Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Rocco
The alarm buzzed on my phone, dragging me out of a dreamless sleep. I slapped the nightstand, fumbling until I found it and killed the noise. The silence that replaced it wasn’t much better.
Sunlight crept through the threadbare curtains, painting a strip of gold across stained carpet that might’ve been beige once.
The Mardi Gras Hotel. Half the letters on the sign outside had given up years ago, leaving behind Ari S—which, if you knew anything about demons, wasn’t exactly the kind of welcome mat that invited sweet dreams.
Not that Ari himself would’ve claimed this place.
The Dark Demon had taste. He preferred the best of everything—silk sheets, rare blood, penthouse views of the Quarter.
This? This was the worst of everything. Peeling wallpaper.
A mattress that sagged in the middle like it had lost the will to live.
The faint smell of mildew and someone else’s cigarettes baked into the walls.
A vampire prince of Fandor Citadel, and this was where I’d landed.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and the springs groaned beneath me like they were in as much pain as I was.
Through the thin walls, I could hear the couple next door already arguing, their muffled voices rising and falling like a tide of misery.
Down on the street, a car horn blared, followed by someone shouting in a mix of Creole and English that would’ve made my mother flinch.
I dragged a hand over my face and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It looked like a map of someplace I’d never been. Someplace better than here.
But here was all I had.
I turned on the faucet. The pipes clanked and shuddered behind the wall. A trickle of rust-colored water sputtered out, then cleared to a weak stream that stayed ice-cold no matter how far I cranked the handle.
Ten minutes. I stood there with my hand under the spray, waiting. The water finally stopped biting.
I lasted two minutes before I was out and shivering, grabbing the thin towel off the rack. My teeth chattered as I yanked on the dark blue polyester uniform. The grease smell hit me before I even got it over my head—deep in the fibers, permanent, like the shirt had given up on ever being clean.
The name tag said Rocky. I’d stopped correcting people a week ago.
Three blocks to Bernie’s. The morning sun was already cooking the French Quarter, pulling up the stink of last night’s beer and piss from the cobblestones.
A woman with a stroller crossed to the other side of the street when she saw me coming.
I caught my reflection in a shop window—unshaved, hollow-eyed, shoulders hunched like I was bracing for a hit.
I looked away.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I’d checked it six times before leaving the hotel.
No missed calls.
No texts.
The last message was three weeks ago from my brother, Dante, just two words: Don’t contact us.
I’d read it so many times the letters had stopped meaning anything.
A tourist stumbled out of a bar, laughing too loud, and knocked into my shoulder. “Watch it, buddy.”
I kept walking.
The memory came without warning—Loss of control. My mother’s face, her mouth open, her hands raised. The crack of my knuckles against her cheekbone. The way she’d crumpled. The sounds she’d made.
And my arm pulling back again.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, bile rising in my throat. A man in a Saints jersey swerved around me, muttering. I pressed my palm flat against the brick wall of the building beside me and breathed until my vision cleared.
Not me. It wasn’t me.
But it was my hand. My fist. Her blood on my knuckles.
I pushed off the wall and kept walking.
Bernie’s sat on the corner, wedged between a voodoo shop and a place that sold cheap T-shirts.
The neon sign buzzed and flickered—half the letters burned out, just like the Mardi Gras Hotel.
Bern’s Burg s. The front window was smeared with old grease and a faded poster of a hamburger that looked nothing like the sad patties we actually served.
I pushed through the door. The AC unit rattled overhead, barely cutting the heat. Bernie sat on his stool behind the register, gut straining against his stained white shirt, a flask not quite hidden beside the napkin dispenser. His eyes were already bloodshot at seven in the morning.
“You’re late,” he said. The clock on the wall read 6:57.
I grabbed my apron off the hook without answering. Tied it on. Walked to the grill.
Eight hours. I picked up the spatula, and the grease smell wrapped around me like a second skin.
Nancy appeared at my elbow while I was scraping burnt grease off the grill. Black flakes came off in chunks, and the smell of char mixed with the ever-present stink of old oil. One more grease fire and Bernie would have my head.
She set an unwrapped burger on the counter beside me. The patty sat crooked on the bun, ketchup smeared across the wax paper like a crime scene. “Rocky. Customer sent this back.”
I didn’t look up. “So make him a new one.”
“He’s demanding to speak to you.” She popped her gum. “Specifically.”
My hand stilled on the spatula. “What?”
“You heard me.” She leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re lucky Bernie just left to make a deposit. This is the fifth burger this week.”
“They weren’t all my fault—“
She reached up and cupped my cheek, her fingers cool against my overheated skin. “Sugar, you’re going to get your cute little ass fired.” She said it almost sweetly, like she was delivering bad news to a child.
I pulled away and wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my arm. Stepped out from behind the grill, already composing an apology in my head for whatever tourist thought his medium-rare was too pink.
Then I saw who was waiting at the counter.
I stopped dead.
Dimitri Dragan leaned against the Formica like he owned the place, one elbow propped up, ankles crossed.
Black leather jacket over a dark henley, the kind of effortlessly expensive look that made everyone else in the room feel underdressed.
His dark hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that probably took him twenty minutes to perfect.
Dark eyes swept over the grease-stained walls, the flickering fluorescents, the crooked menu board—and then landed on me with a glint of pure amusement.
That stupid-ass grin spread across his face. The one that made you want to punch him and buy him a drink at the same time.
“Rocco.” He spread his hands wide, gesturing at the whole sad scene—the peeling linoleum, the burned coffee smell, me in my polyester uniform with Rocky pinned to my chest. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
My jaw tightened. “What are you doing here, Dimitri?”
“Not here by choice.” Dimitri picked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “Sent here on an errand.”
I stiffened.
Fuck. Don’t say it.
“Angelo wants to talk to you.” Those dark eyes locked onto mine. “Now.”
Fuck
The name landed like a punch to the gut. Angelo Santi. The vampire king of New Orleans. The man who ruled the French Quarter with an iron fist wrapped in silk. The last person I wanted to owe anything to.
“Why?”
Dimitri shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just the errand boy.”
“I’m working.”
He gave me a sly grin—the kind that said he was enjoying every second of this.
“You want me to go back to Mr. Impatient and tell him you’re refusing to meet with him?
” He spread his arms wide, taking in the grease-splattered grill, the flickering fluorescent lights, Nancy watching us from behind the register with open curiosity. “Because you’re working. Here.”
The word dripped with exactly as much contempt as he intended.
I grabbed a rag and wiped my hands, buying time I didn’t have. “I need the money.”
“So.” Dimitri pushed off the counter and straightened his jacket. “Angelo will make it worth your while.”
Nancy threw her arm up in the air. “Rocky, you can’t seriously be thinking of walking out of here.”
Dimitri’s gaze dropped to my name tag. His grin widened. “Rocky?” He tilted his head. “You mean like Sylvester Stallone?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, I turned to Nancy. “Do you know who Angelo Santi is?”
The color drained from her face. Her gum-chewing stopped mid-pop. “You mean the gangster?”
“Yeah. He’s the one.” I untied my apron, fingers clumsy on the knot. “If I don’t go—“
“Go.” She held up a hand, cutting me off. Her eyes darted to Dimitri, then back to me, and I saw real fear there. The kind that made her voice go thin. “I don’t want him coming here.”
I tossed the apron on the counter. Took one last look at the grill, the grease, the crooked menu board. Nancy wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Yeah. I wasn’t coming back.
I followed Dimitri out of Bernie’s and into the thick morning heat. A black limousine sat at the curb, gleaming like an oil slick against the faded storefronts. Tinted windows. The kind of car that screamed money and trouble in equal measure.
Something twisted in my chest. I used to ride in cars like this. Used to slide into the back seat like I belonged there, like the leather and the cold air and the tinted glass were my birthright.
Now I was standing on the sidewalk in a grease-stained uniform with someone else’s name pinned to my chest.
My stomach dropped. Was Angelo inside?
I yanked off my stupid hat and crushed it in my fist. The polyester was damp with sweat.
Dimitri opened the back door and wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a little grease ball.”
“Shut up,” I grumbled.
I ducked inside. Leather seats. Cold air. The faint scent of expensive cologne.
Empty.
I let out a breath—then tensed again. Because if Angelo wasn’t here, that meant I was being brought to him. On his turf. On his terms.
And I smelled like a deep fryer.