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“And if me and my lady want to do a little gambling, who’s gonna stop us?”
The five huge security personnel took a collective step forward. I started to get between them and Alphonse’s group, which consisted of him, Sal, three vamps I remembered from Tony’s, and one that I didn’t. I really didn’t want to be responsible for a territory war. But Sal caught my wrist faster than I could blink and pulled me out of the way.
“Let ’em get it out of their systems now or it’ll be a whole lot worse later,” she said, as the two groups surged into each other. Alphonse picked up a standing ashtray, which was as big around as a small trash can, and swung it like a club. The black sand, which had been neatly impressed with Dante’s logo, went flying everywhere before the ashtray caught Casanova squarely in the stomach. He staggered back into Enyo, knocking her off her stool.
“You don’t care if they kill each other?” I demanded, as Enyo righted herself, looked around, and tossed the gutted slot machine straight at Alphonse.
Sal pulled me back a few yards, to where a small bench sat near the ornate glass doors leading to the promenade. She lit a cigarette, her numerous rings catching the light better than the cobweb-covered chandeliers above our heads. “They gotta establish boundaries,” she said, shrugging.
“This isn’t why I brought you here!”
“Honey, this was gonna happen sooner or later anyway. Better it be now, when they still need each other.”
Casanova took a flying leap, landed on Alphonse’s back, and started choking him with the plastic cord from a comp card. “They don’t look like they’re pulling any punches to me.”
“Relax. They can’t afford to kill each other with Mircea’s life on the line. It’s just a pissing contest—let ’em get it over with and then we’ll talk.”
Apparently, Casanova had grabbed Enyo’s comp card, and she wanted it back. Or at least I assume that was the reason she ripped him off Alphonse and threw him through the glass doors. Sal appropriated a tray of drinks from a server, who was scurrying to get out of the way, and regarded me narrowly, long red nails tapping slightly against her glass.
She’d gone all out dress-wise. Her silky white pants clung like they loved every inch of her, and her gold lamé top plunged here and was cropped there until it was really more of a concept than an actual shirt. Her honey blond hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail, and her makeup was flawless. She took in my rumpled T-shirt and jeans, which I’d thrown on while still bleary-eyed from sleep, and my rat’s nest hair. “You gotta step it up, girl. You’re with Lord Mircea,” she informed me, in tones of awe.
I decided that attempting to explain my actual relationship with Mircea would be a mistake, since I wasn’t even sure what it was. “So?”
“You represent the family. And this?” A dismissive gesture indicated my complete lack of sartorial elegance. “Is downright embarrassing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t go around looking like this,” Sal said clearly, as if sh
e thought I might be a little slow. Her boyfriend, who’d gotten up some momentum swinging from a chandelier, dropped onto one of Casanova’s boys, who’d been beating the vamp whose name I didn’t know to a pulp.
“I wasn’t exactly expecting you tonight,” I said defensively. “Not to mention that I’m in disguise.”
“As what? A homeless person?”
I should have remembered: Mircea was in the minority among vamps for preferring understated attire. Most believed in the old adage that said, if you had it, flaunt it, and for all you were worth. Alphonse was an enthusiastic convert to that mind-set, so much so that he’d gotten into trouble more than once at court for being flashier than the boss. Tonight he was sporting one of the bespoke suits he had tailored in New York for three or four thousand bucks a pop and enough bling to make a rap star jealous. Maybe I should have at least brushed my hair, I thought belatedly.
Casanova staggered back in from the hall, grabbed a drink from the tray Sal had put on the end of the sofa, and belted it before sending the dish slicing through the air toward Alphonse’s neck. Alphonse ducked at the last minute and it would have hit Deino, except she caught it like a Frisbee and sent it right back. Sal plucked it out of the air and set her now empty glass on it before putting it back on the sofa cushion.
“You’re gonna need a look,” she said thoughtfully.
“What?”
“A persona.”
I blinked. It was disconcerting to hear words like “persona” come out of Sal’s mouth. I’d never known her very well at Tony’s—mostly, she’d been draped over Alphonse, dressed in something short, tight and revealing, doing a damn good impression of a dumb blonde. Actually, until that second, I’d thought she was a dumb blonde. “Take me, for instance. I’m an ex-saloon girl and a gun moll. You think anybody’s gonna take me seriously if I show up in Dior?”
“Maybe Gaultier,” I offered, before yanking my legs out of the way of a vampire, who slid across the carpet face-first before disappearing under the couch. When he didn’t immediately crawl back out again, I peered underneath, only to have a hand wrap around my throat.
Sal ground her shiny silver heel into the side of his arm and he abruptly let go. I got a close-up view of her shoe and realized that stiletto heels were, in her case, aptly named. The thing was made of metal—alloyed steel by the look of it—and was sharp as a knife.
“You have to play to your strengths,” she said, as I tried to rub my throat without being too obvious. “I’m a tough broad and everybody knows it, so I go with that. But in your case”—she gave me the once-over—“you ain’t never gonna carry off tough.”
“I can be tough,” I said, stung.
“Right.” Sal cracked her gum. “With those little stick arms. I think we’re gonna go with elegant, so you’ll match Mircea.”
“But Mircea doesn’t—”
