“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.
Chapter Three
Rocco
The limo didn’t head toward Bourbon Street.
I watched through the tinted window as we passed the turn that would’ve taken us to Angelo’s place—the heavily warded townhouse where the vampire king of New Orleans conducted his business. Where I’d expected to be taken.
Instead, we turned onto Canal Street.
My hands went cold.
Crimson Stakes Casino rose up ahead, all red neon and black glass, gaudy as a wound against the morning sky. Tourists thought it was just another place to lose their money. They didn’t know about the room in the back. The one with no windows. The one people walked into and never walked out of—at least not on their own two feet.
I’d heard the stories. Everyone in the supernatural world had.
The limo slowed. Stopped.
Dimitri glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and that sly grin was back. “Nervous?”
I didn’t answer. My mouth had gone dry.
“Why not Crescent Manor?”
The words came out before I could stop them. Crescent Manor, where Angelo hosted his allies. Where I’d sat in a velvet chair and drunk bourbon older than me, back when I was still someone worth talking to. He’d welcomed me there even after?—
I shut that thought down.
“I don’t know. I’m just the chauffeur.” Dimitri pulled the limousine into the garage, the shadows swallowing the car whole. He killed the engine and glanced back at me. “You’re going to have to ask the Boss Man.”
Dimitri climbed out and came around to open my door. He stepped back and bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his chest in a mockery of court etiquette. “Your Majesty.”
My jaw clenched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Touchy.” His grin didn’t falter.
I climbed out of the limo, legs stiff, and followed him across the garage to a red door. Gold letters spelled out PRIVATE in an elegant script. Dimitri pushed it open and gestured me through with a flourish.
The stairwell beyond was immaculate. White marble. Soft lighting. The kind of clean that took money and effort to maintain.
And it smelled incredible—like sandalwood and something faintly floral.
At least, it had. Until I walked in.
I caught a whiff of myself and winced. Eau de deep fryer, with notes of flop sweat and polyester. Perfect.
Dimitri headed up the stairs, his boots clicking sharp and confident on the marble. I followed, my damp sneakers squeaking with every step. The sound echoed off the walls like a sad little announcement: the grease monkey has arrived.
Dimitri glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised. “You going to pass out? You’re looking a little green.”
