Bled Dry (Vegas Vampires #3)(41)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Ethan was neatly and carefully arranging his paperwork with zero sense of urgency. She was about to use aggressive karate persuasion to encourage him along when the doorbell rang.

“Oh, shit.” That couldn’t be her.

“It’s her,” Ethan said, looking delighted. “I can sense her.”

Great. Now instead of just a messy house, she was all sweaty and wearing sweatpants with a messy house, when she officially met her sister-in-law. They hadn’t really talked at the wedding. Gwenna had popped in and out without ever saying hello. Alexis ditched the bag of shampoo and deodorant in a kitchen cabinet. Not that she needed deodorant these days, but habits died hard. She felt naked without it. Attempting to finger-brush her hair was futile, but she did it anyway and pasted a smile on her face.

Ethan opened the door and ushered his sister into the apartment, giving her a big hug. “Gwenna. Alex and I are so glad you came.”

Gwenna hugged him back, but it was reserved, impatient. Alexis thought she looked as pale and tragic as she did at their wedding, but there was something different about her, the way she stood up straighter. When she pulled back from Ethan, her wavy blond hair fell away from her face and revealed an expression of concern, fear.

“Is everything okay?” Alexis asked, suddenly worried herself.

Gwenna came to her, hands out. She clasped Alexis’s sturdy hands in her delicate ones, and looked up at her. She had pink lips, the color an almost feverish contrast to her fair skin. “Roberto is back. And he knows about the baby.”

“You are back earlier than we had agreed on.” Chechikov gave him a cool look over his glass of vodka.

Roberto Donatelli wasn’t intimidated. “I have personal interests to see to. And no one has to know that I’m here. I left my ankle band on my man Smith. I was shocked at how easy it was to remove. Law and order in the Nation has clearly suffered under Carrick’s rule.” He crossed one leg over the other, admiring Chechikov’s suite in the Bellagio. He was impressed with the understated elegance, furnishings done in soft blues and doeskin brown. “I imagine that someone could even get away with murder and it would go unpunished.”

“No doubt.” Chechikov tossed back his drink. “That is why I am here. That is why my name is going on the presidential ballot. It is time for me to restore the Nation to its former glory.”

Donatelli approved of the end, though he had hoped the means would be him, not Chechikov. But he had allowed himself to be outmaneuvered by Carrick and Fox and had left the presidential race. He had underestimated Fox’s feelings for the stripper Cara, and had almost found himself without a head. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “You know I am at your disposal.”

Chechikov had been a reliable ally for two hundred years, and Donatelli had benefited from their arrangement, both financially and politically.

Now Gregor nodded to acknowledge Donatelli’s words. “And I appreciate your sharing the news about Atelier’s progeny.”

“Who is the mother?” Donatelli asked, curious. If Atelier was f**king around with a mortal, then he couldn’t be sleeping with Gwenna, as that little bitch Kelsey had implied. The thought of Gwenna in bed with that radical set his teeth on edge and made his anger flare. But if Atelier had an Impure plaything, he couldn’t be involved with Gwenna. Two women was not the Frenchman’s style.

“Ah, but that is interesting. Your little informant did not share the name with my wife, but it is of no matter because I have been doing a bit of investigating since I came to Las Vegas. It seems that Alexis Baldizzi-Carrick, first lady of the Nation, has a sister who is an Impure. Who is pregnant.”

“If it was that easy to find out about the sister, why did we pay Ringo Columbia?”

“It was a thank-you gesture, that is all. We would not have connected the dots without your informant.”

“But how do you know Brittany Baldizzi’s child is Atelier’s?”

“She was seen in the company of Atelier two nights ago attending classes at the hospital—childbirth classes. Very, very careless of him. I’m surprised he isn’t showing more discretion.”

That was surprising. Atelier wasn’t stupid, nor was he social. “Maybe the child isn’t his. Maybe he is playing up to Carrick for special favors.”

“By going to childbirth classes?” Gregor scoffed. “No, the baby is his.”

“That doesn’t explain his carelessness.”

“Perhaps he fancies himself in love with the girl.” Gregor smirked.

Donatelli didn’t return the grin. He knew all too well how idiotic a man could act when he allowed himself to feel emotion for a woman. That was why he was in town, risking his own neck, at that very moment. He had never been able to control his feelings toward Gwenna. Not since the first day he’d laid eyes on her nine hundred years before. She made him insane, with want, with greed, lust, anger. Love.

“Perhaps. And speaking of love, may I offer my congratulations on your marriage? Your wife must be absolutely charming to have coaxed you down the aisle, Gregor.” Roberto had caught a glimpse of long legs and flowing hair heading into the bedroom of the suite when he had entered, but he hadn’t seen her face.

Chechikov shrugged. “Sasha was something of a gift. And she’ll serve me well as we hit the campaign trail. A Master Vampire with a mortal wife—everyone will assume it is love.” His eyebrow went up in a way that made Donatelli’s skin crawl. “I’m a very romantic kind of man, you know, Donatelli. Did I ever tell you about my days serving the Prince of Kiev and how it was my duty to crush rebellions in the countryside?”

“No.” What the hell was the old lunatic talking about? Donatelli shifted in the plush club chair.

“I was known as the Black Bear, and men shook in fear when they saw me riding in with my warriors, as well they should have. We would kill them all, one by one, as a lesson for the next village, the next man who dared to defy the Prince, and after the men were all dead in the dirt, I took their filthy toothless women, one after the other, then let my men have them as well. If that isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.” He smiled, eyes unfocused, as if he was remembering with fondness his youthful exploits.

Donatelli kept his expression impassive, even as his stomach flipped over. He had never known quite how sick Chechikov was. And while Roberto had done what he had to to survive—had lied, manipulated, used violence and mind control, and subjugated others—he had never raped a woman. Never would. Every man had his moral boundaries, and that was Donatelli’s. Murder he could stomach if it was justified; humiliation, torture, sure. But rape crossed the line.