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Chapter Three

MALACHI

T he blonde bombshell, clad in sheer pink wisps of fabric, stares at me with an expression she must think is alluring and sexy. All I see is a dazed duck, lips pouted and parted, her eyes half-lidded behind the weight of false eyelashes.

I’ve lived through centuries of cosmetic trends—makeup and false lashes don’t faze me. What does is the auditory assault of her rendition of “Crazy in Love.” My ears are still ringing.

“Thank you,” I say, not bothering to stand from the stool I’m perched on. I glance down at the stack of manila folders on the mahogany high-top table I’ve positioned in front of the bar. “We’ll be in touch if?—”

“I have other dances I could show you.” Jessie—Jessica? Hell, I can’t remember—interrupts, her voice tilting with desperation.

I look up again, doing a double take when I see she’s moved to the edge of the stage, crouched low with her legs spread wide enough to give me a view better suited for a strip club. It takes effort to keep my expression neutral as I give her a tight, dismissive smile.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, then glance at Perry, my manager, who’s standing beside me. Perry, a human who knows my true nature, has been invaluable in organizing everything for the opening, including handling the initial phone interviews for staff.

When Courtney, our original stage producer, quit four days ago after a dumbfounding and explosive conflict with the dancers, Perry was the one there keeping it from turning violent. Two hours later, he informed me of her immediate resignation and that he already had previous candidates scheduled for interviews.

He steps forward, offering a hand to help her down the stage stairs like a gallant gentleman. “Let me show you out, Ms. Hall. I’m happy to answer any questions you have.”

As they leave, my nose twitches as her heavy perfume assaults my heightened senses. To a human, it might be pleasant, but to a vampire, it’s nauseating. The old wives’ tale about garlic repelling vampires? Only true in the sense that any overpowering smell would make anyone want to avoid the source. I’d rather spend a week in a garlic-filled pantry than endure her cloying scent for another minute.

Sighing, I reach for my glass of water, only to find it empty save for a few ice cubes. Checking the time, I decide there’s enough of a break before the next interview to refill it myself and head to the bar.

Walking behind the bar, I can’t help but feel a warm pride as I take in the space I’ve spent months perfecting. After centuries as the Nightshade’s general, I’ve grown restless. Ambrose’s iron-fisted control over the Barrows has left little need for my skills as a leader of men. The closest thing to a real battle in the last five years was our skirmish with Aeternaphiel and his hired mercenaries—lycan and jackal shifters who were no match for my vampires.

When I approached Ambrose about opening a business venture, he agreed without hesitation. It wasn’t just about personal fulfillment; this restaurant and burlesque theater would give the Nightshade clan an official foothold in Topside—Newgate, the human-dominated metropolis across the river.

The location, a prime spot in the historical museum district, is why my eyes itch from the brown contact lenses I wear to disguise my golden irises. Most Topsiders get nervous around anyone who isn’t clearly human.

The restaurant and theater were once an office space. I had crews tear down walls, build a custom stage, and create an open, theatrical atmosphere. The property spans two floors, with my office overlooking the stage, much like Ambrose’s at Noir. I’ve never felt the need to lord over my space, but that’s why I’m not the king of the vampires. I’d rather be in the trenches with my soldiers, letting them know I see them, that I’ll do everything in my power to bring them home safely.

But there are no trenches anymore, no battles to wage. Without war, what good is a general?

Carla, the bar manager, offers to refill my glass, but I wave her off. She’s been a brilliant find—late thirties, with a bombshell personality she can switch on to flirt and upsell customers. Since we haven’t opened yet, she’s all business, sharp-witted and ruthless—a shark. If Perry ever leaves, she’s my first pick to replace him.

Perry approaches the bar, frowning at his watch. “Last interview’s running late,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Should’ve been here five minutes ago.”

I refill my glass, scooping in fresh ice. “Did they let you know?”

He exhales sharply. “Yes, but it’s still unacceptable. This is for a stage producer—a role that requires precision and punctuality. If Blake can’t show up on time for an interview, how can we trust them to keep the performances running on schedule?”

I chuckle, waving his irritation away. “Relax, Perry. Theater’s notorious for starting late. Some performers believe starting on time is bad luck. Maybe Blake’s of the same mindset.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but his phone rings, cutting him off. “I need to get the stage set. Blake’s here.”

He strides off, clearly still annoyed. I shake my head, returning to my seat at the table. I flip open Blake Taylor’s folder, surprised to find their experience is limited. Most of it comes from the Gentleman’s Study, an exotic dance club with a dark academia aesthetic.

Scanning Perry’s notes, I see why he advanced Blake to this stage. Despite the lack of formal education and limited venue exposure, Blake’s twelve years at the Gentleman’s Study have provided a wealth of experience in stage production. Perry notes Blake’s versatility and intimate understanding of the craft as justification for advancing them to the final interview.

Perry appears on stage, signaling the DJ in the back booth. The lights dim, leaving only a spotlight on him. He squints against the brightness, his voice crisp as he announces, “Blake Taylor, performing the feather fan act.”

My interest piques. Blake isn’t the first male candidate to make it this far, but the others stuck to the more acrobatic acts of the show. Blake’s choice of audition is intriguing. I lean back, hoping this will be the performance that finally lets me cross “hire new stage producer” off my list.

My nose twitches, catching the faintest hint of honeysuckle. I inhale deeply, but the scent is gone, replaced by the lingering stench of Jessica’s perfume. I shake my head, chiding myself for imagining things.

The first smooth vocals of Michael Bublé’s “Feeling Good” fill the room as the spotlight returns, illuminating the stage. Blake Taylor steps into the light, and my world tilts.

Blake Taylor is a woman.

Lilac hair styled into classic finger waves, full lips, a button nose, and pale blue eyes.

Her. The mystery woman from Blood Street.

I blink, convinced I’m hallucinating. But no, there she is, standing on my stage, holding two large ostrich feather fans. Blake Taylor—my mystery woman—is the candidate for the stage producer position at my restaurant and burlesque theater.

“Fuck,” I groan, closing my eyes. I should dismiss her on the spot. I should stand, tell her there’s been a mistake, and have Perry escort her out.

Instead, I watch.

Blake moves with an easy grace, the white fans framing her lithe figure. She’s dressed professionally—a light gray racerback tank that showcases her toned shoulders and arms, paired with black leggings that hug her strong thighs. Her dancing heels click softly against the stage, adding a rhythm to her movements. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

She can’t see me from the stage, not with the spotlight blinding her. If she hadn’t been late, we would’ve been introduced before her performance.

My cock thickens, coming to life in a way it hasn’t for what feels like months. Certainly not since she left me in my Range Rover after dropping her off without a name and lips I can still feel on mine. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus on her performance rather than the way her movements stir something primal in me.

Her dance is sensual, teasing, the fans concealing and revealing her body in a way that’s both alluring and artful. She’s confident, commanding the stage as if she’s been doing this for decades. It’s clear she’s not just performing—she’s owning it.

I glance at Perry, who’s standing off to the side of the stage. He’s watching her with a fierce admiration that makes me want to slam him into the ground. The possessiveness that surges through me is unexpected and unwelcome. It’s another sign that we cannot—absolutely cannot—hire Blake Taylor.

Even if she’s the best candidate we’ve seen.

As the song fades, Blake returns to her original pose, the fans closing around her like a protective cocoon. The spotlight turns off, plunging the room into silence.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Then Carla, the bar manager, lets out a loud whoop, breaking the spell.

“If you don’t hire her, I’m quitting!” she shouts, applauding. Perry joins in, and soon the entire room is clapping. Everyone except me.

The house lights come on again. Blake turns to face the room, her face flushed with exertion and triumph. Perry steps onto the stage, grinning broadly. “That was a brilliant performance,” he says, gesturing to me. “Please, let me introduce you to the owner. This is Malachi Casadecappa.”

Blake’s eyes meet mine, and her brilliant smile falters as recognition dawns.

“Thank you, Ms. Taylor,” I say, my tone cool and professional. Every fiber of my being wants to tell her she’s hired, to give myself a reason to keep her close. But I can’t. I won’t. “If you’re selected, we’ll contact you.”

I sweep the candidate files off the table and turn away, refusing to look back. I hear Perry’s hurried apologies, his attempts to calm her down, but I don’t listen.

I storm up the black-and-gold velvet-carpeted stairs to the second floor, bypassing the private boxes and heading straight to my office. The door slams against the wall as I enter, and I drop the files onto my desk with a thud.

Perry charges in moments later, his face red with anger. “What the hell was that?” he demands, slapping his hand on my desk. “That was the best candidate we’ve had by a mile. Why didn’t you finish the interview?”

I pour myself a double whiskey, tossing it back in one gulp. The burn does little to soothe my frustration. “There are other candidates,” I say, my voice low.

Perry scoffs. “You mean the retired ballet teacher who made it clear she doesn’t approve of burlesque? Or the contemporary dancer who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else? Blake Taylor is the one. You know it. I know it. Everyone in that room knows it.”

I glare at him, my golden eyes flashing behind my contacts. “I have my reasons.”

“Bullshit,” Perry snaps. “You hired me to help make this the best restaurant and theater in the state. I’m telling you, that woman is the key to our success. She’s even better than Courtney. If you don’t interview her, I’m walking out. I can’t help you ruin this place.”

I growl, the sound low and threatening. “Careful.”

He stands his ground, his expression softening to one of pleading. “Just talk to her. Ask your questions. If you don’t like her answers, fine. But give her a chance.”

I hate that he’s right. Blake is our best shot at launching this place successfully after Courtney quit. With a sigh, I relent and wave at the door. “Fine. Send her in.”

Perry grins, clearly relieved, and hurries out of my office. I pour another whiskey, bracing myself for the storm that’s about to walk through my door.

The storm named Blake Taylor.