Chapter 6 Orfeo
Orfeo
“Stronzo di merda, where have you been?”
Some vampires can glare holes into their victims’ heads. Not me. The look I give Leo just makes him laugh. “Living my fucking life, stronzo di merda.”
After an hour spent in the company of a woman whose form would have brought Donatello to his knees, Leo’s dopey smile is an assault on my eyes. What pathetic company I’ve found myself in.
Leo smirks. “Alfo won’t like that.”
Imagine if I actually had any courage left in me to tell Leo the truth? Undeniably, Diantha has powers that could topple Alfo. Her decoupling alone is a magical mastery beyond anything I’ve seen out of that buffoon.
And I’ve always suspected that Leo isn’t as loyal as he lets on. There’s something about the way he narrows his eyes when Alfo speaks. The way he grits his teeth when he’s given an order.
It is a moot point.
I would never betray Diantha. She may be a stranger, but I see her clearly. Her eyes are wide open in some ways—and yet she has remained so blissfully unaware of what is actually going on around her. I felt her power and her innocence in equal measure.
I want to believe that there is a way to be supernatural—to be so close to the apex of Good and Evil—and remain gentle and kind in the way only humans are. I guess I want to believe that Diantha is not too good to be true.
Pathetic, idiot vampire.
Human Orfeo was never this poetic, this obsessed with capturing sensations and emotions as though they are lightning bugs.
“What does he care?” I check the Bvlgari watch around my wrist. Its silver face catches the light, reminding me that beauty still exists in this horrible world. “My shift starts in five minutes. What the hell have you done to this place?”
In the last twenty-four hours, the interior of Hades House has been cheapened so dramatically I can’t imagine a governor or mayor—or really anyone capable of spelling their own name—ever wanting to step foot in here again.
The first floor—the dining room—has been destroyed: heavy-backed walnut chairs stacked and pushed into far corners of the room, leaving deep drag marks through the rugs and scratches on the wooden floors; and the lacquered bar and baroque crown molding have been half covered in dirty drop cloths.
And the cherry on top is, of course, a fucking disco ball jerking around in a circle, sending a honeycomb of colors lurching around the room. Leo sits guard next to it on a folding chair, staring at me with a look filled with boredom and utter daftness.
“He cares because he needed something and you weren’t immediately at his feet, you fuck. And the rest of us had to hear it.”
“Right, of course. He needed his little Roman servant boy.” I snort, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. “What are we doing tonight?”
“More vibe adjustments.” Leo rounds the bar and pours himself two fingers of bourbon. “Drink?”
I shake my head. “How the fuck did he buy this place?”
“How would I know? I’m just a bouncer.” I detect bitterness in his voice.
Despite being his half-brother, Leo is nothing to Alfo but two fists and supernatural strength.
A shield and a bludgeon. “He got a call. He got the keys. Bon appétit.” The liquid slides from the glass and down his throat in a single fluid motion.
I grunt, scowling at my fuzzy reflection in the old, marked mirror behind the bar. I look like shit. Angry, hungry, sick.
I need dinner.
Leo jerks his head toward the back room. “Go. He’s waiting.”
If only my coterie, my vampire family, could see me now. A half-demon’s personal emotional whipping post, foot stool, and bidet. Who ever said I couldn’t multitask?
A narrow hall takes me through the winding rooms of Hades House.
They follow one after another, the ceilings getting lower and lower as the heavy, cock-eyed stone walls seem to close in around me.
I follow the sounds of grossly overstated yelps of female pleasure accompanied by pulsing music until I reach the door they’re spilling out from under.
I rap on it twice with my knuckles, announcing myself. “Alfo, it’s Orfeo.”
“Fuck.” There’s a series of ruffling, some grunting noises. Then, the music cuts. “Come in.”
His office is cramped and windowless with no furniture other than his crowded desk and a few folding chairs. It stinks like stale smoke, sex, and cocaine, which altogether are not unlike the smell of toxic waste left to rot in the sun. Vile.
Alfo looks even more demonic than usual under the flickering halogen lights.
Thin lips, wet mouth, a sickly green glow to his big, lumpy face.
Like most half-demons, Alfo has gotten extensive plastic surgery to appear more human.
A bridge added to his nose; veneers to replace his razor-sharp teeth; tattoos on most of his skin to try to mask the green-grey hue.
Leo is an exception, mostly because his mother was a siren, not a human. That bastard looks like a marble bust.
Probably why his half-brother hates him so much.
A woman sits up from where she’s been lying across Alfo’s lap, adjusting her skin-tight dress.
She’s beautiful, though not quite my taste, and all human.
I can smell it in her blood; sweet like a Moscato, not even the drugs and alcohol pulsing in her veins can hide it.
She tosses her mane of copper hair and slinks toward the door.
When I raise my brows in a greeting, she rolls her eyes.
As if I am the fucking loser here.
“Michelangelo.” Alfo bares his teeth like a wolf, red nostrils flaring as he leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his bald, shiny head. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Well.” I take a seat across from him. “I had class and some shit to do.”
“Shit to do.” He mimics my accent and my temper flares. Fucking dumb-shit half-demon can barely even speak one language.
But I’m powerless—even if I could snap his pink, beefy neck with a flick of my wrist. This man essentially owns me, that’s how deep my debt goes.
“From midnight until sunrise, you work for me, and in two days we’re reopening those fucking doors”—he jams a bloated finger toward the front of the club—“as the number one supernatural club in America, so the only shit you have to do is get on your fucking back and paint my ceilings like the Sistine Chapel.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told this dick why Michelangelo had to lie on his back and why that wouldn’t be necessary, Alfo remains fixated on the visual of me, tits up.
I twirl my finger in the air. “This place. Why?”
“Why not?” Alfo smirks. “The blond bitch who owned it and his whole blond-bitch family are broke. Echidna’s mayor is the top demon-fucker in the county.
And vamps from New York and Philly deserve a country getaway too.
” He taps the bottom of a rolled-up bill on the desk.
“Sounds like I’d be fucking stupid not to buy this place. Do I look fucking stupid to you?”
I wait for his vacuous nasal sucking to cease before I reply. “I thought you wanted to keep a low profile.”
Alfo presses a cigarette between his lips and tosses the crushed pack down onto his desk, disrupting the residue he left behind. He narrows his eyes at me. “Ballsy tonight, aren’t we?”
“This is my life.” I shrug. “If I die, doesn’t the debt reverse? Won’t you owe something to my coterie?”
Alfo points the smoldering end of his cigarette at me.
“I am keeping a low profile, you pretentious fuck. But it’s not my fucking fault this town is already crawling with magic.
” He leans forward and begins to count off on his big fingers.
“Everyone wants to fuck a vampire, hire a demon, or feed off one of my girls. This club is gonna be invite-only with a five-hundred-dollar cover fee. All the pussy, blood, and vodka you could ever want.” He blows a cloud of smoke into my face and then erupts into hard, maniacal laughter. Disgusting.
“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” I slip a cigarette between my own lips.
“Speaking of your coterie—they called. Some fucking illiterate named Davìd. Barely spoke English.”
Deep, deep inside me, the last vestiges of my humanity tremble. Davìd, my brother. Before this half-life, I’d lived with him in a crowded, dirty apartment on the outskirts of Rome. And if everything went as I quietly hoped, I’d one day find my way back to him.
“What did he want?” There’s no emotion in my face, in my voice. I lean back in my chair.
“He said someone named Vittò is dead.”
Vampires aren’t particularly fidgety creatures, but at the sound of her name, I feel every muscle in my half-dead body tense and still.
Vittoria. The last human woman I ever loved—truly, really loved.
She was the reason I’d submitted to Paolo’s, my creator’s, tyranny. And I would have suffered worse than Paolo to protect her. I would have taken a stake through my heart. I silently thank Davìd for using a shortened version of her name, concealing her gender from Alfo.
“How?”
“Fuck do I know? He said to pass on the message.”
I light my own cigarette and smoke it down to the filter in two massive inhales. Then, I ask: “Any other word from Rome?”
Alfo’s lips curl into a snarl. “What do you care, Michelangelo? That’s not your world anymore, bastardo. This is. Now, go fucking paint my ceiling. And send that whore back in.”
What a gentleman.
I dream of tenderizing his ball sack.
With our conversation clearly over, I stand slowly even though I know I could move fast enough that tracking me would snap his neck.
Even though I know I could sink my fangs into him and rip through his carotid artery and never hear his horrible voice again.
I don’t. I exit the room and tell the redhead that her lover is ready for her.
Her posture changes when she hears that—your lover.
I have a plan, but tonight, I just need to paint the ceiling.