Page 72 of Roguefinder

—and his diplomacy.

The pet’s polite smile didn’t budge. “This way, please.”

He led us from the theater down corridors that descended deeper into the opera house. The walls went from burgundy to plaster to gray stone. The air cooled, and candles gave way to torches nestled in sconces that probably predated the Plague.

Low strains of music drifted from somewhere ahead. As we rounded a corner, the hum of conversation joined it. The pet led us to a glossy black door that reflected the flames on the walls. When he pulled it open, the music and voices swelled.

We stepped into a room just as lush and unexpected as the theater. Gilded topiaries rose from the center of tables, their flowers spilling onto the white cloth. Curved booths with red velvet cushions lined the walls. Musicians played in the corner. Barrel-vaulted ceilings were painted with scenes of bacchanalian revelry. Smiling cherubs stretched toward nude men and women tangled together on beds of grapes.

Beneath it, pets in crisp uniforms moved among the guests. Most were human, but a handful of vampires sat at tables, their presence a blank space among the warm, wet heartbeats scattered through the chamber.

Carlo’s fledglings. Did they ever wonder how long he would permit them to live? None seemed worried at the moment. They conversed with humans, fangs tucked behind smiles and curated expressions. Two stood with a group of admirers clustered around Francesco. He’d discarded his tie, and his open collar displayed chest hair the same dark brown as his beard.

A female pet carrying a tray of crystal flutes approached us. “Prosecco, signori?” she asked.

Caleb shook his head. “I’m a sobriety girlie.”

The pet frowned.

“No, grazie,” I told her. When she moved off, I looked at Caleb.

“I’m not getting vampire roofied,” he mumbled, darting a suspicious look around the room.

His instincts were good. Later, I’d tell him it would take a wedding’s worth of spiked prosecco to incapacitate us that way. If the vampires wanted us unconscious, drugs were the least effective way to accomplish it.

One of the vampires with Francesco looked toward an alcove where a male dancer twirled around a stripper pole mounted to a raised platform. He was human and completely nude, his heart rate thumping with his efforts. Oil sheened his skin, every flex of muscle reflecting the light. His cock was half-hard, and the glistening shaft swung with his movements.

A trio of humans observed him from sofas arranged at the base of the platform. Two were men in their seventies with silver hair and the kind of polish that money bought. The woman was in her late forties, but excellent plastic surgery probably let her pass for a decade younger. Dark hair fell around her shoulders in soft waves. She turned her head, her gaze landing on me before sliding to Caleb at my side. Elegant ruby studs winked in her ears, the deep shade drawing red highlights from her hair. Tasteful lip filler gave her mouth a subtle pout.

Curiosity flickered in her gray eyes before she looked away.

“Lawyers from America,” Carlo said at my elbow.

I didn’t startle, but it was damn close. I hadn’t heard him approach.

He nodded toward the trio around the performer. “They represent an oil company that pays your government to dump waste in the ocean. It’s a filthy business that requires a spotless public image.” He turned to me, and his dark eyes appeared wet in the flickering candlelight. The tips of his fangs showed between his lips as he added, “They come to us for other kinds of filth.”

The fangs were deliberate, just as his soundless approach had been.

“And you host them,” I said.

He lifted one shoulder, but the movement was slightly off—a quick up and down that robbed the casual gesture of its purpose. “They pay handsomely for the accommodation. If I don’t take their money, someone else will.”

I held Carlo’s stare. The vampires didn’t have a central authority. No Council of Elders. No covens. They operated like the princes of the Italian Renaissance, each one ruling with absolute power until someone stronger came along and killed them. No one stood in the way of Carlo entertaining wealthy humans and risking exposure every second.

He turned to Caleb. “What did you think of Francesco?”

“He’s a good singer,” Caleb said.

Carlo waited.

Caleb looked back at him, golden and unbothered.

After a long moment, Carlo offered us a thin smile. “Excuse me, but I must return to my hosting duties.” The smile thinned a half-inch. “I trust you’ll take care of your out of control wolf, Jesse. We don’t want that kind of problem in Rome.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” I said.

Carlo’s smile didn’t budge. With a final flick of his eyes over Caleb, he glided away.