Page 68 of Ophelia's Vampire

Casimir

“You’re prepared to meet our terms?”

Enzo Valenti has a face that’s hard to forget, as much as I might like to. Bold features and a heavy brow that might almost be striking, if they weren’t perpetually twisted into a sneer.

Some cousin of some mobster with actual clout in the city, he’s been trying to make himself a name through wheeling and dealing in art and antiquities, which puts him in my path more often than I would prefer.

Facing him now, though, outside some nondescript warehouse in an industrial area of the city not all that far from where I run my own operation, I could almost convince myself I’m glad to see his ugly mug. If it means I’m about to be in possession of the painting I’ve been chasing for the better part of the last decade, I’d give him a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Of course,” I assure him, and Enzo just grunts.

He crosses his arms over his chest and seems like he’s about to say something else—to issue more demands or conditions, most likely—when the sound of a vehicle approaching cuts him short.

“Who the fuck is that?” He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, but I raise a hand in warning before he can draw a weapon.

“They’re with me.”

He drops his hand, but the harsh frown on his face doesn’t bode particularly well for the potential of future violence as the van pulls up and cuts its ignition.

“They’re here for the painting,” I explain, tone low and placating as the crew climbs out.

Serra steps around from the driver’s side and speaks to the other two—humans, the both of them, who certainly have as much invested in this deal going through as I do.

“They’re going to help with transport and ensure it gets where it’s going in one piece.”

Enzo eyes the trio suspiciously. “I trust they’ll keep their mouths shut, if they know what’s good for them?”

“The soul of discretion, all three of them,” I assure him, and at his blank look, elaborate. “Yes, Enzo. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”

Enzo just grunts again, eying Serra suspiciously as she steps forward to join us. The others stay back, as Serra and I discussed in the short time we had to plan this all out. They’ll stay with the van until the deal’s officially done, with keys in hand in case anything goes south.

“The money’s been wired,” she says, just as calm and collected as I am. “You can have your people confirm.”

“They will. Or the deal’s off.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” I intone, and am answered by another grunt as Enzo juts his chin toward the warehouse door, silently ordering us to follow.

Inside, the space is lit by a single hanging bulb near the entrance. The rest of the warehouse is lost to the gloom, and Enzo points to the concrete floor beneath our feet.

“Stay here. Don’t look at anything. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be back when we know you paid up.”

He leaves, disappearing into a small, walled-off space that must be some sort of office.

Serra and I loiter just inside the door, both with our best affectations of cool collectedness, but taking mind of every sound, every detail we can make out in the dim light.

A short while later, an unfamiliar figure emerges from the office.

Clad all in black and wearing sunglasses, he stands with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes entirely obscured, and doesn’t say a word or give any sign he’s noticed us there at all.

Well, almost.

I’d have missed it if I weren’t on such high alert, but when he inclines his head slightly in our direction, Serra lets out a small huff of breath. Something that might be a laugh, or maybe a bit of incredulity at the whole bizarre situation we’ve found ourselves in, but when she inclines her head in return, a thought clicks into place.

“Lovelace?” I mutter.

Serra gives me a small nod and answers under her breath. “Remember my hot date a couple weeks back? The one you oh so kindly interrupted to have me help you find Ophelia? It was supposed to be with him.”

It’s my turn to let out a short, muted laugh. “You’ll have to tell me later how that all came to pass. And remind me, what exactly is—”

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