Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (2 page)

“Capone’s thugs caught me as I came out of the church—just as dawn broke. I had no choice but to accompany them if I didn’t want to fry in the sunlight. Perhaps you feel differently, Woodmore, but the last thing I want is for Big Al to be the one who retrieves these from my damned ashes.” Vioget flexed his right hand, showing off the five copper rings that had been fused to his fingers since the day he removed his hand from the enchanted pool at Munții Făgăraș.

Woodmore’s gaze sharpened. Some of the belligerence faded from his face, replaced with interest. “So if Capone wanted the Rings of Jubai, he could have ordered his men to allow you to burn right then and there on the sidewalk. Curious.”

“I agree.”

“Then what did he want from you? And what does he want with Macey?”

Sebastian poured himself another glass and gestured to Chas’s untouched one. “Not rotgut enough for your taste, Woodmore? I can’t remember the last time a full glass—let alone a bottle—remained intact in your presence. Don’t tell me you’re cutting back. Have you joined the Temperance movement now? You wouldn’t hear any complaints from me if you had. It would save me a lot of money, since you’ve yet to settle a bill since you arrived here.”

Woodmore picked up his glass and sipped, nonchalance in his movements. “Why are you prevaricating, Vioget? What did Capone want if it wasn’t the rings?”

Sebastian pursed his lips, then allowed his prickly mood to ease. “It wasn’t me. It’s clear he wants Macey.”

Woodmore’s expression darkened. “Wants her…how?”

“As his…moll. Or, more accurately, as his personal bodyguard. But one would suspect there will be other duties involved as well.” Vioget kept his voice bland, carefully watching his companion.

But Woodmore’s face closed up. “He knows she’s a Venator.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Don’t ask me how he discovered this bit of information—unless he learned it through your escapades at The Blood Club. You do tend to be a little lax while under the influence.”

Both men knew precisely what Sebastian was referring to by “influence”—and it wasn’t merely to alcohol—but to his surprise, Woodmore chose not to react to the dig other than to reply, “Capone has never had anything to do with The Blood Club, as you well know. And now that Count Alvisi has been dusted—thanks to Macey—Nicholas Iscariot has taken over the establishment.”

“Perhaps Capone wants the club for himself. It is a very lucrative venture,” suggested Sebastian innocently. “It would fit right in with his prostitution and gambling rings. Women, cards, and immortality. Pleasure for an infinity.”

“Perhaps.” Woodmore remained silent, possibly in reflection, and looked down into his glass. “Capone’s goons did a number on you with their blackjacks. Doesn’t it bother you Big Al had you worked over but didn’t try for the rings? Surely he’s heard about them. It must be widely known among the Tutela that Iscariot would do anything to have them in his possession.”

“There’s no indication Al Capone has joined the Tutela,” said Sebastian. “And he’s certainly not been turned. It’s possible he doesn’t know about the rings. Perhaps we were wrong that he’s intending to ally himself with the undead.”

Chas lifted his face suddenly, spearing Sebastian with cold, dark eyes. “Perhaps we were.”

What does he know?

It was rare for Sebastian Vioget to be put off his game—especially since he’d been alive for more than 140 years, and immortal for more than a century—and during that time, he’d found it his particular gift to woo and manipulate and guide the people around him to get what he wanted. But at this moment, by not being completely forthright, he knew he was taking a risk that could turn Chas Woodmore from an ally to an enemy.

A more formidable enemy than he’d wish to engage—unless it came down to it.

Yet Sebastian had secrets he must keep if he ever hoped to finish the “long promise” he’d taken on 105 years ago. And so he remained silent, pouring himself another glug of bourbon with a very steady hand. Then he replaced the bottle on its shelf next to an array of decorative objects, including a marble Buddha, a jade dragon, and a square cut-glass bottle with its blue-black pyramid topper.

“And so what do we do about Macey?” asked Chas after a long, heavy silence.

Sebastian gave an insouciant shrug. “We let her do what she must do. After all, she is a Venator.”

TWO

~ A Tigress in the Den of a Lion ~

Decadent, luxurious, hedonistic
. Smothering.

Those were the words that came to mind as Macey sat next to Al Capone. Over the last three hours, a seven-course meal of pasta, soup, braised beef, and more pasta, plus vegetables, potatoes, and bread had been served to the table of five. They were in a small dining room cloaked with heavy scarlet curtains, blood-red and midnight-blue paisley wallpaper, thick Chianti-colored carpet, and heavy walnut furnishings. Massive paintings of fierce-looking Italian men in heavy gold frames studded the walls, and large vases dripping with pink and white peonies were arranged on several small tables throughout.

Firearms had been left at the door.

“This here is Macey,” said Capone by way of introduction as he dug into the towering piece of tiramisu that was set before him. A tiny cup of the dark coffee drink called espresso sat next to his never-empty wine glass.

The five of them had eaten an entire meal without any acknowledgment of Macey, the only female in the room, until the dessert course.

While the men—mostly Capone—spoke of business, jazz, and politics while enjoying each course to excess, Macey had picked at her food, which had been served on hand-painted, gold-trimmed plates each as large as a hubcap. The meal was excellent, but she had little desire to eat.

She had sold her soul to the devil.

Only a week ago she’d been taken to Capone’s penthouse suite, where she found Sebastian trussed and ready to die on the sunlit patio that overlooked Chicago. It was then she learned Al Capone’s astonishing secret, and discovered he wanted her to work for him as his personal bodyguard.

When she flatly declined, he showed her all of the reasons she should accept his offer. Besides the bound-up Sebastian, there were photos of Macey with her friends Chelle, Dottie, and Flora, with her landlady Mrs. Gutchinson, with Dr. Morgan, her boss at the library at the University of Chicago…and with Grady.

The threat was obvious: anyone she knew or interacted with would be a target of Capone’s anger—and presumably his Tommy guns—unless she accepted his offer.

So, bewildered, angry, and sick at heart, she’d agreed to the gangster’s business proposition.

Sebastian escaped during their negotiation, for which she was supremely grateful, and Macey remained to live out her bargain with the crime boss.

Until tonight, Capone had ignored her, other than to keep her under a sort of house arrest at his hotel in Chicago. She’d been unable to send word to Sebastian at The Silver Chalice, and the only phone call she’d been allowed to make was to Dr. Morgan at her job letting him know she had to leave town unexpectedly. As far as she knew, no one knew where she was.

But earlier today, Capone sent one of his goons to bring her via automobile to Cicero, a small town outside the city where several of his distilleries were located. She’d been escorted into the dining room, taken her seat, and sat through the interminable meal, all without a word until now.

As if they’d been given permission to acknowledge her, the three other men at the table nodded to Macey, mumbling polite greetings as they waited for Capone to say more. Clearly having a single female at dinner was an unusual event.

Al didn’t bother to introduce the other diners to her. Instead, he slurped his espresso, then stood and began to wander around the table, arms waving expressively as he spoke. “Macey is the newest addition to my staff. She has a special skill and will be providing a very specific service to me. I trust she will remain loyal regardless of any personal temptations that might come her way…just as you have, Bernardo, eh?”

Capone had stopped behind the youngest and beefiest of his companions and slapped him on the shoulder as Bernardo laughed heartily. “Right, boss. Always loyal ta da family.”

Macey saw Capone shift and realized what was going to happen—just a split second before his hand moved sharply in front of Bernardo’s tie. A blade flashed, whip-fast, and a stream of blood spurted free, spraying the table and its plates of half-eaten food.

Bernardo made a soft gurgling sound and that was all. When Capone stepped away, he allowed his associate to fall face-first into a puddle of blood soaking his half-eaten tiramisu.

Macey hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a noise—and neither had the other two men at the table. As Capone wiped the knife on a napkin smudged with pasta sauce and gravy, he looked around the table.

Gone was the affable host who’d called for refills on wine glasses and “more pasta for da boys.” Now his eyes were dark, shining with violence and anger. “I take care o’ my boys,” he said, his words sounding more like an accusation than a promise. “As long as they stay loyal to me and my family. But when dey step over da line”—here his Brooklyn accent became thick with cold, steady fury—“I ain’t got no room to forgive. It ain’t da way I run my bizness, you know dere, Leon?”

The man named Leon, also thick and neckless from daily mountains of pasta, but also balding and bug-eyed, nodded quickly. He seemed unable to speak, and that pleased Capone.

“You’d never step out on me, would ya, Leon?” said Al, stopping across the table from the balding man. One hand slid into his coat pocket. “Not like Melvin, here, hm? You and Lucky Manachetti been gettin’ awfully cozy lately, ain’t ya, Melvin?”

“Now, wait, wait—” The man who was presumably Melvin held up his hands, his face draining from florid red to sickly white. “Now, boss, you know, it ain’t what it looks—”

The gunshot was flat and sharp in the room, effectively silencing Melvin’s pleadings and leaving a red hole in his forehead. The only noise left after that was the fast, rasping breathing of Leon, whose eyes became even more protuberant as he gaped at Capone. His breathing was so unsteady his shoulders actually shook.

Al slipped the revolver back into his pocket. “Have I made myself clear?” He fixed his beady black gaze on Leon, still ignoring Macey.

“P-perfectly.”

“Now get the hell out of here and spread the word to da other boys. You sit at my table, you take my hospitality, and then you spit on me…I ain’t giving no second chances. To no one. And you, Leon—you stay the
fuck
away from any counterfeiters. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been sniffing around in that business. I ain’t having nothing done with them.”

Leon gathered his dignity and rose from the chair. When he passed by Macey, she saw the fine sprinkling of blood on his pale face and smelled the faint aroma of urine.

As the door closed behind him, she rose from her seat and looked at Capone. She made no attempt to hide her disgust, but she did manage to keep her trembling fingers hidden. The man was as violent and brutal as Nicholas Iscariot, and he’d made it clear no one was safe from his wrath—including the people she loved and cared about. And yet she had no reason to fear him. “Was that display supposed to frighten me?”

“Frighten you? Oh, no, not at all,” said Al. “That was to remind Leon which side his bread is buttered on. So to speak.” He looked at the bloody mess of the table and grimaced, gesturing to the spattered decanter. “A waste of good
vino
, but the message had to be delivered.”

Macey stared at him, revulsion and fury churning inside her. She still could not believe this man was a Venator. He wore the blessed amulet—the
vis bulla
—that came along with the holy vocation of their family, and he was endowed with the same strength and speed and abilities as she was…

And he used those abilities to wantonly kill people—to destroy the mortals the Gardellas were meant to protect, the very lives they were meant to save.

She might have questioned whether he wore a true
vis bulla
if she hadn’t remembered seeing the name Alphonsus in the Gardella Family Bible, where all the Venators—both born and made—were listed. She had also seen evidence of his superior strength and, despite his bulk, unusual speed.

“You abuse your powers as a Venator,” she spat. “You’ve used your abilities to build an enterprise of illegal businesses—some of the worst types of businesses, ones that prey on the weakest types of people—and you’ve created it through violence and murder. All for greed. How do you
dare
wear the
vis bulla
?”

He swung toward her, but his expression wasn’t enraged, as she might have expected. Instead, he seemed to accept her fury. “No matter what you think, there, doll, I am still a Venator,” he said. “I am still bound to fight the undead.”

“And to protect the mortals on this earth. And yet you gun them down, slit their throats,
shoot
them as they enjoy your hospitality—all on a whim. All because of mere insults—perceived or otherwise. You are no true Venator,” she sneered.

“Do you mean to say as a Venator, you have no right to protect yourself from other mortals—only from the undead? Would you have me believe that is true of you, Macey Gardella? You’re a smart broad, doll, so don’t let me hear you say otherwise.”

“You call this protecting yourself?” Her hand jerked violently toward the dining table bloodbath. “Not one of those men lifted a hand to you.”

“You know nothing,” roared Capone. “You don’t know my bizness, and you don’t know what those men would have done to me if I hadn’t stopped them. Do you know how many sniper shots have been taken at me? How many bullets I’ve dodged? Do you know how many of your precious
mortals
have been caught in the crossfire because someone wanted to
kill me
? I have to protect myself.”

“And why is that?” she retorted. “Because of your greed, your desire for power. Because you break the law, because you take advantage of women and sell them as prostitutes, you open gambling houses so the weak-minded will lose their money over and over while drinking your illegal beer—and you encourage half of Chicago to break the law and drink themselves into the gutter.”