Sources.
Wanting to feed.
Hungry for my blood.
I wobbled on my heels and leaned against the counter, words and images flashing and crashing, a pandemonium that blurred my vision and constricted my lungs. I started hyperventilating, and my desperate gasps for air and the blood rushing in my ears created a cacophony of panic.
Luca had been feeding on that woman’s neck.
I braced myself on the outside of the stall and the edge of the counter. My sweaty palm slid down the metal, but I splayed my fingers to regain traction.
The cold, hard surface grounded me, and I slowed my breathing. The last thing I needed was to black out in a hotel with vampires.
Hysterical laughter broke through the gasps of my shallow breathing. My logical brain rejected the ridiculous idea. Vampires? Yeah, right! The denial allowed me to bring my breathing back under control. I faced the mirror and leaned on the counter, pressing the heels of my hands into its cool, marble edge.
The world had shifted on its axis, but aside from the bright flush of my cheeks, Anna stared back at me. Same, mundane, forty-five-year-old Anna Barone. The world was exactly the same as it had been twenty minutes ago. The difference? Knowledge that my understanding of the world was limited. But I was an academic; I already knew that.
So, what did I know for sure?
I knew a woman doing blow used an odd word to describe herself—Source. Maybe it was Mafia lingo I’d never heard before.
I knew she talked about feeding and blood, but talk was cheap. Maybe she was into some sort of vampire cosplay kink. People were into that stuff, right?
As for Luca’s eyetooth? I’d never spent more than ten minutes with the man. I probably hadn’t noticed it before. Different people had different shaped teeth. And if he was into the same kink, maybe he sharpened them on purpose.
My nerves calmed, and my vision cleared, my body settling back into its natural rhythms. There was a rational explanation for all of this. I’d just jumped to irrational conclusions because of frayed nerves and champagne.
Determined not to let the incident ruin my night, I walked out of the restroom on shaky legs, down the hallway to the lobby, and straight to the bar. The bartender handed me a glass of champagne, and I took a long, deep drink. Braced with liquid courage, I headed for the ballroom.
Marco waited at the entrance, and my unhinged suspicions made his familiar black eyes take on a menacing quality. He watched my approach, a curious tilt to his head, and with each step, my heart pounded faster against my chest. I reached for my necklace, the one my father had given me on my sixteenth birthday, but my anchor wasn’t there. I’d foregone my jewelry in deference to the dress, and my fingers opened and closed around air.
He frowned, his gaze focused on my fingers, and reached for me. He wrapped his arm tight around my waist and placed his hand on my hip. Still jumpy from the restroom, I stiffened beneath his touch before relaxing into his arms.
“You okay?” he asked, concern evident in the softness of his voice. “What took so long?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “I—”
His powerful body dominated the space around me, and his handsome face filled my vision. I imagined him pushing me up against the wall and sinking his teeth into my neck.
Adrenaline surged into my blood, and desire shot up my thighs and down my spine. Fear gripped my chest, and heat and wetness pooled between my legs. Dizzy with conflict, I blinked rapidly and shook my head.
Marco searched my face, worry etched into lines across his brow and around the corners of his mouth.
“I’m fine.” I laid a hand on his lapel and gave him a reassuring smile, overcome with the guilt of my ridiculous and unfair panic. “I needed some quiet. That’s all. This is a lot for me.”
He squeezed my hip, the pressure of his large hand a warning and a comfort. “I know.” He led us toward the front of the ballroom. “But you’re doing great.” He lowered his lips to my ear. “And you look delicious. Good enough to eat.”
My knees buckled.
“Whoa.” Marco tightened his hold around my waist, keeping me upright, and we continued seamlessly toward the table. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I—I’m just hungry.” I smiled again, hoping to ease his worry.
“Let’s get you something to eat.” He kissed my forehead and rubbed his thumb across my hip, and the tension and panic holding my body hostage started to release.
Faces and raised glasses went by in a blur. Most guests had taken their seats and were chatting with their neighbors, while others like Angelo and Carmine stood behind their chairs, drinking and laughing. Two women I assumed were their wives or girlfriends sat at our table, engrossed in conversation.
Marco pulled out a chair for me, and I gladly sat down. He squeezed my shoulder, then stepped to meet Luca, who’d appeared in front of our table and lifted his chin to grab Marco’s attention.
Servers wearing white gloves and carrying four plates a piece filed into the ballroom. I placed my hands on top of my silverware, anchoring myself, thankful the food was arriving. I really did need something in my stomach. Hopefully the quiet of dinner conversation with Marco would finally settle my nerves.
“Mamma Gina!”
Luca’s enthusiastic voice boomed over the din of the ballroom. A woman who bore a striking resemblance to Marco met the two men in front of our table.
Curls the same color as Marco’s hair were piled atop her head, loose tendrils spilling over to brush her collarbone. Her evening gown was a deep green, and it complemented the tanned tone of her flawless skin. Her eyes and nose were a carbon copy of Marco’s, and déjà vu swept over me like a tsunami. She was clearly Marco’s sister but where had I seen her before?
Marco glanced over his shoulder, and the woman followed his gaze, her wide smile brightening when her eyes landed on me. The woman, Luca, and Marco turned to face me and standing like that, together in a row…
A black-and-white photograph in a newspaper article from 1988. A funeral. Little Luca Moretti staring at a casket, standing in between a man who looked exactly like Marco and a woman who looked exactly like his sister.
My stomach dropped, the shock of the connection making my vision swim. I hung my head and stared at my hands, clasped and sweating in my lap, and breathed through the nausea. I’d convinced myself the man in the picture had been Marco’s father, that he and Marco shared an uncanny resemblance. But his sister, too? Looking identical to their mother? There was only so much coincidence I was willing to accept. I inhaled a shuddering breath and raised my head.
Luca took the woman’s hand, kissed her on the cheek, and left for his table. Marco and Gina walked toward me.
Stay calm. This is Marco’s sister. You need to make a good first impression.
The reflex to mind my manners was so outrageous given the circumstances, it jarred me into action. I braced myself on the table and the back of my chair and stood.
“Anna. This is my sister, Gina.”
She held out both hands, her warm smile and inviting demeanor oddly comforting. “Bellissima,” she said and squeezed my fingers, air kissing me on both cheeks. She muttered something to Marco in Italian, and he grunted behind a wry smile. “Marco has told me so much about you. I hope we get a chance to chat before the night is over.”
The sincerity in her voice helped take the edge off the fear and panic tying my stomach in knots. “I hope so, too.”
A server interrupted us, placing salads on the table.
“That’s our cue,” she said and took the seat to her brother’s left.
Marco squeezed my elbow and leaned in. “I think she likes you.”
My lips quirked in a nervous approximation of a smile, and I was thankful he immediately turned to talk to his sister.
I forced myself to eat, knowing I needed something in my stomach, but old newspaper articles and their pictures played back like a movie reel.
Vinnie Jr. had looked exactly like his father. Maybe he wasn’t a junior at all. Maybe junior and senior were one and the same.
And what about Tony Moretti? Luca’s father. Marco’s best friend. Was he the Antonio Moretti? Had Luca’s father and Marco worked together for Big Frankie Valenzano as far back as the 1950s?
My head spun with wild theories and connections, the puzzle pieces fitting together too seamlessly to dismiss. But I shoved them away, unwilling to accept any explanation, however convenient, that involved vampires.
Carmine’s wife sat to my right and, halfway through the main course, started regaling me with stories about her kids. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, which was perfectly fine with me. I was grateful for the mundane; it helped take my mind off the supernatural.
By the end of the meal, I’d finished another glass of champagne and was solidly buzzed, bordering on drunk. Gina gave a speech about the importance of immigrant services and our government’s duty to protect their chance at a new life. Guests sipped their espressos, ate cannoli, and nodded in agreement. She finished, and the mayor thanked her and Marco for their service to the city.
The ballroom started to clear. Marco was talking to Mayor Kelson, so I quietly excused myself from the table and followed the first wave of guests into the lobby, my limbs liquid and mind numb from the bubbles.
No destination, no direction, no resolution, I drifted past the front desk and realized the source of my numbness wasn’t the champagne. It was shock.
No matter how much I didn’t want to believe in the supernatural, my analytical brain, trained for over twenty-five years in academia, couldn’t ignore the preponderance of evidence, even if it was circumstantial.
So, I sat at my desk on the penthouse floor and waited for the man who could give me definitive proof, wondering what I’d do if he gave it to me.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. I stood and stepped out from behind the desk.
“Anna.” Marco walked off the elevator with open arms, worried confusion creasing his brow. “I couldn’t find you. Siobhán said she saw you get on the elevator.”
My heart raced, driving my breath. Sweat beaded my forehead and pooled beneath my arms. I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my dress and clasped them in front of me to stop them from shaking. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“Anna,” he said with more urgency, his voice firm and unyielding as he moved toward me. “What’s wrong?”
The familiar scent of cigar smoke and aftershave had a soothing effect, enough for me to blurt out the question hammering my lungs for escape.
“Are you a vampire?” The question tore through the foyer like a cannonball.
He tilted his head, regarding me as if I were a curious specimen. “No. Of course not,” he said in a tone indicating how ridiculous he found the idea. “Vampires aren’t real.”
My body relaxed, and I closed my eyes.
See, Anna? Vampires aren’t real. What a ridiculous idea. There was a rational explanation after all. Of course there was. I nodded my head, agreeing with myself, and let out a long, tremulous exhale. Then, I opened my eyes.
Flecks of red interrupted the solid field of Marco’s obsidian gaze. They danced around his pupils, expanding and spreading in swirling eddies of color until the entirety of his irises blazed like fire.
My hand flew to where my necklace should have been, and I gasped for air. I stumbled back, arm outstretched, searching for something to hold on to as the world I understood crumbled around me.
No necklace. Nothing to hold. No one else but a man with glowing red eyes.
Panic overtook rational control, and my primal instincts fueled a mad rush for the elevator. But Marco stood between me and my escape. He grabbed my wrist, pulled me into his arms, and held me tight against his hard, unyielding body.
My legs and shoulders shook uncontrollably, but through the darkness clouding my vision, the blazing inferno of his eyes held me in place.
“What—What are you?” I asked in a stunned whisper.
“I’m a blood demon.” Marco’s answer was low, gravelly, and filled with remorse, his crimson eyes a window into worry and pain.
I lifted my hand and tried to brush away their demonic glow, but blackness ate at the remaining smears of light until there was nothing left. I tumbled out of consciousness and into the blood demon’s waiting arms.