Page 2 of Taste of Blood
I clamp down on my response and lead him toward the black Chevelle coupe parked at the curb, opening the door and shoving him inside.
“Nice ride,” he says as I slam the door and walk around to get in.
I shove the key in the ignition and start the car, taking a moment as I always do to appreciate the low-pitched rumble of the engine as it purrs to life.
“I can see you in this,” Devine says as I pull away from the curb. “You’ve got that whole black leather bad ass look going. How’s that working out for you? Get much pussy?”
“Shut up.”
He shrugs. “Okay, then. How about dick?”
I ignore him and swing around the block, heading deeper into the city. Ordinarily Dante would have me bring offenders to the warehouse by the docks, but he’s entertaining tonight, some big shots from one of the European Guilds, and he wants to make an example of Devine. Show them how we deal with offenders in New York. I don’t much care where I take the loser as long as I get paid.
“I can get you three more just like the girls at the club. Or you can have them. I’m generous.”
I glance at him. “Are you generous when you drain their blood and leave them in the alley?”
He shrugs. “Okay, maybe I went too far once.”
“Once? Try three times since the last time you were brought in. Guys like you never learn.”
“Okay, okay. I can change. Just give me another chance.”
I go back to ignoring him.
“It’s not easy,” he continues. “I had a rough childhood. And well, I have…appetites, you know?”
I cut through the park and continue ignoring him, wondering how someone like him was even accepted into the Clan. There’s a rigorous vetting process we’re all supposed to go through to make sure there are no aberrant personality types wielding the kind of power we’re gifted with after our transition. I’ll admit in my younger days I was a bit of a loose cannon, pushing the rules and giving my sponsor no end of headaches, but then I met Dante and he straightened me out.
Sure, I could probably go out on my own now, live the kind of upscale life a lot of my brethren do, but I like the structure. Plus I’m not talented enough on my own to make the kind of money I need to live up to my current standards. I’m not rolling in it, but I make a good living. Have a nice apartment, a sweet ride, and cash to indulge in a few luxuries. It’s enough for me. There are those–well, one in particular–who say I’m wasting my gifts, but I pushed that voice out of my life a long time ago.
When I approach the East Side building where Dante lives, I can see there are no parking spaces along the curb. They have a valet, but no pimply-faced kid is going to touch my baby. I head up the block to the intersection and make a U-turn, finding a slot across the street.
Devine glances up at the building when I yank him out of the car. “So I’m not dying tonight?”
“What gives you that idea? You can die in a penthouse just as easily as a dockyard.”
I shove him in front of me as we cross the street and approach the building. “Behave yourself,” I mutter to him. I know the doorman from all the times I’ve been here, and he waves me inside without so much as a second glance.
“Last chance to take me up on my offer,” Devine says. I’d laugh if I wasn’t already sick of him.
I punch in the code for the penthouse in the elevator and watch the floors whip by. The door opens into the foyer of a luxurious apartment. Two somber-faced guards are stationed on either side of the door. “Where is he?” I ask them, and the taller one, Roland, nods toward the room to the right, where soft jazz and deep voices filter through the door.
Most people who live in penthouses in this city do so for the view, and while I’m sure there’s a great one beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, heavy draperies hang in front of them, blocking off any hint of the outside world. In all the times I’ve been up here, be that day or night, I’ve never seen those curtains open. Instead, three crystal chandeliers light the room, their sparkling ambiance dulled by the heavy fabric and wine-red damask wallpaper.
Someone once told me Dante was originally from a fifteenth century Tuscan family, and judging by his décor, he has separation anxiety about leaving that world behind. The place is a shrine to his homeland. Gilt-framed oil paintings that I’m sure were painted by artists Dante had personally known litter the walls, and every carved, polished surface is covered with sculptures, vases, and books. The furniture, while large and comfortable, is upholstered in the kind of rich velvet and chenille you’d see in some baroque Italian villa.
There are six men in the room besides the host–Gio, Dante’s second, and five men I don’t recognize. Their smart-cut suits indicate they’re the Europeans Dante told me about. Dante himself lounges in his favorite chair, a snifter of what I assume is brandy draped in his elegant hand. He’s a tall man, with dark piercing eyes and a casual air about him that defies his utter ruthlessness. He can transition from the generous lord of the manor to a roughneck mobster in the blink of an eye. Tonight he’s showing his cultured side, and I wonder if the Europeans in the room are even aware of what a murderous bastard he can be.Luckily I have never given him cause to unleash that monster on me, but I’ve seen what he does to people who defy him or the rules.
Tonight, however, his face lights up when he sees me. “Cord. Good of you to come.”
Like he wasn’t expecting me. “Dante.” I push my prisoner in front of me. “As requested.”
Dante sets the glass aside and pushes his imposing frame up from the chair, striding across the room to stand before us. I know Devine has been brought in to him before, but judging by his reaction now, he has never seen this side of the man. Maybe that’s why he appears more relaxed than he should. He obviously doesn’t catch the sadistic gleam in Dante’s eyes, nor understand how mercurial Dante’s moods can be.
Dante glances behind Devine to me. “Have you fed tonight?”
I hate that he knows me well enough to recognize that I have a tendency to ignore my own needs when I’m on a hunt. “No,” I reply sheepishly.
