Dorian reclaimed his chair and poured himself a fresh glass of scotch. “Lucien and Father became quite close in recent years. Now, he’s retiring, and he doesn’t want his company disbanded and sold to vultures. FierceConnect is a good fit.”
Armitage Holdings was a mage-owned company that specialized in illusion magic used in all sorts of human visual technologies, from apps to artificial intelligence to virtual reality. Dorian’s company—a social gaming platform with 500 million worldwide users—was most interested in the latter. It really was the perfect marriage.
“What of his children?” Malcolm asked.
“Neither of his sons is interested in running the company,” Dorian said.
“And his daughter?” This, from Gabriel, who’d never trusted witches and always resented that vampires were so dependent upon them.
Dorian glanced at the thin magical tattoos snaking up Gabriel’s forearms, without which he’d be confined to the darkness, unable to enjoy even the simplest human pleasure of a meal or a stiff drink. He thought Gabriel ought to be a bit less judgmental of witches, but kept the opinion to himself, waiting instead for his brothers to put the pieces together.
“I see,” Malcolm said, first to figure it out. “And you think Isabelle Armitage will simply throw herself into the desperately waiting arms of the very vampire family accused of murdering their last—”
“Lucien and Isabelle arebotheager for her to be placed with a prominent family,” Dorian said.
“And you think that family is ours?” Malcolm asked. “Has this been promised?”
“Not in so many words. But with our business interests closely aligned, it’s only a matter of time before our personal interests align as well.”
“And once we have a Redthorne-bonded witch,” Colin said, his dimples flashing, “we’ve no need of alliances.”
“Not from the likes of House Duchanes, anyways,” Dorian said. With their own witch, they’d have unlimited access to all the spells and enchantments that kept vampires strong and, for the most part, human. Alliances—proper, mutually beneficial alliances—would certainly follow.
“You’re assuming our enemies are going to nod and smile and let you continue to play king,” Gabriel said. “That they’re not already plotting against us. That your witch and her father will blindly overlook your past indiscretions and—”
“Armitage is no fool,” Dorian said. “He’s well aware of my history, and the history of thisentirefamily.” He sipped his scotch, letting that comment simmer a bit. His brothers’ hands were covered in as much blood as Dorian’s, and he was tired of pretending otherwise.
“He’s got a consulting firm conducting all the requisite investigations of my company,” Dorian continued. “And I assure you, our dealings are completely aboveboard.”
“And your personal life?” Malcolm asked, abandoning his efforts at diplomacy. “Is he looking into that as well?”
“Indeed, he is.”
Colin’s eyebrows lifted. “An investigation?”
“Not… exactly.” Dorian’s insides twisted. It was bad enough he’d let his business partner convince him to host the fundraiser in the first place—a show for Armitage and his executives to prove how generous, gregarious, and stable Dorian really was. The proceeds would benefit one of Armitage’s pet projects—a children’s art museum in the Bronx.
Inviting his estranged family to attend was the last thing he wanted. But they were staying here now, for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t very well ask them to vacate the premises while he held the soiree of the century on their sprawling estate.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Dorian. “What are you on about?”
“Gentleman, I hope you’re still in possession of your most exquisite formalwear.” Dorian tipped back the last of his scotch and rose from his chair, then grabbed the bottle and stalked toward the exit, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder. “Chins up, brothers. The Redthorne Royals are throwing a party.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Charley was a kid, her father and Rudy used to take her to Cape May on the Jersey Shore in the off-season. There were fewer tourists, parking wasn’t a problem, and everything on the promenade was cheap enough that even the D’Amicos could feel like royalty for a few days.
Charley didn’t care about the fried food or the beach-town trinkets, though. For her, the big draw was always the ocean. It fascinated and terrified her, possessing a dark allure she couldn’t resist. On every trip, while her father and Rudy parked themselves in the sand with a cooler full of beer and a deck of cards, she’d wade out into the sea alone, daring herself to go deeper, one baby step at a time. First up to her ankles, then her knees, then her hips, palms skimming over the surface as sunlight glinted like diamonds, so bright it hurt her eyes.
But for all its beauty, the Atlantic Ocean harbored a dark secret—a cold and deadly undercurrent lurking beneath its diamond-bright sheen. Resisting was pointless; the harder she fought against it, the stronger the current pulled, tugging her so far out that her father and uncle became nothing but pink dots on a distant shore.
Sometimes, the ocean would tire of playing with her, spitting her back onto the sand in a watery tumble of seaweed and driftwood.
Other times, her father would have to swim out after her, tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her back to safety, laughing as if she’d never been in any danger at all.
My little mermaid,he’d say, gently patting her bottom as the tears spilled from her eyes.How ‘bout we get some ice cream and call it a day?
Shehadbeen in danger, though—that was the thing. Charley knew she’d brushed against death on those trips, and every time, she swore she’d never return to Cape May, never give the sea another chance to steal her soul.
