But also a damned good one.
Dorian felt Charlotte’s presence before him, and he opened his eyes just as she reached up to touch his face, a soft smile curving her lips.
“I can do this, Dorian,” she said. “I’m asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to back me up. And I’m asking you to believe in me.”
By the light of her beautiful, determined eyes, the last of his resolve melted away.
“Ialwaysbelieve in you, love.”
“Then you’d better put on that kettle after all, vampire king. And we should probably get some Chinese takeout.” Charlotte’s soft smile stretched into a bright grin. “We’ve got a plan to hatch.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charley had saved a single pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos from her paired-down wardrobe, and now those heels clacked against the cold marble floor as she strode purposefully across the hotel lobby, her chin held high, shoulders squared. Along with the shoes, she was dressed in a black pinstripe suit and cream-colored silk blouse, her hair in a loose twist. To everyone in the lobby, she probably looked like an ordinary businesswoman ready to make a deal over brunch, to pioneer a new venture, to take over a company.
No one there knew she was about to risk her life brokering a deal with the second-most powerful demon in the tri-state area.
The same demon who, eighteen years earlier, had sent his men to terrorize her in a pizzeria parking lot while her father and Rudy made some kind of shitty deal upstairs.
The silver scar above her hip burned at the memories.
But she wasn’t that scared little girl anymore.
She wasn’t her uncle’s pawn, or her father’s, or anyone else’s.
She was Charlotte fucking D’Amico. Reformed con woman. Survivor. Jersey girl for life.
And today, she held the fate of far too many people in her hands to fuck this up.
Hiking the laptop bag up her shoulder, Charley followed the curve of the lobby toward the elevators, then took one up to the thirty-fifth floor. As the doors opened into the exclusive French restaurant in one of Long Island City’s newest buildings, Charley steadied herself with a few deep breaths and a whispered reminder of why she was there.
Sasha.
Dorian.
Aiden.
Cole.
Colin.
Isabelle.
Even Gabriel made the list.
They were her family now. All of them. And she wouldn’t let them down.
“Charlotte D'Amico,” she announced to the maître d'. “I’m meeting some associates for brunch.”
“Of course,” he said. “Your party is already here.”
The man led Charley to a set of double doors at the back of the dining room. He knocked once, and the doors swung inward, guarded by a bald, beefy man in a black suit and maroon shirt, no tie. Half of his face was covered in tattoos. The other half was covered in scars.
Charley forced herself not to stare.
The man dismissed the maître d' and shut the doors behind Charley, then gestured for her to open her laptop bag. She did as he asked, and he quickly examined the contents while she took in the scene before her.
The private dining room was large and ornate, bathed in soft light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of lower Manhattan. The walls were a rich, buttery yellow that did nothing to warm the chill in her bones.
