Lifting his drink with the hand not gripping Zephyr, he tipped the glass toward Colette. “Nice to see you, old girl.”
Colette snorted. “Who are you calling old, you fossil?”
There was no heat in her words, but the undeniable thread of familiarity made my teeth grind.
The other men glanced between Stefano and Narcissus, waiting for orders. No one sat down, but they didn’t advance either.
I looked at Zephyr and found him looking back at me. His face had no color besides the splotchy shadows that left stains under his brows and around his lips. He was starved. Reamed out. And how? Was it even possible that this room full of men didn’t desire him? Their lust must have been raging from the moment Maslow brought him through the door.
Maslow must have taken it. Here, in front of everyone. Leeching off my incubus, leaving him weak and wanting, and Stefano…
He was looking at me too. Waiting.
Did he know how long I’d waited forhim? Did it matter anymore?
“Have a seat, Lucas,” he said. “We’ll deal you in.”
One of the attendants brought a high-backed chair and squeezed it in at the foot of the table, directly across from Stefano. I barely heard the scrape of wood on tile over the riot in my head. I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to drag Zephyr off Stefano’s lap and into my arms, but to win that game, I had to play this one first.
Colette pulled away from my side and took up a position at the wall, a watchful, ominous presence with a revolver under her coat.
I lowered myself stiffly and waited for cards and chips to be distributed. The pause left me with nothing to look at but the fragile tilt of Zephyr’s head against Stefano’s collarbone and the way his scarlet tresses striped the angel’s suit coat like rivulets of blood.
The dealer, an indifferent wisp of a man with powder-blue eyes, passed out cards with practiced ease. Texas hold ’em. High stakes. No one said it out loud, but the buy-in had already cleared five figures, and that was just the first round.
Didn’t matter. I was good for it.
The first hand was a feeler. Safe bets. Quiet raises. A few players folded while others hung on. I took the pot with a modest flush and didn’t gloat. The second hand, things got bolder. The table leaned in. Bids crept higher. Stefano played with unhurried confidence, his movements measured and deliberate. He barely glanced at his cards, content to let the game play out around him.
He had only money to lose, but I was gambling for the fate of something far more precious.
Maslow sipped his wine, then bent in, his voice too slick to be casual. “How’s business, Stefano? Does the standing order still stand?”
Stefano smoothed his hand down Zephyr’s thigh like he was petting a cat. “I think we’ll pass this time. Our current supply meets the demand.”
“Why not increase the demand?” Maslow hedged. “I’ve been stockpiling, and business is good. You could expand. You know what they say: if you aren’t moving forward, you’re falling behind.”
Stefano’s lashes lowered to shadow his pale eyes. “Stability isn’t a bad thing. Not every empire needs to be expanding to be thriving.”
“Come on.” Maslow chuckled. “You’ve seen what it’s done for your security team. Your tables have never been more profitable, and your nephew’s practically glowing these days. That’smyproduct in his veins. Potent. Fresh from the tap.”
Antonella’s tow-headed sons perked up at that. Judgingby their puzzled expressions, neither was the nephew in question. It must have been the third boy. The youngest.
A beat passed. Stefano turned to look at the wraith. “Maslow,” he said coolly. “You don’t need to sell me on it. I’m already a buyer, and you’re the only supplier in town.”
My fingers tightened around the chip I’d been fidgeting with.
They were talking about the Dollhouse boys.
AboutZephyr.
That was what Maslow was doing with what he siphoned: selling it. To the angels. To Stefano. For his enforcers. Casino patrons. Family members.
Dancer by dancer, drop by drop, Maslow had turned his club into a refinery, wringing the essence out of young demons and using it as a commodity to traffic. It was bad enough that he sold their bodies, he had to monetize their spirits too?
But why? Was I expected to believe the Rossettis and their underlings were getting high on infernal fumes for the hell of it? Snorting demon juice off glass tabletops and lacing their prayers with infernal energy for fun?
No. There was more to this. Something sinister. And Maslow was right at the center of it, smiling while he schemed. Extending his reach to Fairmont, raising another score of vulnerable souls up from Hades… He would burn this city to the ground to keep his throne warm.
