Chapter 3 #2
It was actually the Capelli girl’s grandfather, Tomasso, who stepped in and made peace. And now someone is targeting his blood in the same manner? I don’t like it or understand it, and I don’t have a clue what Vincenzo and the Firenzes have to do with the whole mess.
“This Kurt—he’s definitely not one of ours? Because if he’s looking to take out the Capelli Seer, and Vincenzo sent me here to do the same … Well, the way things are right now, I wouldn’t put it past him to have some side action.”
“Yeah, me neither. But who fucking knows? Why would he send you if he already gave the job to this Kurt? Why is he messing with the Vecchissime in the first place? We all know they’re unpredictable sacks of shit as well. It could be one of them that’s behind this Kurt thing.”
“Maybe.”
I fall silent, unsure what to do next. It should be simple—kill her or take her back to him. I didn’t stay alive this long or rise to this much power by questioning every order I was ever given. Then again, I didn’t do it by being stupid either.
Everything about this feels wrong, and I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the decades. They’re screaming at me now.
Maybe I should try to contact Sophia. The Don’s daughter might have some insight, and she has proven multiple times that although she is loyal to her father, her priority is the Cosca.
Or I could get in touch with Aidan. Aidan Flynn is Vincenzo’s consigliere, and he’s done good work for us.
He’s been having doubts about Vincenzo’s behavior too, and it’s possible he knows what’s happening.
He could have some information on how this malocchio came to the Don’s attention, why she’s dispensable.
Killing her could start a war. And what the hell might be done to her if I go down the “kidnap” route instead?
“What’s the problem, though, Boss? Kill the chickadee and have done with it.”
For a man with such compassion for the weak, Matteo has no sympathy for the strong, and like all vampires, he assumes the Capelli Seer is strong. And in some ways, she is.
There is no problem, I tell myself as I say goodbye to Matteo and shove the phone into my pocket so hard I almost bust through the seam.
I don’t care what her fate is. I don’t care how vulnerable she is beneath that tough surface or what will happen to her back at Don Vincenzo’s court.
In the past, I let myself care, and it nearly ended me.
I learned that caring makes you vulnerable.
Vulnerability makes you weak. And I am not weak.
Except … those damn instincts again. I have no clue why, but I don’t want to kill her.
Fuck me, look at her! She’s sitting in that fake leather booth, staring at her brandy like she’s never seen a glass before.
Her face is held in her hands, her hair—that glorious, thick hair—draped around her shoulders like a curtain.
Even from here, I can see the curve of her tits under her black sweater, and that’s enough to make my cock twitch.
Yeah. Some parts of me seem to care more than others.
When she was held up against me, when I had her pinned, I came so close to losing control.
To taking what she didn’t realize she was offering.
It was there in the little panting sounds of her shocked breathing, how her pupils dilated with a need that she clearly hated feeling.
The heat from between her legs as she rubbed herself on my thigh.
And the smell of her … Damn, the scent of the woman.
She smelled like every moment of pleasure from the whole of my too-long life rolled into one.
There is no way I can kill her. At least not until after I have fucked her.
That same sadness I noticed before is back.
She tried to hide it with her wise-ass routine, but the moment she killed that brutal bastard Rogan, I swear I saw pity in her eyes.
She actually felt sorry for him. And how she cared for his victim—the lost little lamb it would have been as easy for me to finish off as it was to save her—with such tenderness, such love.
She’s Vecchissime, and not quite human. In my experience, not-quite-humans rarely display that level of compassion.
I don’t know how she lives the life she lives with a heart that big.
I’ve heard some of the stories about her family.
About her life. But our world is full of stories.
What else do creatures like us have to pass the time?
When you can live for centuries, there’s a story about everyone.
Not many of them are true, and I never gave much thought to whether the legend of the Capelli tragedy was real.
There was a fire, I remember—back in the 1920s, I think.
Her sister? Parents? I’m not sure. It didn’t matter to me.
Her hands tremble as she lifts the glass to her mouth, and she angrily blinks away tears. The legend might not be completely accurate, but this is a woman who’s suffered and has become an expert in hiding it.
I’m drawn to her in a way that I don’t understand, and I want nothing more than to smash straight through that window, wrap her in my arms, and keep her safe—from Vincenzo, from Kurt, from the Rogans of the world.
From anyone who threatens her or hurts her or so much as looks at her the wrong way.
If she stubs her little toe on a doorjamb, I would tear down the whole damn frame and set it on fire.
Shit. Who am I kidding? I can’t kill her. Even if I do fuck her first. In fact, I’m almost certain that as soon as I get a taste of any part of her, I’m going to be fucking done for.