The Vampire's City

by Mary E. Twomey

  Though, I haven’t seen Nico’s older brother since I was fifteen years old, so perhaps Rome has improved his card game skills in the past decade.

  I keep my face composed. “There’s no problem because we have a sign out front stating that vampires and humans are welcome here, remember? Rome is more than welcome to get his hair cut here. But we’re closed for the day. All the customers are gone. If any of the Valentinos want to stop by, they can do so during business hours. Go on home. Everything is fine.”

  My stylists don’t look like they believe me, but they exit out the back all the same, leaving me to deal with the vampire on my business’ doorstep.

  My chin raises as I silently dare the world to just try and match my kindness with cruelty. My heels click slowly as I make my way to the locked glass front door, studying the details of the man filling the view.

  He is certainly Nico’s brother in all the obvious ways: thick, jet black hair that is shaved on the sides with a couple inches of waves on top. Dark, expressive eyebrows. Wide shoulders that taper into a lean waist. Olive skin that is littered with a fair amount of scarring from a life lived outside the law. The head of the Valentino family bears angular features that emphasize his stern jaw.

  I forgot how stormy Rome’s natural disposition has always been. Nico was the juvenile joker while Rome never smiled. He didn’t have the time. He was Daddy Valentino’s top man, always going, always enforcing, always mired in the family business.

  Rome’s got at least a couple inches on Nico, which means he towers over me, even though I am still in my heels. I stare at the formidable man through the glass. He is backlit by the streetlights as dusk falls behind him, making him appear like a harbinger of grim things to come.

  My gosh, he is more handsome than I remembered. Then again, he was twenty-five when I was fifteen. There wasn’t much in my brain that searched for attraction to someone that old back then.

  But right now, my mouth pops open at the sight of him. Flagrant allure burns through my bones at the most inappropriate moment, aimed at the person who shouldn’t be able to evoke these sorts of baser feelings in me.

  I push the fascination away, confused at my sudden burst of hormones. “Goodnight,” I say, uncertain if Rome can hear me through the glass. I point to the “closed” sign and then to our hours, aiming a sweet smile up at him so I don’t appear hostile.

  I haven’t seen Rome in a decade. Not since things got bad and I was shipped overseas so Mayfield didn’t have to deal with me.

  Though, I have always suspected that the real motivator for my move was because my father didn’t want to have to deal with my condition. He signed me over to a nurse and left me to my fate.

  Which led me back here a decade later.

  Rome has the same Valentino ice blue eyes, the same intimidating set to his sculpted lips. The same lean yet muscular build, and the same ink-colored hair that nature would never dare let fall out, no matter how old the men in their family get.

  I remember Rome well. Before I can stop myself, a memory pops up.

  I remember a time that Rome was cooking drugs in the basement while Nico and I were doing homework upstairs. My pencil broke, so I skipped down the steps to ask Daddy Valentino if I could have a new one.

  And there was Rome, cooking up what I now know to be a street drug called halluci-mend. It eases stress and relaxes a person, in lieu of mood stabilizers or pain relievers, which aren’t always readily available to vampires.

  I hadn’t understood that the drug we were warned about in presentations at school was being manufactured one floor below where I did my Social Studies homework every afternoon. I’d revered Rome as the cool older brother who was always doing grownup stuff with Daddy Valentino. He was Fintan’s best friend before the falling out with our families.

  “Go on upstairs,” Rome had told me, handing me a pencil from his pocket. “This life isn’t for you.”

  Over the years, I’ve wanted to ask Rome if that life was for him, especially when Declan told me that after Daddy Valentino died, a new street drug surfaced and quickly spiraled out of control. The new drug is wildly addictive and dangerous. Its aim is to take down vampires this time instead of easing their pain.

  Rome still makes halluci-mend, Declan informed me. The stuff he cooks up isn’t addictive. It was largely created to relax a person and take away their pain.

  The stuff sold now from competitors in the West End is nothing like the halluci-mend Rome’s organization makes and sells.

  Halluci-blend is a subpar variant of the halluci-mend that Rome makes. The newer stuff is sold only in vampire territory, aimed at those whom society has cut off and given plenty of reasons to feel miserable. Halluci-blend has many horrific qualities, one of which being that it can make a vampire’s fangs fall out if they use it too much.

  Whoever is making halluci-blend is aiming to take down the vampires and make it look like they did it to themselves.

  The dirty trade devoured the formerly respectable real estate on Rome’s side of town, leaving the West End of Mayfield a mess.

  The humans blame the Valentino family for it, not understanding that those two drugs are two entirely different things. Daddy Valentino would never stand for something that could tear down his own people, as halluci-blend does.

  Rome doesn’t look as scary as I thought he would. Or maybe it’s that I don’t mind his brand of scary, since that’s what I grew up with. He is intimidating, to be sure, but there’s something to the way he tilts his head, silently asking me for entry that stills my dismissal.

  I’m so distracted by the study of him that I barely catch the angle of his gaze.

  He is studying me with just as much curiosity.

  I roll my shoulders back. “We’re closed. Sorry, Rome. You’ll have to come back during business hours.”

  He doesn’t speak, but studies me more carefully, combing the details of my face in the same manner I am cataloging his. He is every bit his thirty-five years, though time has only served to make him more devastatingly handsome.

  Rome places his palm on the glass, fingers spread as he stares into my eyes. It’s intimate, this intangible language we are speaking.

  I want to tell him that his kid brother scared me. I want to make Rome promise that won’t happen again.

  I want to hear what his voice sounds like after all these years. Suddenly I yearn to know if it is still an octave below the others. If he still makes even the most crass slur sound like it’s been wrapped in silk.

  That doesn’t matter. Or it shouldn’t, anyway. Rome hates my family, and me, probably.

  Then why is he standing on the other side of the glass, staring with such intensity? Why is his palm still pressed to the door?

  I shouldn’t entertain the gesture, but I find I can’t help myself. I move my hand to mirror his, though I know I should back away. Even though the glass is cold, I swear there is a pulse of warmth I can faintly pick out. His fingers are far longer and wider than mine, but in this moment, with no words, I wonder if we are the same—caught in a family feud of which neither of us wants any part. He was the one who went to my father to attempt a peace treaty.

  Maybe Rome is just as tired of burying people as we are.

  Or perhaps pride will lead both my father and Rome to repeat the bloody battles we barely survived.

  I want no part of their war.

  5

  Scandalous Invitation

  Colette

  The corner of Rome’s mouth lifts as he stares at me from the other side of the glass, but I wouldn’t classify the expression as a smile. I’m not sure Rome knows how to smile, actually. I’ve never seen the evidence.

  “Goodnight,” I tell him again, though my voice sounds inviting, like I am accepting a scandalous invitation.

  Which I’m not. Obviously.

  I shake sense back into my head as I step away from the door. Once I know I am out of his eyeline, I shake out my hands, which have been aching for hours. My meds
have kept the muscle spasms at bay, but I know that when my hands ache like this, I need to get home and take another pill.

  I hope Rome didn’t notice me scoping the broad measure of his shoulders.

  What does it matter if he’s sexy?

  It’s been a long day if I am entertaining thoughts like this about someone like that.

  I turn around, dismissing Rome’s presence on the sidewalk so I can retrieve my broom and finish sweeping. The shop is nearly ready for me to shut it all down for the night, but for a couple notes I need to leave myself for the morning. If I don’t write my to-do list down, nothing gets done.

  I don’t need to worry that the head of the vampire family showed up unannounced after hours. I don’t need to fret at all.

  But when the door pops open behind me, it’s all I can do to keep my shriek pinned behind closed lips.

  I spin around, my spiking fear mingling with stark disapproval. “Rome, you can see very well that we’re closed.”

  Rome looks just as sure of himself as he’s always been, keeping a healthy distance between us. Still, his gaze seems to see right through my charade of control to the nervous girl beneath.

  I hate that girl. She is the one who got abducted so many times. I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I am a woman with a degree and a business all my own.

  The corner of his mouth quirks—still not a smile, but as close as he ever gets. “Are you closed? I would have thought you’d have special hours for friends and family.”

  Darn his beautiful voice. It’s got a quiet command to it that bends my spine nearer when I should be inching away.

  My head tilts to the side. “And which one are you?”

  Despite his calm confidence, Rome looks tired. The bags under his eyes are easier to spot in the well-lit salon, though I know night hours are his busiest. “That’s a fair question. I used to be both. Haven’t seen you in a while, Youngblood. Last time I did, you were striving for your driver’s license. I feel like you still wore pigtails back then, though I see those days have passed.”

  “Youngblood” is my least favorite name the media gave me, and he knows it.

  I hold Rome’s gaze, hoping my honesty doesn’t sound like hostility. “If I wore pigtails still, would that have kept your brother from tearing apart my business last week?”

  Rome’s sharply angular jaw tightens. “Probably not. That’s partly why I’m here.”

  I reach for the broom, gripping the handle as if I mean to weaponize the thing. “If you’re coming to finish the job he started, I recommend bashing apart the far wall there. Nico barely touched it. You’d almost think his heart wasn’t in it.”

  Rome shoves his hands in the pockets of his fitted black trousers. Nico’s weren’t nearly that cupped around his thighs. Or perhaps I didn’t notice the fit of Nico’s slacks in the same lewd way I am sizing up Rome.

  He wets his lips, drawing my gaze upward. “That’s not why I’m here. Or, actually, that’s exactly why I’m here.” He motions around the salon. “I stopped by to make amends and help clean up. Looks like your brothers beat me to it. Sorry about that. I haven’t been able to get away.”

  “Shame,” I muse, checking my nails as if this conversation doesn’t bother me in the least. “All the best drug dealers know how to delegate.”

  No, I’m not about to make this easy for him.

  Rome snorts airily. Again, the corner of his mouth quirks. “When you talk like that, I can still imagine those pigtails. Believe what you want; you always have.” He motions around the room. “I can’t imagine why you set up here, when there’s plenty of real estate in the East End where you could have opened up shop.”

  “I belong where I put myself.” I flip my brown waves over my shoulder. “I wanted to open up here because the feuding between our families is stupid. We’re stronger as allies. Always were.”

  “Agreed.” Rome holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m here for no reason other than to make amends, Colette. Nico was out of line to mess with your business. You have every right to open up here, provided you’re not donating your blood to the Revolution.”

  I bristle. “How dare you accuse me of anything other than being used.”

  He motions to the family name on the wall in the colorful logo for the Kennedy Salon. “You have the right to be here; I just didn’t think you’d have the guts.”

  I roll my eyes and move to the check-in desk to put things in a better order for the next morning. My heels click on the polished floor, filling the space between us. “Yes, well, guts aren’t dependent upon having a penis.”

  Rome’s eyes narrow, though with the upward tilt of his lips, his study of me doesn’t appear menacing. “Did you just say ‘penis’ to me? That can’t be. You’re twelve.” He seems amused at my crass humor, as if we truly are old friends who can joke about stuff like that.

  “I’m twenty-five, and you know it. Do the math. However old you are, subtract ten years and a giant ego.”

  Rome clears his throat. “Quite the mouth you’ve got on you.”

  “Came with the uterus.”

  Rome smirks at my sass. “I didn’t mean because you’re the only woman in the mix of the head families. I mean because the truce has been in place for ten months now, but no one has been brave enough to test it.” He looks me over appraisingly. “Though, now that I think about it, it makes sense you would be the one to push us all forward. Your family seems to want to keep you out of sight. Your people either want to protect you or exploit you for your blood. And my people are mostly too afraid to go near you. Wouldn’t want to provoke that notorious Kennedy temper.” He moves toward me slowly and pries the broom from my fist.

  He is close enough to touch, but I don’t dare. I shouldn’t want to run my palms over the planes of his chest.

  Though my heart is jumping with nerves, I’m starting to trust his presence here won’t lead to a scene like the night Nico graced me with his sneer.

  Rome brushes the broom’s bristles across the floor, meeting my gaze. “Well done, rising above your pawn status. Long live the queen.”

  It’s my turn to chuckle. “I didn’t know you were funny.”

  “Oh, I’m a regular crack-up. That’s what they call me. Comedian Rome, cleaning up the mess his family made one punch line at a time.”

  He doesn’t sound bitter, more matter-of-fact. Though, to be fair, he has every right to be bitter. His father passed down a mess, yet the world expects nothing short of a masterpiece to unfold, or the entire race will continue to be dismissed.

  I cannot look away from the strange sight unfolding before me. Rome is sweeping my floors. I mean, the head of the Valentino family sweeping any floor is noteworthy, but sweeping the floor of a Kennedy business?

  I take out my phone and snap a picture.

  He speaks in a singsong voice without looking up. “What are you doing, Youngblood?”

  “Photographic evidence of baby’s first chore.”

  Rome snickers while he does a novice job of sweeping an already cleaned floor.

  I motion toward the broom with my notepad. “You don’t have to do that. You made your point; you’re not here to cause trouble.”

  Rome waves off my dismissal. “I really don’t mind cleaning up after my family’s mistakes. I’m here to help, so put me to work.”

  And just like that, my hammering heart calms down. I watch him sweep, admiring the musculature of his shoulders more than I should. An entire minute passes of companionable silence, confusing me just as much as calming me.

  I find I don’t mind Rome being here, lending a hand while I balance the books. “I wouldn’t say no to you wiping down the window and the door. Some comedian put his fingerprints on the glass.”

  Rome’s neck shrinks. “Sorry about that. I’ll fix it.” He doesn’t hem and haw when I direct him to fetch the window cleaner and a rag.

  If this isn’t the strangest day…

  Rome polishes the windows and then starts in on the
coffee table and countertops while I sit down and actually take my time going over the numbers. Then I make a to-do list for Rachel, who is scheduled to open on my day off. She is still learning the ropes of managing this place, but with a little guidance, I have faith she can do this.

  Every few minutes, Rome and I share a smirk while we work in silence. It’s actually pleasant, having him around. I find I don’t mind the company one bit.

  I don’t expect conversation, especially from Rome, who only ever talks to his goons, and solely about blood-related topics, I would assume. But when Rome speaks to me again, my pen stills on the page. “Would you be opposed to me sending my guys here to get their hair cut?”

  It’s a bold question, holding much more importance than a simple change in cosmetic style.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s a dumb idea. I’m trying to think of ways to show the city that we aren’t at war anymore. That might be a move worth making on my part. If you can be brave, I guess I can, too. Even if it means letting you hold a razor to the necks of the men sworn to protect me.”

  I’ll admit, the visual dances in my head with macabre delight.

  “It is a bold move,” I tell him with a tease to my tone. “Political ramifications aside, you’ve never seen me cut hair before. I might be terrible at it.” I’m joking, but I can tell Rome is finished trying to learn how to smile for the night.

  “Forget I mentioned it. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

  I bristle at the hard truth in his verdict. “True, but he’s the one who smoked the peace pipe with you. I would only be following his example.”

  Rome quirks his thick brow at me. “I’d really like to be there when you sell it to him like that.”

  I chuckle at the mental image of my father losing his mind to rage.

  But this is the whole point of me opening a business here. I just didn’t expect to up my game this quickly. The credo I wrote down for myself is still tucked in my bra. The words “Pease is Possible” burn against my breast with purpose as I consider Rome’s proposal.