NYC VAMPS (The Italians): Vampire Romance (Book Book 2)

by Sky Winters

   Copyright 2017 by Sky Winters- All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  NYC Vamps Book 2

  The Italians

  Vampire Romance

  By: Sky Winters

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  Table of Contents

  NYC Vamps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Bonus Stories

  Wolf Shifter Romances

  Alien Romances

  Bear Shifter Romances

  Vampire Romances

  About The Author

  NYC Vamps

  Chapter 1

  Simone Rosso regarded the sculpture in front of her with skeptical eyes. It was big; she could say that for sure. And angled- she could say that, too. But other than that, words failed her as she looked upon the jumble of dingy metal on the podium in front of her. It had a strange, gnarled texture to it, and the raking light above cast long shadows on the white, shiny floor that it sat on. Bits and pieces of trash were stuck to the thing, and what looked like half of a grocery store shopping cart was welded to the main bulk of the piece. Overall, the effect was a twisted mass of piping sheened with a dull, silver color.

  Like much of the art in the gallery where she worked, she didn’t get it.

  Simone backed away, looking at the sculpture against the backdrop of the gallery in which it sat, amidst various other pieces of art of similar, equally-confusing style, all in a room lined with various abstract paintings in simple, black frames hung on stark, white walls. But still, it didn’t make sense.

  “What you think?” a voice behind her said in an urban, Hispanic accent.

  “Um, well,” said Simone in a flustered stammer, not expecting to have to share her half-formed opinions, “that’s hard to say; I mean I-“

  “It’s a total, critical view of contemporary social and political issues,” said the man, stepping next to Simone and looking up at the piece. “It’s, you know, a deconstruction of the American dream, a look past the shallow consumerism that forms the values of modern society. The cart represents the insatiable need to purchase, to own, and how it’s always half-formed, jutting purposelessly out from the cacophonous morass of so-called individuality on top of a bed of random, useless refuse.”

  “Useless refuse” are two words that come to mind, thought Simone, looking up at the piece.

  “It, uh, definitely looks like all of that,” she said, taking a sip from her tiny bottle of water, partially to quench her thirst, and partially to plug up her mouth, for fear of other, less bland, words coming out of it.

  “Ah,” said the man, clasping his hands together, his wristband of small beads jangling at the impact, “you get it. And you know, you can really sense the unfinished inventories of fragments in the piece, the emphasis on formal concerns while also embodying a playful sense of duality and hyperrealism within the confines of the work, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah, I, uh, agree with everything you just said,” said Simone, her eyes still forward, as though not through a combination of not making eye contact and sheer mental force she could will the man out of existence.

  The man turned to Simone and extended his right hand. Simone knew there was no getting out of it- she was going to have to talk to this guy.

  “Eduardo Montoya,” he said, moving a coil of jet-black hair from the expanse of the sable skin of his forehead. “I am, well, the proud parent of this piece. I call it The Elaboration of a-”

  A firm, woman’s voice calling out from somewhere behind them cut him off.

  “Hey, Simone, am I paying you to stand around?”

  Simone recognized the voice and was filled with a sense of instant, cool relief.

  “Ah! Sorry,” said Simone, turning her body to make a quick getaway, “bunch of real whip-crackers around here! Can’t just stand around looking at the art all day! Gotta work sometime!”

  “Oh,” said the man, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Well, good luck with the show this evening!”

  “Yeah, you too,” Simone said, throwing up a hand as she walked away with quick, small steps, her black sneakers squeaking on the glossy floor.

  Brushing the straight tresses of her black hair out of her eyes, she was greeted with the sight of Amanda Walker, one of the few coworkers at the gallery that she got along with. Amanda stood with her arms crossed, her hip cocked to one side, and a playful smirk on her face.

  “Sorry if I interrupted the love connection,” she said as Simone rushed passed her into the hallway that led out of that section of the gallery.

  “Jesus, how long were you gonna let me talk to that guy for?” said Simone as Amanda caught up to her.

  “Just long enough to make you squirm,” Amanda said as Simone looked back at her with an expression of playful anger. “What’re you doing just standing around gawking at the art, anyway? You’re lucky I saw you and not Mr. Salenti.”

  “Just looking at the merchandise, I guess.”

  “Well, the show’s in like, an hour, so come help me move this last piece in, then your skinny little ass needs to run off and get changed.”

  Simone put her delicate hands up in a mock gesture of “I surrender” as they walked off the gallery floor.

  Still looking at his piece, Eduardo couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment gripping him. That girl, Simone, seemed to be taken with both him and his art, but his usual magic seemed to have no effect on her.

  There will be others; there always are, he thought to himself, as he felt around in the pockets of his slim-cut trousers for his pack of cigarettes. Gallery openings were easy pickings for him; there never seemed to be a lack of young girls who he could impress.

  Just a warm-up, he, thought, slipping a cigarette out of the pack and starting for the back entrance of the gallery, taking care to stay out of the way of the gallery employees who were darting here and there, putting the last touches on displays. And sure enough, as he made is way out, he caught the eye of a young redhead with her hair up in a loose bun, dressed in the simple black jeans and black t-shirt of many of the employees. Eduardo maintained eye contact as he walked, flicking his eyebrows at her before looking away, catching first spreading of red across her checks out of the corner of his eye as he pushed the metal bar across one of the back doors of the gallery.

  You win some, you lose some, he thought as he started down the stairs that led to the back alley, his black Chelsea boots against the cement echoing down through the empty expanse of the stairwell. Down a floor or two, he reached another door with a metal bar across from it, and pushed it open, this time to the outside, the cool air of the early winter evening rushing in.

  Eduardo looked up and down the alley where he now stood. Nothing but dumpsters, refuse blowing in the wind, and the occasional scurrying rat.

  Five alleys on this entire island and I’ve found one of them¸ he thought, slipping a cigarette into h
is mouth and igniting it with a cheap plastic lighter, the tiny flare a wavering, warm iridescence in the chill air. He looked up as he took his first, long, drag, at the clouds above rolling and billowing, fat with what might well be the first snowfall of the year.

  “Hey, friend, you got an extra couple of those?”

  Eduardo looked up in surprise and saw the figures of two men coming towards him. They were both dressed in crisp, tailored suits of with subtle paisley inlays on the jackets. Over the suit jackets were thick, black pea coats with a ring of fur on the sleeves, and under were dress shirts of bold colors- a deep red on one man, a dark, murky blue on the other. Each had skin as white as pure cream, and heads topped with slicked back, black hair that glistened with mousse. Their lips were a deep, ruby red, as though filled with blood.

  Eduardo was shocked to see the two men. He had heard nothing of their approach- one moment he was alone in the alley and the next they were there.

  “Um, yeah, sure,” said Eduardo, as he fumbled for his pack, pulled out two cigarettes, and held them out to the men. Normally, the only thing Eduardo would give cigarette moochers would be a rebuke laced with a choice expletive, but between the strange, sudden appearance of the men, and their moneyed dress, he was stunned into acquiescing to their request.

  “Ah, heaven,” said the first man as he took a long drag, standing on Eduardo’s left side and leaning against the brick wall of the building behind them.

  “First one of these I have all week,” said the second man, taking a drag of his own and standing to Eduardo’s right. “I tell myself I quit every time I pay fifteen dollars for a pack of these, but I always come crawling back to mama, as they say.”

  Both men barked out a sudden, quick laugh.

  “Yeah, right back to mama,” said the first man, placing his palms in the air in front of him, one after another, in the apparent imitation of a baby’s crawl.

  Eduardo noticed the accents of the men: Both spoke in thick, Italian accents. Not the rough, Brooklyn-style of speaking that one often found in the city, but one that was both languid and melodic; and accent that couldn’t help but sound beautiful.

  “So, uh, you guys here for the show?” asked Eduardo, his voice nervous. He couldn’t place what it was, exactly, but something about the two men at his flanks filled him with a sense of dread.

  “Ah, yes, the show,” said the first man, tracing a pattern in the air with the hand holding his cigarette, the orange ember leaving a momentary trail in the air. “Yes, we are here for the show.”

  “We are both art lovers,” said the second, not turning to face Eduardo.

  “Oh, great!” said Eduardo, his desire to network catching up with the uneasiness that the men inspired in him. “I’m one of the featured artists.”

  The men looked at him, then at each other, their noses scrunching, as though whiffing an unpleasant smell.

  “Ah yes, you are one of the garbage-man artists,” said the first.

  “Si, we know you.”

  Eduardo felt himself grow hot and defensive.

  “No, there’s actually a lot more them then the garbage, th-“

  “Maybe we take another look,” said the first man.

  Eduardo looked down and saw that the distance between himself and the men had shrunk, and they were now inches from him.

  “But tonight, I think we are in the mood for a little something else,” said the second, his eyes wandering down to the olive skin of Eduardo’s neck. His eyes focused on the freshly-shaved flesh, and he could see the slightest throbbing of the carotid artery under Eduardo’s neck as his blood moved to the quickening beat of his pulse.

  “Yes,” said the first man, making eyes with second, as though saying the final words of a conversation the between the two that Eduardo was ignorant of. “And that is something we would be happy to take from you.”

  With that, the second man shot one arm around Eduardo’s and clasped the hand of his other arm over Eduardo’s mouth. As soon as he did, he felt the artist’s mouth snap open and the hot breath of a muffled scream on his hand. The first man, seeing Eduardo restrained, took a moment to appreciate the look of abject terror in the man’s eyes, the wide, frantic darts of the pupils, the sheen of sweat beginning to form on his brow, and his pointless, futile struggling. And once he withdrew his fangs, he saw the terror increase.

  A smile spread across his full lips for the briefest of seconds before he lunged forward, plunging his fangs into the exposed neck.

  “Hey, save a little for me, you greedy maiale,” were the last words that Eduardo heard before slipping into oblivion.

  Chapter 2

  “OK, kiddos, listen up, because I’m only going to say this once.”

  Corbin Enfin paced the front of the gallery conference room with his hands clasped behind his back and a look of focused mania in his eyes. His steps were slow and deliberate, and the silence in the expanse of the room was so complete that Simone could hear the soft plodding of his loafers against the ground.

  The owner of the prestigious Millennium Gallery, Corbin –or Mr. Enfin, as he insisted on being called- specialized showcasing art from the hottest up-and-coming artists in the city. Part taskmaster and part tastemaker, he had a knack for bringing in some of New York’s most elite socialites looking for a new conversation piece for their three-million-dollar townhomes.

  “We all know what tonight is; it’s all about some of the wealthiest New Yorkers in the Village. I just finished my last look-through of the place, and I am giving my hesitant “OK” that we’re ready to go.”

  The dozens of young gallery workers in attendance murmured amongst each other in relief. Corbin held up a hand, and the chatter stopped as quickly as it had begun.

  “So pretty yourselves up, or whatever it is you need to do. I want you all in salesman mode tonight. Offer expertise, introduce them to the artist, and, above all, flatter. None of our clients is anything but paragons of taste tonight.”

  A moment passed.

  “Alright, get to it.”

  With that, the gallery workers shot for their seats and headed to the stairs that led to the downstairs storage area.

  Amanda caught up with Simone as the left the conference room.

  “I’m pretty sure that last little bit was directed at you, homegirl,” said Amanda with a smile.

  “Hey,” said Simone, returning the smile, “I’ve been working at this place for, like, three months now; I’ve gotten as good at holding my tongue as I am at bullshitting.”

  They got into the line of employees waiting to file down the stairs, which was moving at a decent pace. Simone shot at glance at the slim, silver watch on her left wrist.

  “What’s the time, stich?” asked Amanda, craning her neck to see how fast the line was moving.

  “We got about a half hour to get ready before these oh-so-mysterious buyers get here.”

  They moved into the stairwell, and Simone felt an immediate gust of cold rush up from somewhere down below.

  “What the hell, it’s freezing in here,” said Amanda, rubbing her bare arms with her hands.

  “Yeah, what’s the deal?”

  They moved down the stairs, and Simone grew closer and closer to the bottom of the stairwell. Looking around, she saw that the door that led to the back alley was propped open.

  “Someone left the back door open again,” said Simone.

  “Fucking smokers,” said Amanda, shaking her head in annoyance.

  They made their way down the stairs, and when they got to the bottom well, Simone ducked out of the line.

  “Hey, hold my place for a sec,” she said before heading towards the door.

  Amanda nodded, and Simone hopped out of line and walk the ten feet over to the propped-open door. She saw that a small, wooden block was holding the door open a few inches, just enough to let the cold evening air blow into the building. She squatted to move the block, but before she did, considered the possibility that she might be leaving someone stranded
out in the alley, were she to shut the door. Standing up, she opened the door and stepped out into the alley.

  The sky had given in, and the first flakes of snow had begun to drift down. She rubbed her arms to warm herself against the bitter cold of the outside air and made a few more steps out into the alley. The concrete ground was covered in a light wispy dusting of snow, and a low wind howled down the length of the space. Simone looked to the left, then to the right, and saw not a soul.

  She was about to shut the door when something caught her eye. On the brick exterior of the building, she saw a strange streak of liquid. Moving closer, she saw the color: A strange, deep red, the color of dark cherries. The liquid was still wet- not yet frozen by the cold. She stepped with hesitation towards the rough, damp streak, and reached her hand towards it, intending to touch whatever it was with her fingertips.

  “Hey, girl! Get back in here!” Amanda called from the stairwell, shaking Simone from her trance of curiosity.

  Simone stepped away from the stain and rushed back inside to see Amanda gesturing with impatience to get back into the line.

  “Come on, lady; you know there’re only so many mirrors to go around,” Amanda said as Simone darted back to her side and they stepped together into the storage room.

  The storage space was massive, and probably could’ve functioned as a gallery by itself, should anyone decide to clear out the old boxes, unused furniture, and various other clutter in the place. For the time being, however, it functioned as an ad-hoc dressing area, set up with mirrors here and there so the girls who worked at the gallery could quickly switch from functional work clothes to more glamorous exhibition wear.

  Simone and Amanda ran over to one of the few free mirrors, and, once their spot was secured, Amanda ran off to grab the dresses and heels that she had hung up earlier. Simone took a quick look at herself in the mirror, noting with frustration what she considered to be limp, unmanageable hair and a washed-out complexion. Amanda returned seconds later, the evening dresses slung over one arm and the two pairs of shoes tucked under the other.