Fratelli: The Awakening (The Vampire Cartel #1)

8. The Date

Chapter 8

The Date

G arden District - New Orleans, LA

April 13th, 2018

(9 Days before Death)

“I don’t understand. Where are you going?” Russell asked. He maneuvered his wheelchair to block the doorway, preventing her departure. “And why are you dressed like that?”

The comment stung. This was her finest dress, worn to a Mardi Gras ball the previous year. Charmaine had even lent her Nordstrom card for the purchase.

“Is it too much?”

“It’s Friday the 13th. You know the dogs are out,” Russell teased. When he saw his joke fell flat, he changed his tone. “Depends on where you’re going and with who.”

She moved closer to the floor mirror in her room for a better view. The dress, a striking shade of purple, embraced her hips and highlighted her figure with a cleverly designed bodice that revealed her cleavage. Tyrone, her ex, had once praised her bosom as her finest attribute, despite his frequent remarks about her fluctuating weight.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” Russell asked.

“I got a—I broke my—I have a date. In New Orleans. Some record executive invited me to a dinner party.”

“Record executive? You’re going to New Orleans? For a dinner date? Shouldn’t you be working tonight? I’m confused. You left here to pull a double shift and then you came back an hour later with groceries and a new video game. Something is up?”

“Trust me, I know my responsibilities. I’ve got a date, okay? I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll talk. I promise.”

“New Orleans is dangerous!”

“Scotlandville is dangerous!” She countered. “Everywhere is dangerous. I had Charmaine check him out. She said he’s legit. He’s a record executive. I’ve been killing myself trying to find a safer, cleaner way to escape this hell… I mean, help us. What about my singing?”

Russell frowned. That stung. She thought she had a great voice, but Russell almost always put down her aspirations to be a singer. Maybe she was fooling herself again, seeing what she wanted to see.

“You sound ridiculous. And this sounds dangerous and stupid. You should be at work. I like the life we have here! Not you skipping work to audition for some strange record producer who probably just wants to sleep with you.” Russell said.

“You sit around playing video games all day while I slave away for you. I have to go out into the streets, walk through blood and crazies, watch people die, and try to save the lives of children, women, old people—everyone. It’s hell. I’m tired, Russ! I’m tired, okay? I’m going to ask him for a job in his company. Something that will finally get us out of this place.”

“I get it. I’m sorry,” her brother said. He used one hand to wheel himself over to her while the other twitched against his chest, just like the rest of his handicapped body. She hated herself for yelling at him. She knew that if it weren’t for his condition, he’d be the one working and taking care of them.

“Me too,” she smiled.

The doorbell rang. Dolly checked her Fitbit. The driver was early. And he kept pressing the doorbell.

“What’s his problem?” Russell asked. He wheeled himself toward the door, but she got around him.

“I got it. I got it. I’ll call you when I get there, okay? And when I’m leaving. I’ve turned on the tracking on my phone. Okay?” She grabbed her purse before he could stop her and hurried to answer the door. The driver was waiting for her outside, looking her over with appreciation. The appraisal fed her confidence.

“I’m glad you let me offer to drive you into New Orleans this evening. There’s a storm coming. Bad luck,” said the driver.

“So, you’re superstitious?” Dolly half-joked.

“Hmm, you wanna go deep? Let’s do it,” he smirked. “In every culture, there is a reason to be cautious of the number 13. There is a reason for superstition. This Friday the 13th I think will be a lucky day for you, pretty lady.”

“Thank you,” she said and locked the door to her home. She went down the steps with the driver. Her high heels made her steps tricky, and he offered his hand.

“I never asked. What is your name?”

“Tristan,” he answered. He led the way to the SUV. He opened the passenger door.

“Can I sit upfront? With you?” she asked.

“Don Lucio wouldn’t like that,” he said

“Don Lucio? As in Godfather?” she asked.

Tristan smiled. “As in Scarface.”

“What!”

“I’m kidding. I’m kidding. As in son, brother, businessman, philanthropist.” Tristan held the door for her. She got inside the vehicle, and he closed the door. Tristan was extremely handsome, a lot less intense than Lucio. She didn’t go for blondes or white men, but these men just had an appeal she could not deny. Dolly bet her friend Charmaine or Sonya would like him. She grabbed her phone and sent a text to her brother: “Luv U!”

Call me when you get there, he texted back.

Before she put her phone in her purse, she scrolled to see Charmaine had tried to call her six times, and Sonya had called three times. When she tried to call her friends back, her signal vanished—odd. Catching Tristan’s eye in the rearview mirror, she informed him of the problem.

“Sorry, it happens in the truck. We have bulletproof glass. Blocks the signal.”

“Why? For Scarface?” she asked.

“It’s my preference. For the family. Security is always my prime concern. What kind of music do you like?” Tristan asked.

“Beyonce.”

“Beyonce kind of music?” he chuckled.

“Yep, just put on Beyonce,” she said and looked out of the window for the rest of the drive. She’d call Charmaine when they reached her destination.

The drive through the Garden District of the city to the Draca House cast away any preconceived idea of Southern elegance and privilege she had. The mansion echoed the grandeur of the Renaissance and radiated the allure of an old plantation, enveloped in colonial elegance. Tree limbs, covered in moss, seemed to lean towards the structure, blurring the lines between the wild and the cultivated. Her chauffeured journey up the circular driveway evoked the sensation of a horse-drawn carriage drawing her closer to the estate’s majestic entry to be greeted by a prince.

Dolly’s nerves were on edge. What would Lucio Di Salvo want from her? The door opened. She took a hesitant step outside and found her courage to see the evening through. Inside her head, her inner voice reminded her over and over to not lower her guard for a moment.

Tristan revealed a black velvet bag he hid behind his back. “You’ll need to put your phone in this. And your purse. When you are ready to leave, I’ll have it for you.”

“Are you insane, no,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Young, but this rule is non-negotiable. My boss cannot afford to have his privacy disrupted. He does not pose for pictures, and he will not be recorded.”

“I’m not giving you my phone,” she let go of a nervous laugh.

“Then you’re not entering. I’ll take you home,” Tristan said with finality. Dolly looked up at the three-story mansion and then back over to the driver. She could go home, but then what? She would be right where she started. And she’d already tapped into her rent money, like an idiot.

“It’s safe? You promise?” she asked.

Tristan smiled.

“That’s not an answer,” she mumbled.

“Take a picture of me. Take a picture of the house. Take a picture of my license plate. Send it as a text to your brother and your friends. Send it as a text to the police. I’ll wait. And then give me your purse and phone.”

She did as he suggested and sent the text. He took the phone from her hand before she could say anything further. “Now. When you go inside, head through the house to the halls. Take the one to the right. You will be in Scarlet Hall. You will know it when you see it. Then you’ll arrive at the parlor. He’s waiting.”

“Where will you be?”

“Here,” he assured her. “By the suburban.”

“So, is he Mafia, or not? I mean, were you kidding?”

“Ask him as many questions as you wish,” Tristan said. “But trust me. The Mafia is the least of what he is.”

Dolly inhaled her courage deeply and then ascended the steps. No one greeted her. Glancing back one last time at Tristan, she noted his intense stare, yet the look in his eyes inspired trust instead of fear. According to her friend Charmaine, Dolly possessed a small gift: the ability to read people. Despite his smile, she sensed the insincerity of his position. With that intuition, she entered the mansion, wary.