Page 38 of Oath of Blood and Joy

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.” Hishead 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 musthave 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.”

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