Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines (The Vampire Cartel #2)

50. The Lost Souls

Chapter 50

The Lost Souls

V ittorio’s Home - Syracuse, Sicily

April 21, 2018

Midnight (Day of Death)

Darlene’s hand slid down her body, and with it, her form shifted. Her skin stretched, her bones reformed, and suddenly she was no longer herself. She became Domencio Di Salvo—tall, dark, dressed in the sleek black Italian suit she once admired on him in his bedchamber. She was her, but she was him.

As Domencio, she felt the weight of his vampiric hunger—bloodlust, power, the rage that surged through her veins. She turned to face him, her lover, her eyes wide in shock. She didn’t just take his form; she had invaded his mind and absorbed his deepest desires and darkest failures. Guilt gnawed at her—she knew every secret, every vulnerability.

Domencio crumpled to the floor, his body struggled against the poison he consumed from her blood. He crawled toward her, weak, each movement filled with agony. It hurt her to watch him suffer, but she couldn’t stay any longer. She had to end Vittorio, and quickly.

As she moved for the door, his hand latched onto her ankle.

“It’s my father,” he rasped.

She looked down at him. Pity softened her expression.

“You can’t kill him… Lucio… if Papa dies… the Draquria—,” he choked out.

“No,” she interrupted. She pointed to the mirror. “The Draca doesn’t take him. See?”

In the reflection, the deity Papa Legba grinned back at them, cane in hand, trapped in the glass with him was Darlene’s soul. Domencio’s eyes filled with understanding and horror from the bargain they made as kids.

“Papa Legba takes him and the Draquria. That’s the new deal,” Darlene said.

Domencio’s head lifted. “What have you done, tesoro ?” he whispered, his voice ragged.

“I made the sacrifice,” she replied, her conviction steady, cold. “The one I’d never let you or Dolly make. I’m going to save you both. I’m going to save everyone, including my Lucio.”

“Darlene!” Domencio gasped. He reached for her as she yanked her leg free and rushed out the door.

Left behind, he rolled onto his back and tried to summon air into his lungs. His chest tightened; the pain was unbearable. And then his existence began to fade.

Sonya and Shakespeare rode the Vespa from Palermo to Syracuse, the hum of the engine mingled with the rush of wind around them. Her arms wrapped in secure firmness around his waist, and her chin rested lightly upon his shoulder. Eyes closed, she surrendered to the steady rhythm of the journey and drew strength from the protective energy that radiated from him—a silent expression of love that reached her in ways words never could.

“If we survive this, what kind of life will we have?” she asked telepathically, her thoughts no more than a soft probe.

“The life we choose to have,” he replied, his tone edged with quiet determination. “I’m not a slave.”

“You’re consiglieri. I’m a guardian. We’re not slaves, Shakespeare. We’re servants. The choice was made for us long ago.” She said. But it was a choice we chose to uphold.

His thoughts shifted, with defiance. “That has changed for me, now.”

The conviction in his response sent a daring thrill through her. Being his mate was more than she had ever imagined. The weight of her connection with Kaida and the dangers ahead loomed over her, but for now, she didn’t care. In this moment, she was simply Sonya—a woman alive with the exhilaration of newfound love. Even when Tristan’s memory surfaced at the edges of her mind, it was Shakespeare who reclaimed her heart and reminded her of what true love was.

“How much further?” she asked aloud, her voice rose above the wind this time when she spoke.

“We’re close,” Shakespeare called back. “But we must go through the dark forest. Look up.”

Reluctantly, Sonya pulled herself out of the dazed euphoria she’d been basking in and turned her gaze skyward. Her breath stalled. The sky was transformed, a churning mass of darkness rolled in from every direction, converging over a single, ominous point in the distance. Bolts of lightning lit the dense clouds, like fireflies trapped within a storm.

“Dear God,” she whispered, her fingers tightening their grip on his jacket. “What’s happening? Are we going to make it?”

“I don’t know,” Shakespeare admitted. His voice was calm but carried a weight of uncertainty. “Hold on.”

Her heart clenched, but his next words soothed her fraying nerves.

“I’ve got you.”

“As I do you,” she said, a quiet smile touched her lips despite the danger.

Without a word, she tapped into her power, and let it flow with subtle ease through her. The Vespa surged forward, faster and more certain than before. She didn’t tell him—it wasn’t necessary. Let him think it was all him, she thought with amusement. True love wasn’t about control or submission; it was trust—trust that she could help without losing herself, even with a vampire as her partner.

And as the storm thickened around them, her faith in him never wavered.

It hadn’t yet been a century since the hoodoo witch Julia Brown cast her curse. But what did that matter? Each day brought Vittorio closer to his fate, regardless of her timeline. For him, time had become irrelevant. Though he was cursed with immortality, he knew there was an end, and the end was near.

“One hun’red years from ta’dey, one hun’red years from ta’night. Dere will be one, only one, and he be de worst of you. De bringer of death. You made it so. I made sure you see, and you know!”

Vittorio had ravaged the people of Syracuse, leaving a trail of drained bodies in his wake. His stomach was full of their blood. He’d stripped a dead man of his clothes, restoring some semblance of dignity to cover his nudity. The cane in his hand had belonged to a woman he’d left slumped on her porch, her life drained. Yet rather than slink home like a beaten dog, he walked with pride through the night.

The moment he entered his home, a strange presence chilled the air. A wave of déjà vu washed over him. His thoughts, clouded by centuries of pillage, changed like a blood moon eclipse—brief moments of clarity had soon become swallowed by darkness. Was he being watched, or was that yet another fractured memory?

Vittorio tried to focus. He leaned heavily on his cane; he made his way to the blood-bar in a room he barely recognized.

Darlene had smelled him long before she found him. Though not a vampire, she summoned herself in a metaphysical form—dark smoke had taken her inside and she used that to be unseen as she drifted in the room and observed from the shadowy corner of his lair. She waited.

“Father?” Her voice resounded like Domencio’s. “Do you not see me?”

Vittorio froze, his cataract-ridden eyes wide. He sniffed the air. He knew that scent—his brood. Domencio had returned. Or had he been there before? Confusion gripped the old Don.

“Why are you here ahead of your brothers?” Vittorio asked.

“My brothers aren’t the answer, Father. I am,” Darlene replied, as Domencio. “That’s why.”

Vittorio sighed. He poured a glass of warm human blood into his crystal goblet. He gave no thought to how it appeared in his cabinet. He certainly never filled a pitcher. Still, his needs were always met, to match his dissolving memory. He had not forgotten the sixteen people he had killed earlier in the night. The thick liquid filled the glass, and he savored its warmth as it slid down his throat. It helped, but not enough. To feel whole, he would need to drain a thousand more bodies. The thirst never ended.

“Does it hurt, Father?” Darlene asked.

“Are you mocking me?” Vittorio answered.

“Lucio betrays you. He has the cure, twins, and he keeps them secret. Do you know why?” Darlene taunted.

The Don’s grip tightened on the goblet. The hoodoo witch had warned him his sons would turn on him and each other. But of all his children, Lucio had been the most loyal. Or so he thought.

“Did you hear me, Father?” Darlene, her voice more insistent now.

She had Domencio’s memories—his pain, his resentment. She remembered the bitter conversation Domencio had with their father, the rejection that had broken him. Now, she forced the old vampire to relive that rejecting moment with her. But this time, there would be a different outcome.

The forest pressed in on Sonya. Her empathic powers were caught. It became a suffocating weight of shadows and tension. Dark energy coiled through the air, thick and pulsing, like the forest itself was alive. It breathed in sync with her. Her chest tightened; muscles tensed as if the unseen force threatened to collapse her lungs. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it waited—anticipated something cruel.

Shakespeare brought the vespa to an abrupt halt. The front tire barely braked through the edge of the blackened thicket. The headlight sliced through the gloom, but the light became swallowed by the shadows, eaten by the darkness within. Sonya got off first. She removed her helmet and tossed it to the ground. Shakespeare was a bit more cautious.

He got off slowly and kept his eyes and senses alert.

“How are you, goddess?” he whispered in her thoughts.

“I’m okay,” Sonya forced the reassurance between shallow breaths, voice shaky. Her pulse hammered at her throat. It betrayed her. Even the air tasted wrong—metallic, bitter. She wasn’t sure if the forest watched her or if something far worse lingered in the dark.

“We’re not alone,” Shakespeare warned.

The moon hid behind storm clouds. A light drizzle filtered through the thick canopy above. Yet the forest floor became covered with an eerie glow, the fog swirled in beneath them like breath exhaled from something ancient and unseen. Sonya’s heart skipped, her skin prickled.

She looked ahead. She followed Shakespeare’s gaze. A slow approach was made toward them on the narrow, winding path by a cloaked man. She soon discovered it was Phoenix. His dark, battle-worn attire could have belonged to another century—fashioned for the knights of the templar, yet with an unsettling elegance. Each step he took echoed, soft yet menacing, like a countdown.

Sonya shifted her eyes to Shakespeare. She noticed the tight clench and release of his fists. His body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to protect her at any cost. But she knew—this was no ordinary fight. He would be outmatched, and she wouldn’t stand idly by.

Phoenix came to a halt. The wicked curve of his lips twisted into a smirk that sent ice through her veins.

From the shadows, two more figures stepped into view. Cloaked in darkness, they flanked Phoenix on either side. Sonya’s frown deepened; her pulse hammered in her ears. To Phoenix’s right, Raven stood—a ghostly figure with skin so pale it looked drained of life. His throat was a grotesque ruin, slashed and barely held together by what appeared to be jagged stitches, as if death had claimed him and then carelessly returned him, pieced back together. Head nailed to his shoulders.

“Sophie,” Shakespeare muttered, voice taut with disbelief.

Sonya’s gaze snapped to the other figure. Sophie stood on Phoenix’s left. She was slow to lower her hood, her face and throat stitched together in a macabre imitation of life. Dark lines crisscrossed her skin, and pulled her features into something both beautiful yet horrifying, as if Phoenix had crafted her from broken parts.

Phoenix’s smile widened. A twisted triumph gleamed in his eyes. His creations, sewn from the dead, stood before them as a mockery of life itself.

“We’ve been waiting,” Phoenix drawled.

A warmth radiated through Domencio’s chest. It cut through the oppressive darkness that had choked the life from him. His body relaxed. The compression lifted from his soul as cool relief surged through his veins and freed his lungs. He gasped for air, his limbs trembled, and the sensation returned.

When his eyes blinked open, he expected to see Darlene—he thought she had come back for him. But it wasn’t her.

A young Black woman's face hovered over him. She had a kind face that, though young, and worn from a hard life, her clothes tattered and strange, as if she’d stepped out of another time. There was something about her, something that tugged at the edge of his memory. She smiled. A softness surfaced in her eyes that felt like home.

“Sit up, chile…” her voice carried the weight of familiarity, a gentle command wrapped in warmth. “It’s me. Yo Maman. Julia.”

“Maman?” Domencio rasped, disbelief took over his voice. He moved too quick. His muscles screamed as if they’d been crushed beneath a thousand-pound weight. But Julia's touch was warm. It grounded him at the moment. She had come for him.

“Time is short, cher, ” she whispered. Her hands steadied him as he struggled to sit. “Mah babies are in danger. All mah babies. Too many dead, too many.”

Domencio’s mind went blank, confusion thick as fog, wrapped around his brain. He couldn’t form words—couldn’t make sense of it. His surrogate mother here, after all this time? How was this possible?

“I have to show you something,” Julia continued, her voice urgent. “Before Legba finds me. Before he knows I’m here. I never meant to lose you, Domencio. Or for the Chosen to be reborn. Mah anger… mah need for vengeance twisted everything. I wanted justice for what Vittorio did. I thought mah boys would bring it, that they’d make him pay. But Legba—he’s no good. He’s a trickster. And I let him fool me.”

Her words rattled him. His mind raced to keep up, his body weak but beginning to recover under her touch.

“Darlene… Dolly… need ya,” she pressed on, her voice rose with urgency. “You’ll all die because of mah mistake. Legba poisoned you through Darlene’s blood. But that’s only part of it. The real threat—he’s out there still.”

Julia helped him to his feet. She found a robe to cover him. He leaned against the cold stone wall, gasping for breath, but he listened intently now.

“You can fight the darkness in you, chile,” she assured him. “Legba’s poison can be purged. But the other—the one who lured me into his trap, into dark magic—he’s the veritable monster. The Phoenix.”

Domencio’s heart stilled at the name. “The Phoenix? You mean our Phoenix?”

She nodded. “The Phoenix hates Vittorio. He blames him for the death of his wife. He’s waited. He killed mah Chosen One. I never knew. He has been the orchestrator the entire time. Walking the crossroads between the old and new Gods—fueling the hatred and war. He’s used old magic with me and mah new magic, to gain this day of revenge. He came to me long ago. Helped me save many of mah enslaved people. Helped me understand the powers of the realm when mah Chosen One would not. And when I made my vow to Papa Legba, Phoenix offered Legba your father and his sons with mah help. I sorry for it chile, for what I did. I sorry.”

“Why? Why would he do it?”

“He wants to unleash the Draquria, to tear open the layer of the universe that keeps the realms separate. To force the world into eternal darkness. If he succeeds there is a chance his wife Aries could return to save this world—since he used those cult people to bring back the guardians. He thinks the great ones, the ancient ones beyond mah understanding would have no choice but to let them return and restore the cosmos. He has been grooming you and your brothers from the very start. Each of you plays a role. Marcello helped create the magic tools that paralyze you now.”

Domencio was rendered speechless. He tried to remember what Marcello had said about Phoenix.

“He used magic to erase me from your hearts. I waited for you in that swamp, hoping you’d come back so I could make a change, amend my evil doings. But you never returned. He made sure of it,” she said sadly. “There was no atonement for me.”

Julia shook her head. Sadness clouded her eyes. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re out of time. Come. I have to show you before it’s too late.”