Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines (The Vampire Cartel #2)

46. The Day of the Dead

Chapter 46

The Day of the Dead

P alermo, Italy

April 20, 2018

1 Day Before Death)

Marcello paced. His thoughts were as tangled as the shadows that flickered over the ancient walls. He hadn’t rested, and hadn’t fed in over a day. He couldn’t pull himself from Lucio’s side. The coffin at the center of the room cast a heavy silence over everything. The monks moved around them like ghosts, lighting incense and muttering incantations, but nothing they did could ease the tension that gnawed at his gut.

Where is Phoenix? He had reached out again and again, but the connection was dead. The silence drove him mad. Lucio was neither alive nor dead—he was undone , trapped somewhere between worlds. And Marcello had no answers. With Phoenix, they solved the mysteries of the universe. Phoenix taught him the old magic, and tenants of that realm he was birthed through, and Marcello used technology to improve, enhance, and perfect what gods who had fallen could not. He needed Phoenix’s counsel.

“Sebastiano!” Marcello turned to his brother.

Sebastiano lounged in a chair, away from the coffin and the suffocating stench of incense. His large dogs sat at his feet, their eyes dull and detached, while his lizard coiled lazily in his lap. He seemed lost, drinking blood from a goblet offered by a monk, but there was a vacancy in his eyes that disturbed Marcello.

“Sebastiano!” Marcello called again, more urgently.

Sebastiano's gaze lifted slowly as if pulled from some far-off place. “What is it?”

“Have you heard from Raven? From anyone?” Marcello’s voice cracked under the weight of his desperation.

Sebastiano shook his head. He set his goblet aside. “Nothing. I feel nothing from him. I think it’s those bitches. They’ve severed the bond.”

Marcello’s gaze darkened. “You really believe this is them?”

Sebastiano gestured to Lucio’s coffin, a sharp edge to his voice. “Look at him, Marcello! We didn’t do this. Something has taken him, something bigger than us, bigger than our father. The Chosen will come for us. They want war. We need to give them what they wish. Be ready for it.”

Marcello’s jaw clenched as he glanced toward Lucio’s coffin. “I don’t think this is them. Not entirely.”

Sebastiano’s laugh was bitter, almost mocking. “What proof do you need? Lucio’s gone, Marcello. Whatever’s coming, it’s already here.”

The heavy iron door creaked open, and Domencio entered, led by a monk carrying a flaming torch. His expression was grim, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Marcello turned, and hope disappeared from his eyes.

“Where is Phoenix?” Marcello asked.

Domencio didn’t meet his gaze immediately. “I left him and Raven in Vegas. I came here, but had to wait out the morning sun. I tried reaching both of you... but nothing.” His voice trailed off as he looked toward Lucio’s coffin. Even with the lid closed, he could feel his brother’s presence, or what was left of it. Seeing him like this, trapped, untouched by life or death, left Domencio feeling hollow.

Shame clouded his features as he lowered his head. “I was wrong,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “For years, I blamed him. I hated him because Papa favored him. Because he was born first, chosen first. I was jealous. I let that eat me alive, and he begged me to be a brother, to be like you two.” His gaze lingered on the coffin. Memories flooded back. “I was just a scared kid in that crypt with the ferals. He could’ve let me die... but he saved me. I see that now.”

Sebastiano sneered from his seat, his voice dripping with disdain. “Well, good for you, Domencio. Too fucking late. You tortured Lucio. Fucked with his head. Let him hunt the Brown women and then let him suffer with guilt alone. Look at what you and Shakespeare have done with the wolves. You stupid fuck. We warned you.”

“Shut up, Sebastiano.” Marcello moved toward Domencio, his expression hardening. “He’s not gone, Domencio. You two are the same—blood of the same blood. Reach him .”

“I can’t,” Domencio muttered. He shook his head solemn.

“ Try ,” Marcello urged. “Please.”

“I can’t !” Domencio’s roar reverberated through the chamber. His eyes brimmed with blood tears, that then streaked down his cheeks. “Do you think I haven’t tried? He’s gone, Marcello! I was supposed to be with Papa, but I came for him. For Lucio! I’ve never been without him, and now... he’s not there. There’s nothing left to reach.”

Marcello’s heart sank. “Wait... why were you supposed to be with Papa?”

Domencio hesitated. “Phoenix... he said I should go to Sicilia. Tend to Papa. He and Raven were handling the Guardians. Bringing them to you.”

Marcello’s brow furrowed. “Phoenix was supposed to kill the Guardians. Maybe we got our signals crossed.”

Sebastiano slammed his goblet down, the blood splattering across the crypt walls. “It’s those witches ,” he hissed. “They’ve undone everything. We’re running on fumes here. We should be out in the sun or the night and ready for the hunt.” His large Tibetan dogs gave low growls like lions.

Sebastiano, always the most volatile, unraveled. He hated the sun, but to hear him now he rather burn in it than waste another moment not seeking revenge. Marcello could see it in the way his eyes flickered between rage and helplessness. He had always leaned on Lucio, on their bond, and now, without him, he was adrift. The truth was, they all were. Lucio was the only one of the three that still had a heart. Though none of the brothers admitted it. He was the soul of their Fratelli. Without him, they would not survive as brothers.

Marcello stepped closer to Domencio. “Go to Sicilia. Be with Papa. We’ll figure this out and bring Lucio to you both. We’ll defend our father and our brother together. To the end.”

Domencio glanced at Lucio’s coffin, feeling the weight of his failure. He approached it slowly. He rested a hand on the cold surface, memories of their childhood flashed through his mind. The crypt, the fear, the tears... and the brother who saved him. I was wrong, Lucio. I’m sorry . He sent the message with what little psychic strength he had left, praying that somehow Lucio could hear him.

I’ll do whatever it takes to save you .

Palermo, Sicily

“Welcome to Palermo,” said the concierge, bowing slightly as the group arrived at the hotel.

Charmaine smiled politely, but her eyes were on Tristan as he stepped forward, speaking in rapid Sicilian to secure their rooms. Sonya stood beside her, though her attention kept drifting to Shakespeare. Since their arrival in Italy, there was a tension between them, an unspoken urgency beneath every glance.

Before they boarded the private jet, Tristan had convinced them not to enter Rome directly. The brothers had eyes everywhere, and arriving in Rome would tip their plan in the Draca’s favor. Palermo was safer, quieter, a place to regroup. Charmaine had feared the twins wouldn’t agree, but Tristan had a way with Dolly, a way of cutting through her walls of rage. Darlene, on the other hand, had been unnervingly quiet. Though the glow of energy was gone, both had skin that glisten with vitality. The darker tone of Darlene’s skin was mesmerizing and often caught the sideways glances from those she passed. It worried Charmaine how changed and powerful the sisters were. She had no idea what the First People had done to them.

Don’t worry , Tristan’s voice echoed in her mind. I have a plan for us all .

She glanced at him as he accepted the keys to their rooms, and the desire in his thoughts brushed against her. Not now , she reminded herself, while her body betrayed her.

Shakespeare’s hand slipped into Sonya’s as they headed toward the elevators. The energy that connected them was no longer filled with suffering. His hand, his touch, felt like a union she could never put into words. Sonya allowed the feeling to adjust to fit the moment. The warmth of his touch grounded her. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles gently. It was a simple gesture, but one filled with everything she had ever craved—love, devotion, something unbreakable between her and a man. She had known many lovers in her mortal life, but none as different and exciting as her consiglieri. While Charmaine tormented herself over the propriety of their now bonds with the consiglieri, she reveled in the rebirth of her essence. She wasn’t street, or damaged. She was a great warrior with a greater purpose. And she had one of the toughest vampires in the game as her mate.

Darlene entered the elevator with the rest of the group, her hand pressed to her brow. The darkness inside her consumed, gnawed at her senses. It wasn’t like before. Before, when she was with Dolly, she felt powerful. Now, she felt... intercepted. Weak.

“Are you alright, sister?” Dolly asked, concern in her eyes.

“Huh?” Darlene blinked and then forced a smile. “Yeah. Just the flight. Do you feel… funny?”

“Strange, yea, I feel it,” Dolly mumbled. The elevator doors opened, and the women were led down a hall toward their rooms.

Tristan spoke up, tone voice casual but direct. “We leave for Rome when the moon rises. I suggest everyone get some rest. Tonight’s going to be war.”

“I don’t need rest!” Darlene snipped, a defiant edge returned to her voice. “I want to get to Lucio. Now.”

Tristan nodded respectfully. “We’ll get to Lucio, but we need to be at full strength. That includes feeding.”

Darlene looked at Dolly, who gave her a gentle smile. “He’s safe. I can still see him. Let’s take the time, sister. There are these monks keeping him protected. I sense no rise in the danger.”

Reluctant, Darlene nodded and followed her into the suite. Tristan grabbed Charmaine’s hand, and a spark of energy passed between them. It was like a breath of fresh air after days of suffocating tension.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

Let me fuck you… is what she heard.

Charmaine knew that it wasn’t her imagination. He had whispered the intention in her mind. Talking was the last thing they would do.

Once in the suite she felt different—incomplete. Darlene stormed into the bathroom to reclaim her strength and confidence that seem to soften since they left the desert. What had changed her? Something unnatural was at work. Her body trembled with missing energy she couldn’t explain. She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and vomited. Thick, dark blood spilled from her lips. Her stomach twisted violently, but when she looked down, she saw nothing but dark bile swimming in the commode.

Her hands shook as she wiped her mouth, terror crept up her spine.

Darlene...

Her head shot up. Her eyes went wide. The voice was... wrong. Not like anything she’d ever heard before.

It’s time .

Her gaze switched to the mirror above the sink. She stared at her reflection, but it wasn’t her own face staring back.

Hello baby girl…

A familiar face shimmered into view, the soft, kind features of her mother, Wanda. Darlene’s lungs stopped working. “Mama?” She reached out, her hand passed through the glass.

“I’m here, baby,” Wanda whispered, her smile soft and warm. “I’m here.”

Darlene’s heart ached. Tears spilled. She hadn’t known many comforts in life, but the yearning for her mother had never left her. “Mama,” she whispered again, her voice breaking.

The illusion shattered. Wanda’s face twisted and transformed, morphed into a sinister figure who wore a black top hat. He grinned wickedly, grabbed her hand and yanked her forward into his world. The darkness swallowed Darlene’s scream. She was pulled through the mirror and disappeared.

She landed hard on her knees, she gasped for breath. The dark swirl around her faded in and out of focus, but slowly, it solidified. She was no longer in the hotel. She was in Louisiana, kneeling at a crossroads on a lonely dirt road. The air smelled of the swamp, thick and wet, and the sky above became shadowed with traces of the golden light of a disappearing sun.

Darlene stumbled to her feet. She looked around in confusion. The road forked ahead of her—left or right. She stood frozen, unsure where to go, when a distant whistle pierced the air.

The whistle grew closer, footsteps followed. Darlene turned, her fists clenched. She faced the man from the mirror. He was tall and older, with a painted face and eyes that gleamed with delight.

“There she is,” he said, with a grin, his walking stick tapped the ground as he approached. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Who are you?” Darlene demanded. She summoned her power, but nothing came. The energy within her was dissolved like smoke in the wind.

Papa Legba laughed and circled her with predatory grace. You’re at the crossroads, child. Your powers are nothing here.

He blurred and moved like a gust of wind, reappearing behind her. Darlene spun to confront him, but he was gone again.

“Let me go,” she snarled. “You don’t want to fuck with me.”

There she is, Papa Legba purred. The little fighter. Just as he said you would be.

Darlene’s eyes narrowed. “He who?”

Never mind that. We have business to discuss .

He waved his hand, and the fabric of reality tore apart in front of her. A vision shimmered into existence—a black-and-white projection like the kind you would see in an old-time picture show—presented her past and future. She saw the child, Domencio, struggle under the captivity of his dragon, and then herself, younger, rising to fight the beast. The images shifted, showing the adult version of Domencio sweep in and save her from the fire, and then the scene morphed again to the present. She saw him in tears. He apologized to Lucio. He begged for forgiveness. And then, alone, in a dark room deep within a castle, Domencio sat with his face in his hands, weeping.

He suffers, Papa Legba whispered. His father did this to him. Vittorio. He’s the true evil. I know you think your sister and you are now fated to Lucio. But is that true. You are Darlene. You have your own soul. A mate who could love you and only you is what you deserve. If you want, take them both. But my guess is you want your own love, life, freedom. You can be the shadow, or you can be the chosen as you were destined to be. Save Domencio, child. Heal him. Avenge Lucio. End the vampire prophecy before it starts.

Darlene saw Domencio’s pain, and something in her longed to comfort him, to be the one who saved him. Not Dolly, not anyone else— her .

“What do you want in return?” Darlene asked, her resolve to be strong wavered.

Papa Legba smiled wide. Your soul. It’s a simple bargain. Take the road, kill Vittorio, and Domencio will be yours. Dolly can have Lucio. Or you can have them both. Rise to the occasion and be what you were born to be.

Darlene hesitated; the temptation gnawed at her. She could end the war, stop the suffering. She and Dolly could be their own people. Lucio would be free. Domencio could be hers, truly hers. They would all be one family.

“Why me?” she asked. “Why come to me ?”

Papa Legba’s laughter shook the crossroads, warped the vision around them. Vittorio cheats me. He’s dying ahead of his time. Tricky bastard. Julia Brown gave him a hundred days. TikTok, TikTok. If I don’t take what’s mine, the Draca will step in and push for the prophecy, using my magic and that scoundrel Phoenix to claim Lucio. I’ll be denied. But you, child, you can stop it. You can have everything and gain everything you want.

Darlene’s spine stiffened; her eyes narrowed. “You want to cheat me out of my soul so you can claim Domencio. Lucio, Vittorio? I am worth more than that. You have already done your deity work with Julia Brown. Be man enough to go get them yourself.”

Papa Legba’s brow lifted in surprise.

“I’m Wanda Brown’s daughter, a descendant of the realm, a chosen. You’re a trickster God. Tracked in this universe, weaving pain and misfortune into games you like to play. You don’t get my soul with slick talk and fantasy.”

A wicked grin spread across Darlene’s face as the anger in Papa Legba began to rise. “But maybe I can give you something else as an exchange?”

Papa Legba’s eyes glittered with intrigue. “And what’s that child?”

Shakespeare consumed her. Every molecule of Sonya was absorbed in a union otherworldly. She had no fight left in her. The moment they entered the room he stripped her of her clothes and took her down. Her breath gusted when she struggled to speak, his cock slamming into her was a welcomed release. Every nerve set ablaze by the relentless rhythm of his pelvic bone hammering against hers. Their sweat-slicked skin made their movements slippery, heated by her cosmic energy and a beautiful pulsating fiery burn that soaked the bedsheets. Each stroke of his cock, turned into an upward toss of her hips, and he throttled them toward an increased velocity as he claimed her over and over. His chest pressed against her, his mouth trailed hot, breathless kisses slicked her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her jaw—never giving her a moment to catch her breath.

Sonya's legs were sinched high on his waist, locked around him, holding him close, her body arched with every powerful thrust he delivered. The deep, primal connection between them blurred the lines of time.

Shakespeare had already drunk so much from her, his hunger voracious, nearly insatiable—but she felt him hesitate now. His body trembled with restraint, unsure if he could take more without completely losing himself in her. He couldn’t remember ever being this hungry or aroused. The melanin in her skin was delightfully warm and salty. Strange. From the countless women of color he consumed, he saw little difference in melanin. But now his tastebuds were awakened to the UV excellence of the sun denied.

He stopped drinking while fucking. He stared down at that tiny pebble of blood mixed in with the pebbled beads of sweat surrounding her neck wound. He laved it inside of his mouth, stroking it over and over, roughing it with the flat of his tongue.

“You must pace yourself,” she whispered into his mind, and he found the will to stop drinking. Her gaze sparkled up at him like gems. She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him deeper.

“I love you,” repeated his response over and over as the kiss helped him reclaim control of his darkness. And his mouth left hers, his Draca now abated. Their gaze simultaneously went downward. They were fascinated and excited by the sight of her plump pussy, with the thick thatch of curly pubes taking in his shaft as light energy spilled out of her channel and illuminated the length of his dick, ball sack, and pubic hairs.

Shakespeare rolled to his back and let her get on top. Wanting her to take full control. The bite to her neck already healed. Sonya smiled, a soft, knowing smile, her fingers threaded through his damp hair. She wanted him to lose control. She wanted to give him more of herself, to feel the intensity of his need for her, to let him fuck her until there was nothing left. They were both drunk off each other, drunk on the endless cycle of pleasure and power that surged between them.

Her head fell back as her pelvic thrusts increased, her body devoured his surging uptilted cock as her clit tingled and distended with sensory overload. She arched away from him as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She had never felt so completely possessed, so utterly claimed , and yet so free. Every moan that escaped her lips only urged him on, his movements becoming more frantic, more primal, as if they could never get close enough, never satisfy the deep, ravenous hunger that bound them together.

She loved him . It was undeniable.

“At last it’s me and you,” Tristan whispered, his voice thick with need and reverence for his goddess. He cradled Charmaine’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushed tenderly over her cheeks while he gazed into her eyes. The world around them fell away. The sex had been immediate, a sensual act that repeatedly blended, bonded, and transformed their energy. He worshipped her body with the intensity of a man who knew she was his for eternity. And still he needed more.

He needed her —not just the pleasure, but the raw truth of her. The woman who had shattered everything he knew about love that remained within him. It was his Draca who had to look away, fade into the void or suffer disintegration from the union.

“You are more beautiful to me than anyone or anything,” Tristan murmured.

Charmaine’s breath hitched, her chest rose and fell beneath him. “It’s Liora you see, not met,” she replied. “It’s the curse, or the magic, or whatever it is... this isn’t real. If this had never happened, you’d be a Priest in his eighties. And I’d be a real-estate agent, and part-time accountant doing taxes for people in my community. That’ reality… this is something different.”

Tristan’s grip tightened on her chin, firm but gentle, as he turned her face back to his. “Look at me. This isn’t different it’s real. Do you hear me? It’s real. Everything before us was not. Ask yourself why you accepted any of it. Why you didn’t turn away. Inside you knew. I was coming. For you.” His lips descended on hers with a hunger that left no room for denial. His tongue swept into her mouth, claimed her, tasted her, renamed their love. She moaned into the kiss, her body arching as heat unfurled inside her, spiraling down to the core where he was buried deep inside her. The sweat on her cheeks gleamed in the brightness radiating from her melanated skin. Her long lashes fluttered shut; her mind lost in the electric storm of sensation.

Without breaking the kiss, Tristan thrust into her again, slow and deliberate, he drove himself deeper, pinning her beneath him with the sheer force of his need. She sank into the soft pillows, her face still held firmly in his hands, his mouth never leaving hers.

When he finally pulled back, and severed the intimacy swirling within the kiss, he stayed close, his breath warm against her lips. His eyes—dark, it smoldered with an emotion that ran deeper than lust—locked onto hers.

“Now? Does this feel like a lie? Like a curse? Some magic trick?” he asked.

Charmaine gasped beneath him. His pelvis pressed into hers with a slow grind that sent waves of pleasure radiated through her pussy. Her inner muscles quivered; her body buckled under the unbearable heat. Tristan straightened, pushed himself up on his arms. He pulled away from her tight embrace. Still deeply connected to her, he shifted to his knees, slid his arms beneath the crooks of her knees to lift her hips. With a firm grip, he controlled her movements, pulling her against him in a rhythm that built an intense, irresistible tension between them. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, and he watched as his bulging length slid between her swollen, glistening folds, each powerful thrust of his hips drew a shudder from them both. She was lost to him, to the pulse of desire that ravaged her from the inside out, but she needed the truth as much as he did.

“It’s real,” she whimpered, her voice reduced to a purr. “It’s real.”

Tristan’s gaze darkened with possessive satisfaction, and as if her surrender spurred him deeper, his hips began to move with a more relentless power drill. Her hips rocked back and forth with upward thrusts, her thighs trembled as his strokes became long and punishing, driving her closer to the edge.

“Say it again,” Tristan demanded, his voice thick with hunger. His cock pulsed inside her, his thrusts deep, stretching her wide. “Say it, Charmaine.”

“It’s real,” she gasped, her voice breathless, lost in the torrent of sensations overwhelming her. “It’s so real.”

With one last thrust, her body shattered, and the orgasm tore through her with violent intensity. She cried out his name, her voice raw, her entire body consumed by the fire that raged between them.

Tristan drank deeply from her. His cock pulsated inside her, both of them lost in the endless abyss of each other.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, filled with something deeper than desire. “Now and forever.”

Papa Legba stepped out of the bathroom; his cane tapped lightly against the floor with each calculated step. The deal was sealed. Darlene had made her choice, and now she was bound to her destiny. He had always known she would choose the road he laid out before her—mortals, even those with the blood of gods, couldn’t resist the promises of power, love, and revenge.

Now it was time to collect.

He moved through the room unnoticed. Dolly, sat on the sofa and indulged in room service and idly scrolled through her phone, with no awareness of the god in her midst. Even creatures of the supernatural realm could miss the presence of a new god, not birthed from the realm but from the single plane of the current universe. Forged in pain and suffering of those left behind, Papa Legba smirked; his eyes gleamed with amusement as he raised his cane.

With a single, deliberate motion, he cast his will over her, a power he took from Darlene.

Dolly inhaled the dark energy sharply, her nostrils flared as the invisible force she initially thought was her sister entered her lungs. Her phone slipped from her fingers. It clattered when it hit the floor. Her body went rigid, and then, as if lulled into a deep, irresistible slumber, she collapsed onto the sofa, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut like a doomed Sleeping Beauty.

Papa Legba could feel the fading pulse of her unconsciousness, the threads of fate winding tighter around her psychic power as she sank into the dreamless void of his making.

He moved toward the door, then through it. His cane tapped again and again. A subtle rhythm that echoed his name in the hall as he stepped into through the corridor. But then, something caught his attention—like the scent of storm-charged air before a downpour.

His brow lifted in amusement as he felt it: raw, sexual energy vibrated through the walls, emanating from two doors in the hall. One to the left, the other to the right. Vampires, guardians, fucking in his realm. Papa Legba let go a deep throaty laugh that filled the Sicilian walls of the palatial hotel. Sonya. Charmaine. The two women intertwined with their immortal lovers; their bodies locked in the primal, consuming rhythm of passion. The surrounding air shimmered with the power of it—supernatural, electric. It spilled from their private ecstasies.

Papa Legba loved the irony. Lust, love, and fate—they were all part of the same thread. He could use that against them. With a flick of his cane, he heightened the tension, the pleasure. Forcing the supernatural’s into a death mate, that would have their passion drain the life from each other. What did this world need with guardians when they had him?

Papa Legba strolled on into the darkness.

In one room, Tristan, lost in the deep pleasure of his lover, felt the tug first. His body slowed, his movements becoming sluggish as if he were caught in a web of sleep. His mind, already clouded by passion, slipped easily into the spell. His head fell against Charmaine’s shoulder, his breath heavy, his body collapsed on top of her, their intimacy unfinished. She barely had time to react before death brushed her lips and claimed her as well, her limbs went slack, her eyes closed in a dreamless surrender.

In the next room, Sonya was on the edge of climax, her body strained against Shakespeare, her breath ragged. His hands gripped her waist, his mouth at her neck, ready to drink from her again and again. But just as she felt herself tip into that final, glorious wave of release; she too felt the weight of Papa Legba’s will. Her body seized, a breathless gasp escaping her lips before she collapsed against Shakespeare’s chest.

Shakespeare, still caught in his own haze of pleasure, felt the pull a heartbeat later. His hands slipped from her skin; his eyes grew heavy as if dragged down by an invisible force. He cradled her limp body against his as he too succumbed to the god’s spell, falling into an impenetrable sleep.

All was as it should be. The lovers, entangled in each other’s arms, were now frozen in death, the inescapable void, suspended in the threads of time and fate.

Papa Legba smiled, a deep, satisfied smile. His laughter echoed again in the hall as his form began to shimmer, his edges dissolved into the shadows of the corridor. He twirled his cane once more, whistling a low, haunting tune as he strode out of his physical to his metaphysical existence. The sound of his steps faded until there was nothing left but the echo of his amusement.

His presence dissolved entirely, vanished into the ether, but the consequences of his bargain lingered—woven into the very fabric of their destiny.