of practice had taught me exactly how much pressure to apply to a joint before it shattered, precisely where to slice to maximize agony without risking death, the specific pitch of screams that signaled a breaking point approaching.

The memories of my victims’ pleas whispered through my mind like a familiar lullaby, oddly comforting in their promise of vengeance.

My determination crystallized into something harder and more dangerous than diamond as we soared through the darkening sky, my focus narrowing to a single, burning purpose.

For Joy, I would unleash a cruelty that had been centuries in the making.