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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Enzo

Steve and I landed behind Sweet Babes near the rusted trash bins, our tiny bat forms materializing from the shadows into human shapes with a whisper of ancient magic.

The transformation rippled through me like liquid electricity, bones elongating and skin stretching with a familiar yet always unsettling sensation.

Unlike shifters, we didn’t rip through our clothes when changing forms—some of our vampire magic, a small mercy from whatever dark force granted us our immortality.

I straightened my leather jacket, the material conforming to my frame as I rolled my shoulders, adjusting to the heavier weight of my human body.

Jazz music poured from inside the building, a melancholy saxophone wailing above the steady thrum of a bass line.

The notes seemed to vibrate through the brick walls, each beat pulsing like a heartbeat against my heightened senses.

The scent of the alley assaulted my nostrils—rotting food, stale beer, the sharp ammonia sting of urine pooled in darkened corners, and underneath it all, the faint copper tang of blood that always lingered around Maximo’s properties.

My jaw clenched involuntarily, fangs pressing against my gums with a dull ache of anticipation.

Sweet Babes was a tall building, three stories of faded red brick and blacked-out windows, each pane reflecting the dying light of dusk like vacant eyes.

The neon sign above the entrance flickered erratically, bathing the sidewalk in sickly pink pulses.

I knew what lay inside—private rooms for customers who wanted a lap dance or something more, each space designed to create the illusion of intimacy while concealing the true nature of the transactions taking place.

I caught Steve’s gaze darkening, a hungry gleam in his eyes that I recognized all too well.

I gripped his shoulder, my fingers digging into the joint.

“No draining anyone,” I warned. “We can’t afford to leave evidence or draw attention—not with Flanagan already breathing down our necks.

” I held his gaze until he gave a reluctant nod, the hunger in his eyes receding slightly but not disappearing completely.

Steve’s face hardened as he gazed up at the building, disgust etched into the tight lines around his mouth. “This place reeks of desperation,” he muttered. His fingers flexed at his sides, a controlled violence in the gesture that matched the cold fury building in my own chest.

These girls stayed until they were used up, drained of youth and hope in equal measure, then Maximo discarded them like trash—human debris swept away without a second thought.

I’d seen the hollow-eyed survivors, their necks bearing the telltale puncture marks that spoke of feeding that went beyond simple bloodlust. My temples throbbed with a combination of anger and something dangerously close to guilt.

Most likely one of the girls would talk, desperate to get away from this hell.

Fear was a powerful motivator, but hope—the faintest glimmer of escape—was even stronger.

I straightened my shoulders, the predator in me rising to the surface as I moved toward the back entrance, each step silent despite the gravel underfoot.

“Remember,” I whispered to Steve, my breath not even fogging in the cooling evening air, “we need information first, vengeance second. And no casualties.” But the words felt hollow even as I spoke them, the promise of violence humming through my veins like a familiar song.

For Joy, I would tear this place apart brick by brick if necessary, leaving nothing but ashes and screams in my wake.

Steve’s jaw tightened as he turned toward me, his eyes flashing with a dangerous crimson glow that rippled just beneath the surface. The muscle in his jaw tightened, creating a shadow along his sculpted cheekbone in the dim light. “I get it, but what if they start trouble?”

I didn’t blink. My face turned to stone, the expression I’d perfected over centuries of delivering ultimatums to those who crossed the family.

“You asking me for permission to feed?” My voice came out cold and flat, devoid of the patience a captain might show a soldier. This was business, nothing more.

I jammed my finger into his chest, the fabric of his shirt cool against my fingertip. “Listen good. They’re civilians. Collateral damage brings heat. Heat brings problems.” I leaned closer. “And I solve problems, Steve. Permanently. They’re not a blood buffet. Got it?”

The threat found its mark. Steve’s shoulders squared, but he didn’t challenge it. He had seen what happened to those who disobeyed orders, vampire or not.

“I got it. I got it,” he muttered, breaking eye contact first—the universal sign of submission. His shoulders straightened as he composed himself. A heartbeat later, his professional demeanor returned, as he knew the line had been drawn.

I brushed past him and headed down the alley, my polished shoes crunching over broken glass and scattered cigarette butts.

The narrow passage reeked of desperation and decay—a fitting prelude to Maximo’s establishment.

Steve fell in line behind me, knowing better than to walk at my side.

In our world, hierarchy wasn’t just respected—it was enforced.

As we rounded the corner, Sweet Babes came into full view.

There was a line stretching half a block—young and old men and everything in between—all waiting like cattle for the slaughter.

Their faces were lit by the pulsing neon, casting unnatural shadows that made them look more ghoulish than the actual monsters standing among them.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Business was booming as usual, which made Maximo’s absence all the more suspicious.

Humans. Disgusting. Their sweat-soaked bodies pressed together, the stink of their cologne and body odor mixing with alcohol and cheap cigarettes.

Their pulses visible in their necks, each one oblivious to the predators walking past. These walking blood bags would sell their souls for a glimpse of flesh, and they looked at us with envy as we approached the entrance.

The bouncer—a mountain of human muscle stuffed into a too-tight black T-shirt—gave me a dark scowl as we approached. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, a testament to previous poor decisions. His meaty hand shot up to block our path.

“Get at the back of the line,” he growled, his breath reeking of onions and cigarettes. The gold tooth in his mouth caught the light as he sneered, clearly enjoying the small power he wielded.

I didn’t argue. Didn’t threaten. Men like him responded to power, not words.

I simply locked eyes with him and drew on my compulsion power, ancient magic surging through my veins like liquid ice.

Tingles swept over me as the power gathered, focusing through my gaze.

The sensation was addictive, a reminder of why humans would always be beneath us.

“Let us in,” I breathed, the quiet syllables saturated with immortal power. The demand thrummed through the air, inescapable and absolute.

The change was immediate. His pupils dilated, swallowing the irises in darkness. He stared straight ahead, jaw going slack as his mind surrendered to my will. Without a word, he turned mechanically to the side, arm dropping like a drawbridge being lowered.

As we passed, I caught the faintest whiff of fear emanating from him—some primal part of his brain recognizing the predator even as his conscious mind remained oblivious. That fear was almost as satisfying as blood itself.

A jazz band was tucked away in the corner, their melancholy notes fighting a losing battle against the pounding bass that dominated the club.

The saxophone player’s eyes were closed, lost in music no one cared to hear.

Men—reeking of alcohol, arousal, and desperation—sat around circular tables, their gazes fixed on the topless dancers as if they were starving wolves eyeing wounded prey.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the unmistakable copper tang of blood—someone had fed here recently.

There was a long stage bathed in harsh pink and purple lights, where a stripper with vacant eyes methodically peeled off her clothes to the rhythm of music she probably couldn’t even hear anymore.

Her movements were mechanical, practiced, the motions of someone who had long ago separated her mind from her body.

Rhinestones glittered across her skin like tears that refused to fall.

Steve and I grabbed a table in a darkened corner, positioning ourselves with our backs to the wall—an old habit that had kept me alive for centuries.

The sticky surface of the table told stories of spilled drinks and God knows what else.

I scanned the crowd with predatory focus, mentally cataloging faces, looking for someone weak enough to grab and interrogate.

I needed someplace private to talk to someone without drawing attention.

In our business, witnesses were liabilities.

A greasy-haired man wearing a leisure suit that might have been fashionable three decades ago prowled the floor, his movements revealing the handgun poorly concealed beneath his jacket.

He spoke to a topless blonde woman who glanced over at us, fear flickering across her features before her professional mask slipped back into place.

I recognized the man instantly—Duncan Fremont.

He worked for Maximo and ran this place—more like a pimp than a manager.

His fingernails were stained yellow from nicotine, and even from across the room, I could smell the stink of his cologne trying to mask body odor.

A waitress came over with two glasses of red wine, her movements mechanical and disinterested.

The glasses clinked against the sticky table as she set them down with practiced efficiency.

The dark liquid caught the garish club lights, gleaming like old blood—a poor substitute for what my body truly craved.

I sniffed it, my enhanced senses immediately cataloging its flaws.

Cheap like this place—vinegary, mass-produced swill that had probably been sitting open for days.

Notes of oxidation and artificial flavoring assaulted my nostrils, a mockery of what wine had tasted like in my human life centuries ago.

Still, I took it, wrapping my fingers around the smudged glass, feeling the liquid’s warmth—not even properly chilled.

A flash of disgust curled through me as I raised it to my lips.

After existing for so long, experiencing the finest vintages from across centuries, this establishment’s offerings were almost offensive.

But appearances had to be maintained, the charade of humanity performed.

The irony wasn’t lost on me—pretending to enjoy fermented grape juice when what I truly thirsted for pulsed visibly through the waitress’s neck as she turned away.

I took a small sip, the flavor dull and insipid against my tongue.

In my peripheral vision, I caught Steve’s slight grimace as he did the same.

Some nights, these small indignities were harder to bear than others.

Tonight, with Joy missing and danger mounting, every reminder of the mundane world we hid within grated against my already fraying patience.

Before I could make a move toward Fremont, a topless blonde woman approached our table, her high heels clicking against the sticky floor in a staccato rhythm that matched my growing suspicion.

She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with eyes that had seen too much and a body adorned with bruises poorly concealed beneath cheap makeup.

The track marks on her arms told their own story.

“Would you like a private dance?” she asked, her voice flat and rehearsed, like a prisoner reciting the rules of her confinement. Her eyes darted nervously toward Fremont before settling back on us.

I cocked my eyebrow, assessing the situation with centuries of honed instinct.

That was fast—a little too fast. The timing was suspicious, almost as if we were expected.

Fremont’s gaze lingered on us a beat too long, his hand hovering near his concealed weapon.

The girl’s pulse was racing, visible at her throat, more from fear than anticipation.

Was this a trap? I felt my fangs instinctively press against my gums, ready to extend at a moment’s notice.

The predator within me stirred, senses heightening as I scanned the room for potential threats.

The scent of the girl’s fear was intoxicating, but I remained focused.

Her rapid heartbeat was like a drum in my ears, each pulse a reminder of how easily I could end everyone in this room if necessary.

In this business, paranoia wasn’t a weakness—it was survival.