Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Mercer
That night at the club was not so different from every night before.
Darby flitted through the VIP rooms like a glitter-dusted sprite, laughing with clients, touching and teasing.
His stage routine ended with the floor carpeted in bills, and he rolled across them like he was born to be worshipped—arms spread, heels kicking, and white hair gleaming under the lights.
I would’ve sworn everyone on Perv Row fell in love right then, and with that realization came the certainty that I was falling too.
I was a moth drawn to the flame of Darby’s attention, and it was becoming an occupational hazard.
It was almost a relief to switch to door duty. There were less distractions outside, and the night air kept my mind sharp. Plus, standing in place would let me rest my knee, which had been spasming for hours, signaling impending rain.
When I stepped out to relieve Colette, she passed me the tally counter then clapped a hand between my shoulder blades.
“Bravo!” she exclaimed, loud enough to be heard over the soundtrack for Zephyr’s aerial hoop routine.
The guy at the front of the line thrust out his ID, and I accepted it with a fumbling grab. After a quick scan of the birthdate and a glimpse of his face, I passed it back and then waved him through.
“You’re congratulating me?” I asked Colette. “For what?”
“He likes you.” The hellhound jerked her chin toward the interior of the club, and I looked that way.
Darby breezed by inside, balancing a drink tray while stuffing a wad of bills into the front of his corset. The outfit had kept my eyes busy for hours, tracing the zig-zag line of ribbon that cinched his waist and flared to accommodate the luscious curve of his ass.
It was hard to believe that earlier today I’d had my hands on that body.
In that body.
“You think so?” My pulse jumped as I said it.
Colette leaned against the stanchion post and smiled. “He sets the tone around here, and the tone lately has been nothing short of smitten. I had to inform Lucas that his strip club has turned into a matchmaking service.”
I winced. “You told Mister Beckett about it?”
“You two are kindred spirits,” she replied. “Like hunters trying to snare rabbits.”
“Rabbits?” I echoed while reaching for another ID.
Colette hummed in acknowledgment. “Soft little things that are prone to run and hard to catch. But who doesn’t love a good chase?”
Had I been chasing? Maybe. Though when it came to Darby, I often felt more like prey than predator. A willing victim of his wiles and charm.
“So, Darby’s a rabbit?”
She nodded. “And Zephyr is a fish, according to Lucas.” Stepping back, she opened the door for a group of customers filing out, then added, “I prefer rabbits, though. Not so cold and slimy.”
“I hope we aren’t supposed to eat the rabbits,” I muttered. “Or the fish…”
Colette shrugged one shoulder, and her brown eyes glinted merrily. “I’m not here to judge what—or whom—you put in your mouth, mon grand.”
A group of five surged to the front of the line, bombarding me with wallets and IDs. Colette chuckled and headed inside, leaving me with my work and my thoughts for the remainder of the shift.
After close, I finished my rounds then checked the bathrooms and the back exit before cutting through the hall that led past the kitchen.
The dolls were inside, chattering away, and Darby was among them.
He wore slippers and a plush velvet robe as he squeezed between Colt and Elliot in a line passing by the stove. Someone said something that made him laugh, and the sound carried—a soft, melodic thing that settled low in my chest.
He did seem happy.
Because of me?
I could’ve stepped in. Could’ve made some excuse to talk to him or invited him over again. But he was with his friends, his family, and I didn’t want to ruin that.
So I headed out.
The Victory waited in the parking lot, its chrome trim aglow in the light of the sign overhead. I donned my helmet and started the motor, then took one last look at the club before venturing out into the dark.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the garage and rolled the door down. Work at the Dollhouse always left me in an odd state of awareness. My body expected to be in bed at this late hour, but my brain had been schooled into vigilance, so it took some time to unwind.
I kicked down the stand and swung off the bike with the hum of the engine still ringing in my ears. After stripping off my gloves and stowing my helmet, I angled toward the door to the house.
Stepping inside brought the living area into focus. When my gaze swept over the couch, my body snapped taut and the breath whooshed out of me.
Someone was waiting.
I was still in my work uniform—which wasn’t much of a uniform at all except for the duty belt used to holster my Glock. Years of training kicked in with a surge of adrenaline, and I drew the pistol and fired at the intruder. Two shots in the chest and one in the head.
The figure dropped to the floor, and I reached for the switch on the wall behind me. The living room flooded with yellow-white light, revealing the person on the ground and two others lying in wait, angels all.
Antonella Rossetti sat on the sofa like a nested bird with her wings spread and legs crossed at the knee. Behind her, Stefano Rossetti loomed broad-shouldered and somber, and altogether unconcerned with the third person sprawled on the floor, leaking blood from three bullet wounds.
“Don’t move,” I warned the angels.
My gaze swept the room, searching corners and checking the perimeter for other invaders, then flicking to the doors and windows for signs of forced entry.
Everything appeared to be in order. No broken locks or shattered glass.
But I didn’t believe for a second the angels had come without backup.
None of them were armed—at least visibly—and I knew they had ample security at their disposal.
If this was breaking and entering, it was the most casual case I’d ever seen.
I was still scanning for shadows that weren’t mine when the man on the floor let out a groan. Not of pain, but complaint.
“My suit!” he exclaimed as he sat upright.
Sucking in a breath, I regripped my pistol and leveled it at the angel’s head.
Now that he wasn’t flat on the floor, I recognized him as Narcissus Rossetti, Antonella’s oldest child.
With three of the six members of the Rossetti clan in attendance, we were well on our way to a holy family reunion in my living room.
Narcissus’s identity was less of a shock than his apparent immunity to bullets. That discovery rattled me to my core. Firearms were the answer to many a problem in the Corps, but it seemed that solution didn’t apply to divine beings.
Narcissus was as tall as his uncle, but leaner. He had the same porcelain skin and white hair as the rest of his kin, and his features sharpened as he scowled at me.
“I ought to smite you, you worm.” He took hold of his bloodstained suit coat and tugged, making the bullet holes gape. “This is cashmere!”
“Narcissus, darling,” Antonella cut in. “If you’re going to threaten the man, you should at least do it from your feet.”
The younger angel scrambled to standing, looking more disheveled and less dignified than I’d ever seen him.
I kept my grip on the Glock, letting the barrel rise along with Narcissus while I stared down the sights at the spot between his pale gray eyes. My earlier shot had left a wound that was rapidly healing, leaving behind nothing but a smear of red.
Narcissus had barely regained his footing before Antonella joined him. She smoothed her hands down the creased front of her slacks, and the weight of her gaze drove my gun hand lower until it hung uselessly at my side.
“Good evening, Mister James,” she greeted, so blasé it was chilling. “As you can see, when I go to visit someone and they aren’t home, I have the decency to wait.”
My jaw ticked as I glanced around the assembly. “Don’t visitors usually knock first?”
Rather than answer, she plucked a sheet of paper off the coffee table and held it between two manicured fingers. My resignation letter.
“This is not the paperwork I asked for,” she said. “Where is the contract?”
My eyes flicked to Stefano. His expression stayed stony and impassive, and his lips pressed into a thin line.
“I didn’t get it,” I told Antonella.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t have a chance,” I replied. “That office is never empty, and I don’t think it’s in there anyway. It doesn’t seem like the kind of place to store something important.”
Antonella’s mouth curved slightly before she set the letter down. The motion drew my notice to something beside it—a flash of color, maybe another document? Before I could step closer, her hand closed over it.
She raised the second paper into view, and my gut twisted the second I recognized it as the photo from my fridge. Molly’s photo.
Christ.
They’d been in my house. They hadn’t just walked in and sat down. They’d searched. Ransacked. Rooted through my life.
A sense of indignation swept through me, and my heart hammered so hard it made my vision pulse.
“You have a lovely daughter,” Antonella said. “She lives near here, doesn’t she? With her mother…” Her head tilted, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “What’s the name?”
“Rachel,” Narcissus grumbled while peeling his jacket open to inspect the ruined shirt inside.
“Rachel,” Antonella confirmed. “And this is sweet Molly.” She looked at the photo again. Admiring it. Admiring her.
I wanted to spring forward and tear the picture from her hand, but my sole weapon had been rendered ineffective, and Narcissus’s threat to smite me presented a concern I hadn’t had before.
“You gave me your word, Mister James,” Antonella continued, her tone threaded with steel. “When you went to work at the Dollhouse, you agreed to help me. To keep me informed.”
I didn’t bother reminding her that she’d hardly given me a choice in the matter. I followed orders like I’d been trained to do, and I’d been given cause to regret it.