Dark Deception: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  “Cortelli?” Dorian guessed, trying to recall the names of the lesser demon crime families, most of whom occupied territory in Brooklyn and Queens. “Adamson? Surely Denton’s underlings know better than to test a vampire king so soon after a family tragedy.”

  The unmitigated string of curses that escaped Malcolm’s lips sent a bolt of ice to Dorian’s gut. None of his guesses had been right. Which left only one option.

  The worst one.

  They weren’t low-level demons looking to make a name for themselves. These pricks swore allegiance to Nikolai Chernikov, the most powerful, most ruthless demon in the city. One whose organization had been growing like a cancer, kept in check only by a mysterious, centuries-old agreement with a vampire who—as of this morning—was no more than a pile of dust and memory.

  Augustus Redthorne. Their father.

  Malcolm stood, brushing the filth from his hands. “Remind me again how you’ve got things under control?”

  “I spared a human soul from eternal damnation. I got a hot meal out of the arrangement. And no one had to die.” Forcing a smile, Dorian kicked Metalhead’s boot, unleashing a watery moan. “I’m calling that a win.”

  “There are other ways, brother.” Malcolm reached over to swipe an errant streak of blood from Dorian’s cheek. “Legal, consensual ways that don’t involve provoking enemies.” He licked the blood from his thumb, then grimaced. “Ways that don’t taste like utter shite.”

  Dorian turned away from the unwanted touch as well as the unwanted lecture. “Not for me, there aren’t.”

  It may have taken him a few centuries and more nightmares than he could count to learn the lesson, but now it was as firmly embedded in his psyche as his own name.

  He didn’t feed on fresh humans for the same reason he didn’t fall in love—dalliances with both had made him weak and stupid. Mistakes he wouldn’t make again. Foul as it was, fresh demon blood offered the same nourishment as its human counterpart without the nasty side effects: arousal, euphoria, complete and utter obsession…

  Just thinking about it sent Dorian’s mind into a dangerous spin.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Eventually, word would reach Chernikov, and—Shadow Accords violation be damned—this incident would come back to bite Dorian in the ass.

  But that was a problem for another night.

  Tonight, he had an annoying brother to ditch, a rare painting to acquire, and an equally rare bottle of single malt scotch to crawl into before he jerked himself off to sleep, putting the last twenty-four hours swiftly behind him.

  “My apologies,” Dorian said, already making his way out of the alley. “I’m nearly late for an appointment. Are you staying at Ravenswood? Perhaps we might catch up another night.”

  “An alliance makes sense, Dorian,” Malcolm said, jogging to keep up.

  Stopping at a newsstand, he bought a bottle of sparkling water and a pack of mints, downing them both in quick succession. Neither relieved the sharp tang of demon blood from his senses.

  Unsurprising. In Dorian’s experience, there was only one sure-fire cure for that. But it’d been far too long since he’d had the pleasure of burying his face between a woman’s thighs, and he doubted tonight would end any differently.

  “With Father gone,” Malcolm continued, “and no witch bound to our line—”

  “Careful, brother. In this city, even the gargoyles have ears.”

  In truth, Dorian was less concerned about spies than he was about entertaining his brother’s endless quest for power. Dorian was the eldest; these decisions were his to command or ignore as he saw fit.

  Malcolm had always struggled to remember it. Which was a fine oversight while he built his empire in the bayou, but less fine when he brought his aspirations north.

  They walked in tense silence for the last two blocks, then Dorian spotted the blood-red awning marking the entrance to The Salvatore, a massive double-tower, thirty-story apartment building on Central Park West. The auction would take place in the penthouse, with the bidding set to begin in half an hour, and he definitely needed a drink first—a real drink. It left precious little time for chit-chat with Malcolm.

  Thank the devil’s cock for small favors.

  He stepped through the opulent glass-front entry, hoping Malcolm would fuck off back to Ravenswood and spare him the headache of further spectacle. But even that was too much to ask, and his younger brother followed him into the lobby, footfalls echoing on the gleaming marble floor.

  A doorman inquired about their business, but Dorian sent a wave of compulsion his way, and the man returned to his station, content to let the vampires pass.

  “There are but four of us left,” Malcolm said, trailing him to the elevator bay. “Four royal vampires standing against an entire city of demons, witches, and lesser bloodsuckers who’d sell us to the highest bidder without a second thought.”

  “Let them try.” Dorian hit the button for the penthouse elevator. “The last vampire who crossed—”

  Movement at the lobby doors silenced him, and Dorian turned to assess the newcomer.

  Everything about the moment changed, the darkness and dread that surrounded him parting like a heavy curtain to reveal the light.

  The woman stepped into an alcove at the front of the lobby, her smile bright, her laughter floating to his ears like a symphony.

  “…evoking veto power,” she was saying into her cell phone. “Those are terrible choices.” A pause, then she laughed again. “No, I said you can pick any movie as long as it’s not about vampires.” Another pause. “Because I want to watch normal people fall in love and mash their faces together! God, you’re obsessed!”

  Dorian smiled, wondering what she’d say if she knew the vampires of this century’s bubble-gum books and movies were nothing like the real thing, especially when it came to, quote, mashing their faces together.

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can ditch this work thing,” she said. “Nine o’clock, ten tops.”

  Not if I have anything to say about it, love…

  She put the phone away, and Dorian watched in abject fascination as she removed a mirror from her purse and checked her makeup and hair, brow furrowed as she smoothed back an errant auburn lock. Her movements stirred the air, carrying her scent.

  Citrus and vanilla, with a hint of something all her own.

  After two and a half centuries walking the earth, Dorian had enjoyed his share of beautiful women. But something about this one captivated him in ways he’d never before experienced and couldn’t begin to explain.

  “Dorian, we need to discuss—”

  He cut his brother off with a raised hand, attention still fixated on the woman. Her sweet summer scent intoxicated him, the soft beat of her heart pulling him into a deep trance.

  As she walked across the lobby to the elevators, ignoring the now-docile doorman, their gazes met and locked for a beat… two… three…

  Dorian inhaled sharply. Behind her coppery eyes, beneath the sunshine and light, darkness gathered like a storm on the horizon, stirring a terrible, ancient longing inside him.

  Mine.

  After what felt like an eternity, the woman averted her eyes and headed into the waiting elevator, tapping the button for her floor. But not before granting him the faintest, rose-colored smile and a shiver she tried desperately—unsuccessfully—to suppress.

  Dorian’s lips curved in response, his mouth watering, predatory instincts flaring as thoughts of the woman’s soft skin invaded his consciousness. The taste of demon blood lingered in his throat, but perhaps he’d get to sample some of that sure-fire remedy tonight after all.

  His cock stirred at the thought.

  He took a step toward her, but a solid grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks, and the elevator doors closed, ferrying her away.

  Dorian wheeled on his brother, fully intending to hit him with the same right hook he’d given the overly-pierced demon. But the look in Malcolm’s eyes stayed his han
d, and he lowered it to his side, letting out a deep sigh instead.

  “Bloody hell, Mac,” he said. “You show up after fifty years… What did you think would happen? We’d pop over to the nearest pub, grab a few pints, and reminisce about the good times?”

  Malcolm’s face reddened. “I’m here to see to Father’s affairs. To ensure our longevity.”

  “That is not your responsibility.”

  “Whose, then? Yours?” He practically sneered. “We’re alone, Dorian. Father is dead. Without him, the few allies who remained loyal to House Redthorne will turn, if they haven’t already. Our power is waning. How long until we can no longer walk in the daylight? Until we can no longer pass as human? Without a witch or an alliance…” Malcolm shook his head, frustration and disappointment warring in his eyes. “If you see an alternate ending to this fairytale, I’m all ears.”

  “What I see is a washed-up vampire prince attempting to manipulate his eldest brother with guilt and melodrama. I assure you, I’m moved by neither.” The elevator returned, and he stepped inside, hitting the button for the penthouse.

  “Dorian. This isn’t—”

  “Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling at his brother as the elevator doors began to close.

  “Colin and Gabriel,” Malcolm blurted out. “They’ve already arrived at Ravenswood. They’re expecting us to return together.”

  Dorian held his smile despite the fresh pit opening up in his stomach. “Tell them not to wait up either.”

  “Your family needs you, Dorian.”

  Silence.

  It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed and the lift began its silent ascent that Dorian dropped his grin.

  Reality hit him then, a wrecking ball straight to the chest.

  It wasn’t the hush of his father’s final breaths. It wasn’t the scrape of the match against the flint, the blaze of the fire as it consumed the corpse, the fetid stench of it all. It wasn’t preparing paperwork for the attorney, or receiving the condolences from his driver, or wiping his father’s ashes from the sleeve of his bespoke Italian suit.

  It was this moment, right now, when Dorian finally understood. This moment, when the brother he’d taught to read and write and shoe a horse looked into his eyes with the pain of a thousand regrets and spoke the words that had plagued Dorian’s nightmares for centuries.

  Your family needs you…

  Malcolm. Colin. Gabriel. All that remained of his once expansive family. Bound to him first by blood, second by love, and lastly by the brutal legacy none of them—no matter how far they’d scattered, no matter how many years had passed—could ever outrun.

  The king is dead, long live the king.

  The vampire royals of New York have returned.

  Dorian’s chest squeezed tight, forcing out a ragged breath and a single utterance that encapsulated the entirety of his thoughts.

  “Well, fuck.”

  Chapter Two

  Get in. Get the intel. Get out. And above all, don’t get noticed.

  Repeating the mantra in her head, Charley D’Amico sipped her Sapphire and tonic, steeling her nerves for tonight’s assignment.

  Thirteen years on the job, and she’d never broken the rules. Never left a shred of evidence behind. That was her thing—no trace. The whole reason she handled the public-facing gigs. She was, as her father had declared after her first big win all those years ago, a phantom.

  So how the hell did a phantom manage to screw up before she’d even stepped into the elevator?

  The man in the lobby had definitely noticed her. And in the span of four seconds, the sinfully hot stranger had burrowed so deeply under her skin, he was practically all she could think about. The sensual curve of his lips, the fire in his eyes, the commanding presence that made it impossible to look away…

  Hell on hotcakes, that kind of distraction was enough to put her life at risk.

  As if she needed another reminder, her phone buzzed with a text.

  Status?

  Charley rolled her eyes, thumbing a quick reply. Waiting for the right opportunity. More soon.

  Don’t wait too long, kiddo, he replied, but there was nothing sweet in his message.

  Even through texts, Uncle Rudy’s voice chilled her to the core. It was like he was standing on her shoulder, waiting for her to fuck up.

  Salivating for it.

  No matter how many successful missions she’d accomplished, no matter how much lucrative intel she’d delivered, no matter the fact that her late father had built the entire D’Amico empire, good ol’ Uncle Rudy never let her forget who was really in charge.

  And though she spent the majority of every day rehearsing all the different languages in which she could tell him to go fuck himself, one thought of her nineteen-year-old sister was enough to put her bravado on ice.

  Sasha had a real shot at a decent life. She’d just started at Hunter College, and she was already kicking ass, even while holding down a job at a nearby coffee shop. She would not be part of this screwed-up, bullshit con game. Not as long as Charley had the ability to keep her out of it. To keep her ignorant and safe. To keep her alive.

  Get your head in the game, girl.

  With an epic sigh and one more glance toward the elevator—one more pang of disappointment that the stranger from downstairs hadn’t magically appeared—she shut down her half-starved libido and snapped into work mode.

  Get in. Get the intel. Get out. And above all, don’t get noticed…. again.

  The penthouse at the Salvatore was enormous by New York standards—a prewar stunner with breathtaking views of Central Park and the glittering buildings that surrounded it. The monthly maintenance fees alone were in the five-figure range, but word on the street said the current owners were tapped out, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. All their valuables would be auctioned off, the apartment sold, the family expatriating to Greece.

  Charley hated kicking people when they were down, but in the words of the old family motto they’d probably carve on her tombstone…

  “If you’re not an asset, you’re a liability,” she muttered.

  Charley already knew the floor plan—she’d memorized the documents Rudy had obtained from the city planning office—but now she scanned the scene, taking in the relevant details:

  About forty guests, plus the host. Two people working the bar just past the foyer, two more serving hors d'oeuvres. One security guard making the rounds, beefy but unarmed. Huge, open-plan living area set up with chairs and a small platform for the auction, artwork already on display. Private hallway roped off with theater stanchions, leading to four bedrooms and a study. No visible cameras.

  The auction was set to begin soon, but for now, most of the guests mingled at the bar, blathering on about the cutthroat admissions process for Manhattan preschools and exclusive spa vacations for pets.

  Reining in an eye-roll, Charley sipped her drink, projecting the cool detachment of the one-percenters surrounding her. Despite her working-class, Jersey-girl roots, it wasn’t hard to look the part, especially with her off-the-books expense account keeping her salon-polished and stylish. Tonight, she wore her auburn hair in a loose twist at the base of her neck, light on the makeup, and a strapless midnight blue cocktail dress tied with a simple sash around the waist.

  If anyone were questioned about her later, they’d remember only a classy woman in a dark dress, a splash of tasteful yet unremarkable jewelry. Calm and unconcerned, totally in control.

  The exact opposite of her reality.

  The security guard headed into the living area, leaving the hallway unguarded.

  Go-time.

  Charley downed the last of her drink, set the glass on the bar, and slipped past the ropes undetected. She’d just ducked into the master suite when her phone buzzed with four rapid-fire texts.

  What’s happening in there?

  I don’t like it when you go radio silent.

  Charlotte?

  ?????

  The question m
arks at the end were the worst, the threat behind them evident.

  Passive-aggressive asshole.

  Her thumb hovered over the screen, a quick reassurance at the ready, but screw it. She was tired of jumping at Rudy’s every command, cowering before him as if she was still a little girl.

  Busy, she texted.

  Charley didn’t bother waiting for his reply. She silenced the phone, donned her gloves, and got to work.

  With clinical efficiency, she searched the suite’s massive oak dressers, vanity, night tables, bookcases, closets, master bathroom drawers, and medicine cabinets, looking for any information that might help. She found a few pieces of jewelry, some antique knickknacks, plenty of prescription drugs, and—bingo—a printout of the family’s travel itinerary. They’d be apartment-hunting in Greece for two weeks at the end of the month.

  The opportunity was there, just as Rudy had hoped.

  But the score? That wasn’t looking too promising.

  The other three bedrooms were sparsely appointed, and Rudy wasn’t interested in a handful of jewels and some dusty figurines. Too late, Charley realized their initial intel must’ve been bad. Tonight wasn’t the first auction—it couldn’t have been. The massive trove of art and antiquities the crew had traced to this family were long gone, likely auctioned off in pieces over the last several weeks. All that remained was the small, somewhat odd collection in the living area.

  A flood of conflicting feelings washed through Charley’s heart: relief for the family, that they wouldn’t have to endure a robbery. Disgust at herself, at her crew, for doing what they did. And of course, the dread that always preceded having to face Rudy empty-handed—a situation that was quickly becoming her norm.

  Rudy wouldn’t tolerate it. Not for long.

  Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, but Charley blinked them away. There was still one more room to search—the potential goldmine otherwise known as the study. Rich people kept all kinds of important shit in there, like it was some kind of private Fort Knox no thief would ever penetrate.

  For her sake, Charley hoped that was the case tonight.