villa.
“Best night out ever.” Laughing, Edoardo patted Raphael, then, for once, he was the one checking the time. “Eight fifty-five. We better hurry or you’ll be late, Cinderella.”
Despite the adrenaline high, Raphael felt deflated. Inside the pocket of his shirt, he had just hidden a vial of vampire blood. Tainted poison he was about to barter for the chance to become a ruthless gang member. “Luisa, I love you,” he whispered as Edoardo recklessly drove through the streets of Rome.
Chapter Seven
At nine fifty-nine p.m., Mr. Wifebeater opened the door and looked down, his annoyed expression changing to disconcert the moment he saw the vial of V dangling from Raphael’s hand.
“As you ordered, sir.” Before the man could say a word, Raphael raised his cell phone with the screen facing the werewolf. “Right on time and with a full minute to spare.” He then pushed the drug into the werewolf’s hand. “Can I come in?”
“I’ll be damned.” Scratching his shaved head with his free hand, the shifter moved the vial to make the blood slosh from one end to the other. “I didn’t think you were going to show up again.”
“Told you I always deliver.” Raphael raised an eyebrow and pointed his chin at the spot behind the man’s shoulder. “So, what’s inside?”
The werewolf moved to the side and let him in. “What’s your name, scrawny thing?”
“Raphael.” He stepped inside a large room furnished like a billiard parlor. Couches and pool tables with pristine maroon cloths filled one side, while on the other a full bar took up the whole length of the wall. The place was empty. “What’s yours?”
The werewolf exhaled a long breath. “Sir.”
Fatigue coupled with headache and general uneasiness made for the perfect recipe for disaster. Especially when Raphael needed to maintain that thin balance between flippant and arrogant. “What’s your name, sir ?”
“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Mr. Wifebeater laughed. “You’re lucky I’ve a little brother who’s a smart ass like you.” He went behind the bar, took a tall, frosted mug from a stainless steel, double glass-door fridge, and served himself a beer. “Name’s Rock.” With a ruler he tapered the foam from the mug. “Are you old enough to drink?”
“Just turned eighteen.” In his wallet, Raphael kept a fake ID for when the need arose, but he didn’t have to prove he was of a legal age.
Rock—although the Red had changed into a jean shirt, Raphael still thought the name Mr. Wifebeater was more appropriate for the werewolf—filled a second mug for Raphael. “Why are you here?”
“I want to join the Reds.” The beer was a pale ale, cold and refreshing. After a few gulps, Raphael put the mug back down.
The werewolf wasn’t drinking either, his dark eyes were on Raphael, a serious expression on his face as he drummed his fingers against his mug. “Why?”
“I’ve been living by myself since I was twelve, and I want to belong.” Two truths that made a big lie. Raphael brought the mug back to his lips.
“Okay.” Mug raised in salute, Rock tilted his head to the side. “Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Tancredi.”
Raphael choked and sputtered.
Rock slapped Raphael’s back, making him cough beer from his nose. “Don’t get too excited. The alpha might decide you aren’t prospect material.” Stretching his neck, he yawned. “Time for me to get upstairs. Make yourself at home.” With a sweeping motion, he indicated the couches, then headed toward one of the three doors opening into the room. He rapped on the stainless steel surface, and the door slid into the wall. “See ya.”
Raphael blinked, and the door closed before he could have a glance at what lay beyond.
The morning after, Rock kicked him off of the couch where he had fitfully slept. “Tancredi will see you now.”
Still groggy, Raphael blinked and looked up at the werewolf. “Where?”
“There.” Rock rolled his eyes and
“Best night out ever.” Laughing, Edoardo patted Raphael, then, for once, he was the one checking the time. “Eight fifty-five. We better hurry or you’ll be late, Cinderella.”
Despite the adrenaline high, Raphael felt deflated. Inside the pocket of his shirt, he had just hidden a vial of vampire blood. Tainted poison he was about to barter for the chance to become a ruthless gang member. “Luisa, I love you,” he whispered as Edoardo recklessly drove through the streets of Rome.
Chapter Seven
At nine fifty-nine p.m., Mr. Wifebeater opened the door and looked down, his annoyed expression changing to disconcert the moment he saw the vial of V dangling from Raphael’s hand.
“As you ordered, sir.” Before the man could say a word, Raphael raised his cell phone with the screen facing the werewolf. “Right on time and with a full minute to spare.” He then pushed the drug into the werewolf’s hand. “Can I come in?”
“I’ll be damned.” Scratching his shaved head with his free hand, the shifter moved the vial to make the blood slosh from one end to the other. “I didn’t think you were going to show up again.”
“Told you I always deliver.” Raphael raised an eyebrow and pointed his chin at the spot behind the man’s shoulder. “So, what’s inside?”
The werewolf moved to the side and let him in. “What’s your name, scrawny thing?”
“Raphael.” He stepped inside a large room furnished like a billiard parlor. Couches and pool tables with pristine maroon cloths filled one side, while on the other a full bar took up the whole length of the wall. The place was empty. “What’s yours?”
The werewolf exhaled a long breath. “Sir.”
Fatigue coupled with headache and general uneasiness made for the perfect recipe for disaster. Especially when Raphael needed to maintain that thin balance between flippant and arrogant. “What’s your name, sir ?”
“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Mr. Wifebeater laughed. “You’re lucky I’ve a little brother who’s a smart ass like you.” He went behind the bar, took a tall, frosted mug from a stainless steel, double glass-door fridge, and served himself a beer. “Name’s Rock.” With a ruler he tapered the foam from the mug. “Are you old enough to drink?”
“Just turned eighteen.” In his wallet, Raphael kept a fake ID for when the need arose, but he didn’t have to prove he was of a legal age.
Rock—although the Red had changed into a jean shirt, Raphael still thought the name Mr. Wifebeater was more appropriate for the werewolf—filled a second mug for Raphael. “Why are you here?”
“I want to join the Reds.” The beer was a pale ale, cold and refreshing. After a few gulps, Raphael put the mug back down.
The werewolf wasn’t drinking either, his dark eyes were on Raphael, a serious expression on his face as he drummed his fingers against his mug. “Why?”
“I’ve been living by myself since I was twelve, and I want to belong.” Two truths that made a big lie. Raphael brought the mug back to his lips.
“Okay.” Mug raised in salute, Rock tilted his head to the side. “Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Tancredi.”
Raphael choked and sputtered.
Rock slapped Raphael’s back, making him cough beer from his nose. “Don’t get too excited. The alpha might decide you aren’t prospect material.” Stretching his neck, he yawned. “Time for me to get upstairs. Make yourself at home.” With a sweeping motion, he indicated the couches, then headed toward one of the three doors opening into the room. He rapped on the stainless steel surface, and the door slid into the wall. “See ya.”
Raphael blinked, and the door closed before he could have a glance at what lay beyond.
The morning after, Rock kicked him off of the couch where he had fitfully slept. “Tancredi will see you now.”
Still groggy, Raphael blinked and looked up at the werewolf. “Where?”
“There.” Rock rolled his eyes and
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