Fratelli: The Awakening (The Vampire Cartel #1)

15. The Brotherhood

Chapter 15

The Brotherhood

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Baton Rouge, LA - April 13, 2018

( 9 Days Before Death )

“You heard him. What was your partner’s name?”

“Deshawn,” answered Lamont in a strained voice. “He’s dead.”

“No shit,” said the other man, who looked up from his cards. “Dead or undead?”

“Dead,” answered Tristan. With a shirt, he ripped off a dead man and then hurled it onto Leonardo’s desk. Tristan wiped his blood-soaked hands clean. He then tossed it. He walked over toward Lamont but stopped at the table where the men continued their poker game. He glared at Lamont. The anger on his face was scarier than the monsters on him.

“Stand on your feet!” Tristan demanded.

Lamont, who had been on his knees crying only seconds before, obeyed. His whole body trembled. He stood as still as he could. He couldn’t stop the tears. He worried he soiled himself.

“What the fuck are we going to do with him?” said one man who had to fold on his hand.

“Break him in. But not like them,” Tristan said to the vampire soldiers amongst them. “He’s your new Leonardo. He remains human, disciplined, and in charge—the boss has plans for him. And it’s the only way the wolves will let him in their den. Human. Do you understand? Make him tough but instill obedience. You know what Lucio prefers. In other words, do your fucking job,” Tristan said and kicked the chair closest to him. One of the men cut his gaze to Tristan and dropped fangs to extend his snarl.

These men looked cultured. All three of them were evidently Italian or Sicilian by the strong accents they shared with Tristan. They wore black-on-black business suits and diamond watches. They looked polished as if they had stepped out of the covers of GQ magazines. And they didn’t seem to like Tristan flexing his power over them. The reasons, the hierarchy, the mission, and how Lamont fit into all of it would remain a mystery for now. But when Lamont’s gaze swept the room, filled with dead men and blood-dripping beasts surrounding him, he felt grateful for what remained of his innocence. He had no desire to know the truth of his fate. Not yet. He still had hope of changing it.

The second man looked directly at Lamont. He was the one who had dropped a fang when Lamont first entered the room. He gave a sly smile and this time his eyes swept over Lamont as if he were at dinner. “We’ll get him ready.”

Tristan approached Lamont. It was the only reason he could look away from the three seated killers. The other vampire soldiers in the room stood silently, observing the conversation next to their kill.

“You’re okay. Welcome to the Fratelli of the Draca ,” Tristan said.

“Fratelli? What does that mean?” Lamont asked.

“It’s Italian. It means brothers, or what you would consider brotherhood,” replied one of the three men with a snide smile.

“You’re related to these men?” Lamont asked.

Tristan chuckled. He dismissed the question and glanced back at the others. “Set up, send him home. The police will pay him a visit in the morning.”

One man at the table quickly took the money after the last hand was played. He mumbled a few curse words in his native language. Tristan smiled at Lamont. “Survive the night. Be ready for your performance in the morning. Don Lucio will be watching, and thanks you for your service.” Tristan patted him on the shoulder and then wiped the blood contact had left on his hand on the front of the shirt Lamont was wearing.

“Clean this fucking place up!” Tristan snarled at the soldiers. A few of them were released from their mental chains and got to work, and slowly the others regained control of their blood thirst to behave normally. All of them were obedient. Tristan shook his head and walked out.

Lamont nearly ran after him. To beg Tristan not to leave him in a den of monsters. But he knew instinctively that would not be a wise decision. Any show of weakness to the vampires would be like freshly spilled blood in a piranha tank.

Bellagio - Las Vegas, NV

April 13, 2018 ( 9 Days Before Death )

“What do you need, baby?” Sophie whispered.

Her hand glided down the front of her mate’s shirt as she stood behind him. Every night she was granted permission, Sophie worshiped at the altar of his body. What women wouldn’t? He was tall, strong, and intensely confident, with muscles that rippled across his chest, shoulders, arms, and back—a vision of masculine perfection. Many, man or female, envied her place in his life, yet few comprehended the depths of sacrifice her role entailed.For one, he didn’t make her. She was made to be an equal when all she wished was to be subservient.

“My phone,” he replied.

Sophie leaned over the sofa and kissed his jaw. He didn’t react. He stared straight ahead at the television. Before Sophie turned, she looked up at the news broadcast. A rap duo out of Baton Rouge who formed a group called “Neutral Ground” was in a car crash. There was one fatality reported.

“Wow? I really like that group. They have a song out now called Stomp the Club Out , and it’s boiling hot. We play it in the casino, downtown,” she said as she searched for her lover’s phone. She knew by his mood. Sophie had learned over the decades what each version of his temperament meant. There would be no night of feeding and sex. That was a disappointment for her. Sophie nearly bit through her bottom lip with her fang to keep from saying so.

She headed to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed was the treat she had brought home from the strip club she ran. Sophie had locked the woman in a mental trap, but she was fully aware. She sat there perfectly still. Tears had leaked black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. Sophie walked over to her, grabbed her by the chin, and forced her to look up into her eyes. “He’s not in the mood. Looks like this is your lucky night.”

The woman whimpered.

“Leave, and I mean, leave the club, the city, the state. This night never happened. You no longer want this life, sweets. Run and keep running until you find something better. Or I’ll put you back on the menu,” said Sophie.

The woman nodded. She understood.

Sophie didn’t bother to watch her run from the room. She searched for her lover’s phone, found it, and walked back out to the ensuite in the penthouse of their hotel. She sulked privately.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Sophie said as she gave him his phone. He didn’t bother to look up. She collected her belongings. With her Hermes duffle in hand, she gracefully slung her Chanel purse over her shoulder. She tossed her naturally blonde hair back over her shoulder one last time to see if he cast a look her way. When he said nothing, she left, determined to punish the next walking, talking, blood bag of a man she saw.

Tristan walked around the front of his SUV and headed to collect Lucio’s date to deliver her to his boss in New Orleans for the evening. His crew had just informed him that Lamont was set free and fully aware of his responsibilities as Lucio had requested. The phone in his pocket rang.

“Hello?” Tristan answered.

“Fires in Louisiana?” Shakespeare asked.

Tristan paused his hand on the door of his truck.

“What games is Lucio up to now?” Shakespeare responded to Tristan's silence.

“Who’s asking? Domencio could call his brother and get that information for himself. You stepping ahead of him again?” asked Tristan.

“I’m not a bitch like you, Tristan. I know how to make sure my boss stays informed. This right here is bringing a lot of heat at a delicate time with the wolves. I have to wonder why the Fratelli has so much drama in the little, teeny town of Baton Rouge.” Shakespeare probed.

“Business is business, nothing of interest to you or Domencio,” Tristan said. “We done?”

“One more thing. Leonardo isn’t answering his phone. I find it odd. I needed a report on our last transport from Africa. Have you spoken to him?”

“See you in Vegas,” Tristan said and ended the call. He groaned in frustration as he got behind the wheel of his SUV. It took more than a minute to calm and retrain his thoughts. He’d handle Shakespeare when the time was right.

Shakespeare leaned back against his sofa cushions, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Something was stirring in the air—a hint of trouble or impending change. He closed his eyes and focused his mind. Then came a second, more alarming signal: the acrid burn of a scent he recognized only from the aftermath of a vampire’s vaporization. His senses sharpened as part of the gifts he received upon being changed, and they were never wrong. He sensed an imminent catastrophe, sparking a renewed alertness in him.

While the media often peddled conspiracies, he usually remained indifferent to the unpredictable nature of humans. However, he couldn’t ignore those rare conspiracies that contained a kernel of truth. For example, he rewound the broadcast to the interview of a witness at the car crash site. A dirty vagabond swore to the reporter that he saw a car driving slowly when it passed him, with no one in it. Then, accelerate and run off the overpass to crash and explode on the street beneath. There was his kernel of truth.

“ Cazzate ,” he mumbled in Italian. “Accident, my ass. What are you up to, Lucio?”