The Vampire's City

by Mary E. Twomey

  I tug on the ends of my fingers while I think aloud. “I want peace. I want the turf wars to end. If you’re ready to make a big statement, so am I. It’s my goal to have a business that serves both races. I didn’t think you would be the one helping me get there, is all.” My voice lowers as I hedge my bet. “But maybe don’t send Nico here to get his hair cut just yet. I don’t think my brothers will be okay with him stepping foot in my business for a while. You were right about Kennedy tempers needing ample time to cool. I’m sure you understand.”

  Rome nods, standing a little straighter. “Of course. Got any room in your appointment book for me?”

  I balk at his gall, unable to help myself. “Are you serious? You’ve had the same barber since you were a baby. I thought you meant for your guys, not you.”

  “Scared, are you?” he teases me.

  It’s unmistakable, the lightness in his tone. Still, it catches me by surprise. It’s easy, trading dares with Rome, who never trades anything without a hidden agenda planning his steps.

  “I’m not scared to cut your hair, but you should be afraid to let me get behind the wheel of this thing. I’m killer with highlights and color. Not terribly well-versed in made men’s haircuts that haven’t changed since birth.”

  Rome shrugs. “I trust you.”

  It’s a weighty declaration that hangs in the air between us.

  I think I trust him, too, though it’s not something I would ever admit aloud.

  I swallow hard. “I’ve got time right now.”

  Rome leans the broom on the wall, mirroring my forced bravery. “What a coincidence. So do I.”

  There’s a challenge mixed with newly birthed confidence crackling in the air between us. I keep my chin raised as I motion for him to come with me toward the back of the salon.

  “Don’t I sit here?” He points to the salon chair.

  “I need to wash your hair first. You’ve got too much product in it.”

  “Sal never washes my hair first.”

  “I bet your barber also wouldn’t dare tell you the gel you’re using isn’t doing the natural body of your hair any favors. Poor old Sal probably doesn’t even wear high heels when he works. He can’t be trusted.”

  Rome’s upper lip twitches in clear amusement. “Fair point. Nothing fancy, alright? You’ve known me since you were born. I want to walk about of here looking exactly as I’m supposed to look. No highlights or colors or extensions or anything.”

  “No extensions?” I smirk at him as I select a shampoo for his thicker black hair. “You’re no fun.”

  “That’s my other name. No Fun Rome. It suits me well.”

  A casual demeanor slips over me, as it always does when I’m shampooing a new client. “Now, I can’t believe that’s true. I’m sure you’re loads of fun. What do you like to do on your time off?”

  He snorts. “Time off? Come on, Colette. You know as well as I do that’s not an option for the head of the family. This is my time off, spent cleaning up after my brother’s hot temper.”

  I turn on the water and make sure it’s at the perfect warmth before I drag the hose over his hair. He looks so helpless, surrendered like this beneath me.

  Well, as helpless as Rome Valentino can tolerate.

  I smile down at him. “Not right now, you’re not. This is your time just for you. Forget Nico. Forget our families. Forget the politics of it all. Right now, someone is washing your hair for you while you close your eyes and relax.” I pause washing to move the footrest up for him. Then I whisper in his ear, “Close your eyes, hun.”

  He looks me over curiously. I know he’s scoping me for hidden weapons or ways I might hurt him if he allows himself to relax. Normally he would have one of his men frisk anyone who gets this close to him, but as it’s just the two of us, either he will have to take to the task himself, or he will have to rely on the unused muscle of trust.

  I try not to imagine what his hands would feel like on my body if he did decide to pat me down.

  What is wrong with me?

  It’s a solid minute of Rome closing his eyes and reopening them, trusting and then panicking over and over.

  Finally, I resort to rubbing a soft spot above his jaw just behind his ear. It’s the area I put mild pressure on when a tense client needs to relax.

  Sure enough, it works even on the head of the oldest vampire family in the city. Rome’s fingers lose their tightness, his hands sliding to his sides. His shoulders deflate in time with his next exhale.

  I wonder if this is what he looks like when he sleeps, though hopefully without the wrinkle between his eyebrows that denotes a lifetime of unmitigated duty.

  I let the warm water sooth him as I continue to rub that lucky spot in a languid, downward motion. “It’s going to be okay, Rome.”

  A shuddering breath escapes him. It’s so strange, that flash of vulnerability.

  His lashes are long. I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed before, but they are dramatic and dark, commanding my attention as I lather him up.

  Yes, it’s the second time I am washing his hair.

  Does he need it? Not really.

  Do I need it? Absolutely. I want to study Rome up close. I want to lust in plain sight like the deviant I am.

  It’s normal for a client to “mmm” or groan while they are getting shampooed, but the baritone in Rome’s exhale tells me he hasn’t been cared for in a very long while.

  I take my time on Rome as pity washes over the hardened parts of my soul. My nails scrape over his scalp, moving in circles as I massage from nape to peak, and then settle a soothing motion over his temples.

  His lips part as his breathing evens.

  Poor baby. I can tell he is exhausted.

  It shouldn’t matter that he’s got a freckle on his plump lower lip. It shouldn’t draw my eyes at all. Yet as I work on him, the tip of my tongue wets my lips as I study the swell of his. He’s handsome, though that’s never been a secret. The surprise is that I am noticing how desirable this man below me is, and perhaps has always been.

  I should turn off the water, but my hands help themselves to their new guilty pleasure.

  6

  Taking Care of Rome

  Colette

  I have never seen Rome relax. In my expansive memory of all the moods and positions I’ve witnessed Rome in, never has he ever been completely at ease.

  He fell asleep on the couch when he and Fintan were supposed to be watching Nino-bear and me, but even then, there was still a current of anger to him, a need to be processing his plight even in slumber.

  Yet as I wash his hair beyond the time it would take for a long shampoo, Rome seems younger, like he hasn’t had the life sucked out of him by duty and dread.

  I watch the muscle in his jaw tense and then loosen over and over again.

  I want him to truly rest, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

  I know I shouldn’t, but my fingers act on their own, as if they believe they are smarter than the blaring alarm in my brain that tells me to back away. The massage at his temples trails down the sides of his face to knead the tension away from his jaw.

  He needs a shave.

  “Poor baby,” says the compassionate side of me that comes out at the worst times.

  I know Rome is dangerous, but much of my caution fades into the background.

  My brothers and father inoculated me to the shock of violence when they took me shooting when I was ten. Toughening me up has never worked. I still coo at babies. I still wear stilettos and spend way too much money on pretty bras. I’m a perfect shot, sure. There wasn’t an option not to be, growing up the way I did.

  I lean down, whispering so as not to spook Rome. “I’m going to give you a shave. Is that alright?”

  He responds with some unintelligible noise that I think means he’s okay with it, provided I don’t make him get up.

  Rome is precious like this. I’m not sure there’s another word for it. I want to prolong his relaxation as long as p
ossible, so I walk with quiet steps to Victor’s station, retrieving the shave kit and readying the cream.

  Rome hasn’t moved. His breathing is even and comes from his diaphragm.

  The bib flourishes around him with a flutter. I can’t resist. I have to take a picture of Rome wrapped in lavender, looking so sweet.

  I giggle silently to myself, and then get to work. I haven’t given a proper shave in a while, but my sore hands remember the drill.

  I should be on my way home, closer to taking a pill. My hands aren’t as dexterous as they were this morning, but they aren’t shaking, thank goodness.

  My movements are mindful of the pressure needed to secure a close shave, while also not waking Rome prematurely. I wonder when the last time was that he slept so soundly.

  The cream makes his lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes all the way. “What are you doing?” he asks, his words slurred.

  I should tell him again that he is getting a shave. I should walk him through the steps in case he’s anxious. But instead of that, the unvarnished truth spills out. “I’m taking care of you.”

  My razor lifts as he angles his chin toward me. His expression when he takes in the scope of my concern for him is a mixture of agony, sadness and exhaustion. “What did you just say?”

  I maintain the quietness of my voice, even as I study the concern wrinkling his brow. “I’m going to take care of you. All you have to do is let me. I won’t tell your people you came here, and I won’t tell my family. Not everything you do has to be political. This is my shop, understood? When you come in here, you’re safe. You can take a minute for yourself, and no one has to know. Let your men come in here for the statement it will make. You come to me to rest.”

  He catches my wrist. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being nice to me? What’s the angle?”

  It’s an effort to iron out the affront that threatens to rise. I don’t like the insinuation that I need a reason to be a decent person.

  But I know his question has more to do with himself than with me. “You and I are the same, Rome. Everyone watches every move we make, even when we’re not moving at all. Plus, you and I want the same thing. We want the nonsense to stop. I am not going to kill you, and you are not going to kill me.”

  Though, the very real possibility of both those things has not been forgotten. The weight of our families’ age-old feud hangs in the air between us, begging us to deal with all that it entails.

  Rome nods once and the air lightens. We are not devoid of tension or reality, but we are not dominated by it, either, which is a step forward. I wasn’t sure any member of the Kennedys or the Valentinos could reach such an enlightened plateau together, yet here we are.

  “I’m going to be good to you, and you’re going to let me. That’s your new job. Don’t suck at it,” I tell him, earning a surprised chuckle from the man ten years my senior.

  “You’re the boss.”

  I’ll bet he’s never said that to anyone but his father before.

  After I finish his shave, I guide him over to a chair in front of a mirror so I can trim up his sideburns and get a cleaner edge at his nape.

  “You’re not going to comment on Sal’s shaky handiwork?”

  I measure the uneven lengths of his sideburns. “Never. Sal used to keep pretzel rods in a jar for Nico and me when we tagged along while our dads got their monthly cuts together with you and Fintan.”

  “I barely remember that far back—getting a haircut with my dad. Were you always this sure of yourself? I don’t remember you being all commanding like this.”

  “That’s the thing about big men with big guns and even bigger tempers. They don’t appreciate being told what to do when there’s pride and family honor to defend.” I end the sentence with plenty of machismo added into my tone.

  “And you don’t care about that?”

  Rome only needs a touchup or two to update the style and make it more contemporary, not a full-on makeover.

  I keep my eyes on the job while I trade back-and-forths with him. “It’s hard to care about the greater good and your pride at the same time. No disrespect to our fathers, but I think they lost their way when they forgot which was more important.”

  I don’t like speaking poorly of Daddy Valentino. My own father and I butt heads far too often for me not to have strong opinions that occasionally get voiced. But Daddy Valentino? I was his little girl. The only girl in both families. My father tried to make me into someone I’m not, but Daddy Valentino bought me the dolls I longed for and taught me about opera.

  And I got him killed.

  7

  Raspberry Cannoli

  Colette

  I swallow the bile that rises and the panic that always threatens to overtake me when thoughts of the people I love dying rise up unbidden. I miss Daddy Valentino every day, and will never forgive myself for being the instrument used in his murder.

  “What are you thinking about?” Rome asks me. It’s only then that I realize he is wide awake now, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I stand behind him.

  “Stilettos and hairspray,” I reply flippantly, wishing the bad feelings away as best I can.

  Rome reaches behind his shoulder and cuffs my wrist, claiming it as his own to do with as he pleases. “No, you’re not.” He lightly tugs my arm over his shoulder, so my body has to follow. He doesn’t stop until my eyes are level with his, my breasts pressed to the back of his shoulder. “Coletta?”

  The way he twists my name on his tongue shouldn’t vibrate through my body. I shouldn’t lean in. I am close enough to smell the cinnamon of his breath.

  He fed today. The cinnamon is always strongest when a vampire drinks their fill of blood.

  Damn that freckle on his plump lower lip. I shouldn’t want to touch it. I shouldn’t want to be this close to him.

  I swallow my nerves, but more rise to take their place. I don’t want to be honest with Rome—mostly because being honest with myself about my guilt that’s interchangeable with grief isn’t something I have mastered with any sort of grace.

  “Colette.” This time, my name is a command on his lips.

  Curse those beautiful lips.

  Finally, the unpretty truth tumbles out. “I was thinking I miss your dad. He understood me better than mine ever will.”

  It’s the least sexy thing I can think to say, yet it just so happens to be the truth.

  Rome’s lips purse. “You don’t need to spend your time thinking about that.” He releases my arm, and I get back to work on his hair. “Your father is a pain in my ass, but he loves you just fine.”

  I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to debate that point.

  “You went all quiet on me.”

  I shrug, and then move around so I am in front of him. I want his sideburns even, darn it. I take my time leaning in so I can get them just right.

  I don’t realize I am giving Rome a clear shot of my cleavage until his mouth falls open and he wets his lower lip. The tip of his tongue sweeps that luscious freckle.

  Heat rises in me as I watch his gaze rake over the full curves of my bosom, unable to look away.

  When Rome realizes what he’s doing, he clears his throat and straightens, changing the subject abruptly.

  “What doesn’t your dad understand about you?”

  That’s a very clear wet blanket thrown over any notion of lust rising between us.

  Good. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. This is the absolute last man for whom I should ever harbor romantic interest.

  I focus on our conversation as best I can while I cut his hair. The reasons my father and I butt heads amounts to a long list. Ticking off the items one by one would make me sound ungrateful, so I stick with the most recent one. “He doesn’t understand why I needed to open my salon here. He hasn’t said so, but he gets that look about him and changes the subject whenever it’s brought up. Hadn’t even been by to visit the shop until Nico smashed it up. He only shows up when t
here’s trouble. That leaves little room for a relationship.”

  Rome gives an airy chortle. “You’re telling me your brothers are happy you set up shop here? I can’t remember the last thing Fintan was happy about ever.”

  I meet his eyes, this time not concealing my sadness. “Fintan doesn’t approve of anyone or anything he can’t control. Declan is different. He’s my best friend. But even he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do.”

  “That sounds hard.”

  “It is,” I admit. “Fintan and Father want me overseas, away from all of the drama. They want me on a shelf, not standing beside them, like I know in my heart I should do.” I set down my tools after making the final cut. “They don’t want me to take risks.”

  “They’re afraid of losing you, Colette,” Rome says with a healthy dose of compassion ladled across his words.

  “No. Declan is afraid of losing me. Father and Fintan are afraid of losing a war. Big difference.”

  “I think we’re all a little afraid of both.”

  We don’t speak of my abductions. We don’t speak about the details of a war fought poorly and with casualties on both sides.

  “My father lost me a long time ago.” I firm my mouth. “Fear isn’t a good reason to do anything. They don’t understand that, so here I am, pouring my heart out to a Valentino in the middle of the night. Funny how life twists.”

  “Funny, indeed.”

  I clean up Victor’s station while Rome sits in the chair, watching my movements like he’s never seen me before. It’s strange, the way his eyes follow me. I’m so needy for a connection with this man that his gaze almost feels like hands on my body, warming and caressing in exactly the ways I’ve needed for far too long.

  My stupid hands are growing clumsy, my fingers losing their dexterity. I knock over a bottle on Victor’s station, but luckily the lid was closed.

  Rome clears his throat and angles his face away from me. “I’m meeting with your father on Friday for our biweekly check-in. Maybe we should have it here.”