The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,16

equipment used for dinner service was cleaned up, the lingering steam from the dishwashers making the forty-by-twenty-foot kitchen seem like something out of the Amazon rain forest.

Too quiet, iAm thought. And the brightly lit place smelled like bleach instead of basil.

“Thank you, chef. Do you want me to stew the tomatoes before I leave?”

“It’s late. Go home. Good service tonight.”

Antonio wiped his face off with a blue-and-white dish towel. “Thanks to you, chef.”

“Lock up for me?”

“Anything you want.”

With a nod, iAm left the kitchen and cut through the tiled delivery hall to the back exit. Outside, two of his waiters were loitering around their cars and smoking, their tuxedo jackets off, their red bow ties loose and hanging from their open collars.

“Chef,” one of them said, straightening.

The other immediately came to attention. “Chef.”

Technically, he was more boss than chef here at Sal’s, but he did do a lot of the cooking and recipe R & D himself, and the staff respected him for it. Hadn’t always been that way. When he’d first stepped in to take over the Caldwell institution, he had not exactly been welcomed. Everyone from the waiters to the chefs to the busboys had assumed he was an African-American, and the deep pride and tradition of Italian ownership, cooking, and culture would have worked against anyone who didn’t have Sicilian blood in his veins.

As a Shadow, he understood the deal better than they knew. His people didn’t want anything to do with vampires or symphaths—and certainly never those rats-without-tails humans. And Sal’s was one of the most famous restaurants in Caldwell, not just a throwback to the Rat Pack era of the fifties, but a place that had actually served the Chairman of the Board and his slick boys. With its flocked wallpaper, hostess stand, and formal everything, it was Sardi’s north—and had always been owned and managed by Italians.

Over a year into his ownership, though, everything was all good. He had proved himself to everyone from the customers to the staff to the suppliers, not just stepping into Salvatore Guidette III’s shoes, but filling them. Now? He was treated with respect that bordered on worship.

Wonder what they’d think of him if they knew he wasn’t from Africa, he did not identify as American—and more to the point, he wasn’t even human.

A Shadow was in their midst.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told the two men.

“Yes, chef.”

“’Night, chef.”

iAm nodded at them and strode around the far corner. As soon as he was out of sight, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and dematerialized.

When he re-formed, it was on the eighteenth floor of the Commodore, on the terrace of the condo he owned with his brother. The glass slider was wide-open, the long white drapes billowing in and out of the dark interior like ghosts trying and failing to escape. There had been two possible destinations for him: here or shAdoWs, and he’d picked their bachelor pad because of what was waiting inside.

There was news from the s’Hisbe, and all things considered? iAm would rather be the messenger to Trez than the male they’d sent.

Putting his hand into his coat, he found the butt of his gun and stepped inside. “Where are you.”

“Over here,” came the deep, quiet response.

iAm pivoted to the left, toward the white leather couch that was against the far wall. His keen eyes adjusted in a heartbeat, and the enormous black shape of the Queen’s executioner came into focus.

iAm frowned. “What’s wrong?”

The sound of ice cubes in a club glass twinkled across the silence. “Where’s your brother?”

“It’s opening night at the club. He’s busy.”

“He needs to answer his phone,” s’Ex said roughly.

“Has the Queen given birth?”

“Yes. She has.”

Long silence. With nothing but the sound of those ice cubes to break it up.

iAm inhaled and caught the scent of bourbon—as well as an acrid sadness that was so great, he released his hold on his gun.

“s’Ex?”

The executioner burst up from the sofa and strode over to the bar, his robes swirling after him like shadows thrown in a great wind.

“Care to join me?” the male asked as he poured more into his glass.

“Depends. What’s your news and how does it affect my twin?”

“You’re going to need a drink.”

Right. Great. Without further comment, iAm walked over and joined s’Ex at the bar. It didn’t matter what went into which glass, whether there were ice cubes, if there was a splash of tonic. He drank what turned out to be vodka down and poured some more.

“So it wasn’t the