Dark Obsession (Vampire Royals of New York #3) - Sarah Piper Page 0,62

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.

In front of the windows, one man remained seated while four others rose from behind the table, their eyes fixed on her as the guard patted her down with quick, precise movements. He finished up, then grabbed her by the elbow, delivering her to the table as if she were a prize the other men had won.

Not men, she reminded herself. Demons.

At her approach, the one who hadn’t gotten to his feet—a demon who looked to be in his sixties, with a shock of thick white hair and piercing, steel-gray eyes—gave her the once-over. He didn’t smile.

Rogozin.

“Ms. D'Amico,” he said in his thick Russian accent, gesturing for her to take a seat directly across from him. “Please—join us.”

She did as he asked, and the demons around him followed suit, settling back into their chairs. Every one of them had tattoos and scars—on their faces, their hands, peeking out of shirt collars—ornate symbols and words that mapped the stories of their lives, their crimes. She wondered if they all bore the white ravens.

She wondered—if things went south today—if she herself would end up as another tattoo in their long and colorful stories.

The thought made her shiver, but if anyone else noticed her discomfort, he didn’t say.

Rogozin seemed to be considering his next words, while the rest of the group stared at her unflinchingly. A demon with barbed wire tattooed around his neck winked at her, and Charley had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

But she’d come this far. She would not let them intimidate her.

Dorian and the others were counting on her.

All of Manhattan was counting on her, whether they realized it or not.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Rogozin,” she finally said, as evenly as she could manage.

He gave a small bow of acknowledgment. “I was intrigued to receive Dorian Redthorne’s message. For long time, I have sought way to meet with vampire royal family.”

“He feels the same way,” Charley said, the lie sliding smoothly from her lips. It was the first of several she’d probably have to tell today—mostly white lies, just enough to grease the wheels, but lies nevertheless. Suddenly, she felt as if she’d spent her whole life training for this meeting. All the cons, all the games, all the expensive outfits and the megawatt charm.

She was the complete package, and today, she’d work it for all she was worth.

“As Dorian mentioned,” Charley said, “we’ve recently come upon some information we thought would be of interest to you. As some of that information relates to members of my own family, he thought I would be the best emissary.”

Dorian had sent word to Rogozin through some of Gabriel’s contacts—a mysterious network neither Charley nor Dorian himself knew much about. They’d told the demon that Dorian had learned of his interest in a piece of Scandinavian art in his collection, as well as the disloyalty festering in the Rogozin organization. Charlotte was to bring the demons a proposal—alone, unarmed, and in good faith—for a mutually beneficial arrangement between the two factions.

Now, Rogozin nodded, his cool demeanor revealing nothing. “I knew your father, Ms. D’Amico. He was… honorable man. I am sorry for your loss. Four years now?”

“Five years, sir,” Charley said, fighting back the familiar sting of tears.

“And your mother?”

“She left when I was young.”

Rogozin shook his head, his frown deepening. “Such shame. Beautiful young girl. No