The Chosen

There had been a few updates, but they were all in the massive kitchen. And two entrées had been added, which had been a thing—at least until the third generation of its clientele had tried the dishes and decided, yeah, that’s good.

Well, and there was one other thing that was different.

As iAm sat down behind the desk in his office, he answered the phone and picked up his most recent meat order at the same time.

“Vinnie, how’re ya?” he said as he cocked his head to the side to keep the receiver to his ear. “Yeah … good. I’m good. Yeah, no, I need more veal than that. Yeah. And I want that other supplier. The quality is—”

His front house manager stuck his head in the door. “She’s here. Good experience, nice demeanor. She’ll do.”

iAm covered the bottom of the receiver. “Send her in.”

As the commercial butcher and he continued to go over the order, iAm thought back to right after he’d gotten the place. The humans he dealt with had assumed he was African American, which he wasn’t, but as a Shadow, he was used to passing in the human world as a member of that race. And for a black man to take over the historically, and extremely proud, Italian landmark had been a shocker to everyone from the kitchen staff to the front of the house to the patrons and the suppliers.

But the third Salvatore had given him his blessing after iAm had cooked the shit out of some gato di patate, pasta alla Norma, and caponata—and then presented the old man with the best cannolis the guy had ever had. Not that Sal III had had a choice. Gambling debts to Rehv had meant he’d had to give up what he’d loved, and Rehv had in turn passed the enterprise on to iAm as a reward for good work.

But still, as the new owner, iAm had wanted to keep the continuity going—and also the Italian patrons coming in—and Sal III’s support had ensured both. Especially as iAm had let the haters hate, and earned each and every one of the old schoolers back, seducing them with his basil and his fusilli.

The place was thriving, and the respect was flowing, and it was s’all good. He had also found his mate … who happened to be the Queen of the s’Hisbe. So his life should have been perfect.

It was not.

The situation with his brother, Trez, was straight up killing him. It was so hard to see a male of worth brought to his knees by fate, the guy’s soul bowed under a loss that iAm couldn’t even contemplate without wanting to vomit—

“I’m sorry, what?” iAm refocused. “Yeah, sorry, that’s good. Thanks, man—wait, say that again? Oh, yeah, I can do that. How much you need? Nah, you don’t pay me. If you do, I will be insulted. I bring the manicot as a gift to you and your mother. You take it, you enjoy.”

iAm was smiling as he hung up the phone. The old-school Italians turned out to be a lot like Shadows: closed off to outsiders, proud of their traditions, suspicious of people they didn’t know. But once you were in with them? Once you proved yourself and were accepted? They were so loyal and generous it was almost like they weren’t humans at all.

In fact, to him, proper Italians had become a subspecies apart from the other rats without tails on the planet.

That manicot? He’d make it for Vinnie’s mom, Mrs. Giuffrida, and bring it over in person. And then when his meat order came in? There would be extra chops or some sausage or a choice cut of beef for free. The thing was, he would have made the manicot anyway, even if there was nothing coming back toward him—because Mrs. Giuffrida was a love of the first order who came in the first Friday of every month and always ordered the pasta con le sarde. And if you were nice to Vinnie’s mother? That man would ride or die for you till the end of his days.

It was a great arrangement and—

All at once, iAm went statue, everything about him going stock still. And funny, considering what had come to stand in the office’s open doorway, it seemed appropriate that he should try a version of the Arrest on for size.

The female vampire between the jambs was tall and curvy, her body clothed in loose black slacks and a black sweater with a boat neck. Her black wavy hair had been pulled into a clip, and her face was free of makeup—not that she needed any help from the likes of Maybelline. She was stunningly beautiful, with perfect lips and eyes that were almost anime and cheeks that were rosy from her having come in from the cold—or perhaps because she was nervous about interviewing for their waitress position.

The individual components of her and her wardrobe weren’t the shocker, however. It was the whole damn thing put together that took his breath away.

iAm rose slowly to his feet, like maybe if he moved too fast, his head would explode.

“Selena?” he whispered. Except this couldn’t be real … could it?

The female’s pretty eyebrows popped. “Um … no? My name is Therese? My friends call me Tres?”

All at once, the world spun on its axis and iAm fell back down into his chair.

The female took a step in as if she were worried he needed CPR, but then she stopped like she didn’t know what to do. Which made two of them.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

In a voice that sounded absolutely, positively, exactly, like his brother’s dead shellan.

Instead of heading back to the Brotherhood mansion for the day, Trez had stayed at his club. For one, as a Shadow, he not only could handle sunlight, but he actually liked the stuff—even though there had been none of it to see because of the flurries that had fallen all morning and afternoon. More to the point, though, he hung where he was because sometimes the crush of people at home was too much for his already-done-in head and he had to take a breather and hide, but not hide, here.

One advantage? His chair was so padded it was basically an adjustable hospital bed, just without the rails and the IV bag.

Swiveling around to face the glass wall, he looked down at the dance floor. The house lights were on, and all the scuffs on the black-painted pine boards irritated the fuck out of him. The cleaners did a great job, but there was nothing they could do to fix the damage made by hundreds of drunken feet. It was probably time to strip and restain. Again.

Of course, pulling a re-polish was arguably a waste of time and money because that floor was just going to get ruined once more, and besides, nobody could see the bare spots when the lasers were flashing and the place was dark as the inside of a hat. But he couldn’t stand it. He knew the imperfections were there and despised them.

He supposed the floor upkeep was the club equivalent to mowing your lawn: You knew you were just chasing a moving target, but at least for ten minutes, your grass looked like a proper wall-to-wall carpet.

He checked his watch. Seven o’clock.

About two hours ago, around five-ish, he’d taken a shower in his private bathroom, shaved, and put on a fresh version of his work uniform, which was slacks and a silk button-down. Tonight, the top half of him was gray, the bottom half was white, and the shit in the middle was commando.

He took another glance at his watch. And counted the hours since he’d last put food in his mouth.

As if his stomach knew this was its only chance to register an opinion, the frickin’ thing roared.

Goddamn Lassiter. Dinner invite. Sal’s.

WTF.

The last thing he wanted to do was sit across from that angel and listen to a Reservoir Dogs opener about dick symbolism in Deadpool. The problem? His brother, iAm, did make the best Bolognese anywhere, and besides, if Trez didn’t show? Lassiter was just the flavor of asshole to turn up here in a clown costume and honk his nose until Trez lost his mind.

Short trip lately, granted. But still.

He looked at his watch again. Cursed. Made the decision.

Getting to his feet, he checked that his gun was in place at the small of his back, grabbed his wallet and his cell phone, and pulled on a suit jacket.

Downstairs, Xhex was inventory-ing the liquor at the bar.

“I’ll be back,” he told his head of security. “You want me to bring you anything from my brother’s for dinner?”

She shook her head as she lifted a case of Absolut onto the counter like it weighed nothing. Xhex had shoulders almost as big as a human male’s, and the rest of her was just as in shape. With her short hair and her gunmetal-gray eyes, she was the kind of thing that even drunks recognized as a do-not-fuck-with, which made her perfect for her job.