Chapter 2

Traces of a Vampire

Black heels crossed the deep red carpet of the InterContinental's grand foyer.

The crystal chandelier overhead fractured light in every direction. Cuban cigars, aged bourbon, and expensive perfume — the air held all of it.

It smelled like rot.

I wore a black half-veil and took the deepest corner table. Two stone-faced guards in full kit flanked me on either side.

Less than thirty seconds passed before two familiar figures drifted toward me, champagne in hand, noses following the scent of power like animals following blood.

My biological father, Antonio.

And my dear brother, Marco.

Antonio's old face was arranged into every available configuration of fawning. He bent forward at the waist, extended both hands, and presented a gold-embossed Swiss bank draft.

"Special Envoy." His eyes wouldn't hold mine. "It's a great honor."

I didn't take it.

From behind the veil, I watched him.

Antonio swallowed. He set the draft on the marble tabletop and nudged it toward me with two fingers.

"Ten million. A small gesture. We only hope it might earn a favorable word with the Arbiter — the Moretti family's loyalty to the Tribunal is absolute. You have our lives on it."

He rubbed his hands together, voice going urgent. "Our lives, Envoy."

I settled back into the leather chair.

"Loyalty."

The micro voice modulator at my throat bent my voice into flat mechanical cold.

"Men who built their fortune selling their own blood don't get to use that word."

Antonio's face locked up. A muscle jumped hard below his eye.

Marco stepped forward immediately, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"Envoy! We are not those people!" He beat his chest. "We prove our commitment through sacrifice. Six years ago, to extinguish the Callahan family's rage, my father personally held my own sister down on a surgical table and had her face cut open so she could be delivered as a hostage. That is what the Moretti family is prepared to do."

Antonio nodded vigorously, presenting this like a medal he'd earned.

"Exactly right. One daughter is a small price for peace. The Moretti family will surrender anything the Tribunal requires. Anything at all."

Marco sneered, making no effort to hide his contempt.

"The only value that piece of trash ever had was dying in our place. She bought us six clean years, Envoy. If a daughter can deliver that — imagine what else we're prepared to offer."

I stared at them.

At this father and son who had pushed me into hell and were now licking the boots of the power that rose from it.

The nausea rose in my throat and I swallowed it.

My right hand, still gloved, reached for the eight-figure bank draft.

Two fingers lifted it off the marble.

Antonio's eyes lit up immediately. His mouth corner twitched upward. He thought the deal was made.

I moved the draft to the silver candle holder at the table's edge.

The flame took the corner instantly.

A soft whomp.

Firelight caught the underside of my veil and lit the lower half of my face — and threw Antonio and Marco's expressions into sharp relief as they collapsed from satisfaction into disbelief.

"What are you doing!" Marco's voice cracked.

I let go.

Burning ash drifted down and landed on Antonio's hand-stitched leather shoes, scorching small black holes through the leather.

I held their eyes.

"The Moretti family's loyalty smells like meat rotting in a drain. It turns my stomach."

Marco's face went the color of a bruise.

He had run half of New York unchallenged. Nobody talked to him like this.

"You filthy witch — you want to die?!"

His right hand shot to his hip holster.

The gun never cleared the leather.

The bodyguard standing behind me moved — one shadow, one motion.

The crack of a knee joint was sharp enough to cut through the room.

A boot drove Marco's right knee sideways. He folded with a sound that emptied the foyer and hit the marble floor kneecap-first. The impact shattered the patella.

A gun barrel went into his open, screaming mouth. The metal cracked against his front teeth hard enough to snap two of them, and his scream choked down to nothing.

Antonio convulsed with fear. His champagne glass hit the floor and exploded. He scrambled toward his son on hands and knees and got a hand clamped on his shoulder that pinned him in place.

I sat perfectly straight and didn't blink.

The foyer went silent.

Every family head in the room had stopped mid-conversation. They stared at the corner. No one made a sound.

Then — boom.

The heavy carved double doors crashed open from outside.

Cold air and rain-wet wind poured in.

Declan walked through the entrance in a black bespoke suit, Victoria in red on his arm, stepping through the standing water on the marble like he owned every surface he set foot on. His eyes swept the room with the automatic contempt of a man who has never once been made to wait.

His gaze crossed the room and landed on my veil.