This, though, is a whole different world. This is her being thrust into a corrupt, archaic, dangerous-as-fuck pantomime stage-directed by a psychotic wizard.
Vincenzo has called a full court, which means all vamps who live in the compound should be here, but the place is nowhere near as full as it should be. Maybe he has more out on patrol. I fucking hate maybes.
I look for familiar faces, spot a few, and miss others. Still no sign of Aidan Flynn, the Don’s consigliere. Still no Sophia, his daughter. They’re the levelheaded ones, so that’s a blow, but if this goes well, it won’t matter.
The room where he holds these sessions is vast, like some kind of ballroom, all high ceilings and swinging chandeliers. It’s often empty apart from him, Carlos, and whatever toy Carlos is playing with that day. Just the three of them, the screams echoing around the huge space, the wooden floors splashed with blood. Vincenzo sits on his throne, watching and smiling as some poor sap gets fucked to death with a baseball bat or flayed alive for kicks and giggles.
He has his own chambers, but I think this is where he feels safest, and these days, he barely leaves this room. The whole place stinks of him, that nostril-clogging stench of rotting flesh, and no amount of herbs burning in the braziers can disguise it.
Today, three sides of the room have been filled with chairs, stacked up on sloping platforms so everyone can see. The chairs are all backed with red velvet, and the drapes from the huge windows are the exact same shade—the Don enjoys his dramatic flourishes.
Intricate candelabras are on every surface, in every nook and alcove, casting flickering light over the expectant faces of the hushed crowd, all waiting for the drama to unfold.
The center of the room has been kept clear, the long rectangular space filled with a plush red rug, like a performance space for dancers—or a gladiator pit for fighters. All of this bullshit leads up toward Vincenzo’s stage at the front of the court. A good six feet higher than the floor, the platform is as long as the room, with steps on either side manned by Old World guards in black uniforms. When we were ushered in, Rosa muttered, “Is this where they hold the vampire Oscars?”
In the middle of it all sits the Don’s pretentious throne. Carved from stone, it has a high back sculpted into huge dragon wings that seem to flow and ripple like living flesh, not dead rock. As a piece of art, it’s stunning, but as a power play, it doesn’t really work.
It’s supposed to make him look like the dragon, but he’s so small and shriveled that the whole effect is a joke. Or maybe that’s the whole point. He likes messing with people’s heads, and no matter how sick he looks, he’s still the strongest creature in the building.
He’s up there right now, staring down at Rosa as she kneels, tension and resistance clear in the lines of her body. And that’s okay because that’s exactly what he’d expect from her.
Pietro is at her side in the wheelchair, but his feet keep shifting. He might have regained the ability to move, but for some reason, he isn’t letting on. Again, that’s okay. Like his sister, he’s letting himself be underestimated.
The Agostini Seer appears the most natural on her knees, her long blond hair draped across her slender shoulders, her hands folded demurely on her lap. She looks serene, graceful, like some innocent novice nun in a fucking porno. I bite down an unexpected laugh. She’s so damn dangerous.
Carlos, wild ginger curls clashing with a red velvet blazer, stands beside the Don, and he can’t take his eyes off Donatella. She subtly widens her eyes, licks her lips, and sticks her tits out a fraction more, all while giving the indication she hasn’t noticed him. She knows exactly what she’s doing—distracting him.
Carlos is in his late thirties and has a face that looks like it met a cast-iron skillet at speed. I’ve warned them all to be wary of him despite the fact that he looks like a clown.
I’m off to one side of the stage with Matteo, ostensibly there as part of the Don’s guard force. I hope that’s all I need to be tonight.
Vincenzo is carrying on about something or other, his usual theatrics at the start of this kind of thing, and as he rattles off his speech, I feel a small tug on my pant leg. I glance over my shoulder and see Freya. She’s so small she’s completely hidden behind me.
She shouldn’t have been able to make it this close to the Don while he’s holding court, but I guess she’s right. She really is invisible. Everyone here is so used to her being around that they don’t see her.
She beckons me, and I lean down. She knows better than to talk and instead holds open a piece of paper on her palm. It looks like it’s been torn from a children’s coloring book, and against the background of a bunch of balloons are the words
“Min says there a viziter.”
I frown, trying to make sense of it, looking to her for clarification, but she’s happy to have done her job and is already slinking away, winding through the crowd like smoke. Okay, so Freya isn’t so hot on literacy—not much of an educational framework for a kid in a vampire compound—but I think she’s trying to warn me of someone new being here.
I turn back to the stage and open up a line of communication to Rosa.
Are you looking at my ass while I kneel here?she says immediately, obviously needing to relieve tension.
Of course I am, bella. I still haven’t had the chance to fuck it properly.
I only notice the flicker of interest on her face because I’m staring right at her and looking for the reaction.
Look, not sure what it means, but Minnie sent a message saying there’s a visitor, I tell her.
Who?she asks.
No idea. If she didn’t say, that means she doesn’t know, and if she doesn’t know, we need to be prepared. You okay?
Bored shitless. Does he always go on this long?
Sometimes, yeah. Other times he puts a guillotine up on the stage next to him and lets Carlos fuck people as they get beheaded.
