“Maybe this has nothing to do with sex.” MF opened her bag of peanuts and popped one in her mouth.
Damien felt a light bulb turn on. Perhaps she was right. All along, he assumed the women and creatures were being used for depraved and cruel sex acts because of Sky’s articles.
But what if that was all wrong? “Sky, do you know anything about the corporation sponsoring this event? Pet, what does she say?”
“Peanut!” Pet demanded.
He gave MF a look. His bag was empty.
“Go ahead,” MF said.
He took a peanut and made the offering to his pocket.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. “Sky says she doesn’t know. But as soon as we land, she’ll check her phone.”
Whatever they found, his gut was telling him this was the final missing piece. “Sky, also try to ascertain who was at Vincente’s fundraiser. The names might give us more information.”
“She says she already checked,” Pet said. “There was nothing other than a report that Vincente died in a housefire.”
“They covered up all the deaths?” Perhaps the people behind the operation did not want to be connected to the guests. Or the governor himself was attempting to hide his brother’s illicit dealings. Both were options.
“Well, we will have our work cut out for us when we land.” Including dinner with Boris tonight at his sister’s. “And, MF, I will only say this one more time. Tonight, we take measurements, we eat, and we leave. Do not speak other than to make polite, very respectful conversation. The Russian mafia is not to be toyed with.”
“God, I wish I were still a vampire.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I hear the tastiest people are the bad ones.”
“Yes, such a shame that you cannot murder people tonight at dinner,” he said drably.
I agree. Because I’m in a murdering mood, too, tailor.
The hairs on the back of Damien’s neck rose. He felt the power in the beast’s words. The darkness was rising to the surface, becoming more intent on taking over.
I just have to get through tonight and the festival tomorrow, he thought. Then, perhaps, Damien would have to let the beast out to placate him. Damien just prayed that whoever died, they had it coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As a honeymoon gift to the newly married demon couple, Damien rented a small, but nice home right on the beach, with a balcony for enjoying the ocean views and a private front yard for sunbathing. He still held out hope that Bonbon and Gorgonzolina would see the benefits of being on their own. Perhaps right here in Miami, where there were many people to suck the love from. If that failed, maybe he would get lucky and a giant wave would sweep the two creatures out to sea.
“Are you ready?” Damien straightened his silver tie. This evening he wore a sleek black suit with hand-carved mother-of-pearl cufflinks. Classy but understated.
MF came from her room wearing a short black dress that flared out just below the knee, and a yellow tape measure around her neck. Her auburn hair was in a bun atop her head. No nipples on display or dog collars. A definite improvement.
“That is an interesting accessory,” he said.
MF glanced down. “Oh. I didn’t want to forget it.”
“Got the notebook?” He had given it to her earlier to record measurements.
“Right here.” She patted her purse.
“Pet,” he warned, speaking to the purse, “you must come out of there. You cannot go to the dinner.”
Her tiny blonde head poked out.
“How’d you get in there?” MF snarled.
“I want to go with you,” Pet whined.
“No. You will stay here and out of sight,” Damien commanded.
“Sky says you look very hot, and she would like to take your man parts in her mouth,” Pet smiled.
“Errr. Well, thank you, Sky?” Damien swallowed hard.
“She also says that I should go with you in case she needs me to speak for her,” Pet added.
“Sky, your time is best put to use staying here, doing your research on the festival’s sponsor. Also, someone should make sure Pet does not get into trouble. I promise we will not be long. It is a simple family dinner. With the Russian mob.”
“Sky wants to know why you have to go at all,” Pet said.
“Because I had Boris look after your sister and Miguel as a favor. In exchange, I agreed to do the tuxes and bridesmaid dresses for Boris’s sister. She’s getting married at the end of the month,” Damien added. “So I have to take measurements.”
“You had the Russian mob guard her family? Are you nuts?” Pet shrugged. “Sky’s words, not mine. Oh, look. A spoon.” Pet flew off into the kitchen. “I love my reflection!” she called out.
Damien grumbled with frustration, “We must go. We will return in a few hours and then go over tomorrow’s plan.”
He left with MF.
They got into their rental, a convertible BMW 430i. He started the engine, noting how the weather was perfect for the top down.
“Can you put the top up?” MF patted her bun. “I don’t want to ruin my hairdo.”
Why? Why must they ruin everything? He put the top up.
“Damien?”
“Yes, MF?”
“You were just nice to me.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“And?”
“I agree with everyone. You do care.”
He turned his head. “If you fell off a cliff tomorrow, I would not bat an eyelash.”
She smiled. “You’re in such denial. You like me.”
He shook his head. “You would know if I did, because a giant were-eagle would swoop down and eat your innards.”
“Yup. Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself those lies.”
Boris’s sister lived in a house fit for a movie star, complete with her very own boat dock, fifty-foot yacht, tennis court, and Olympic-sized pool. Towering palm trees, exotic flowering gardens, and manicured lawns stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Crime must be paying well these days,” Damien said quietly to MF, whose mouth just hung open as the guard escorted them to a large gazebo in the back, where a table for fifty was set up. A bartender was busy pouring fruity cocktails from a covered bar off to the side, while servers hurried back and forth to deliver drinks to the guests.
“This is a family gathering?” MF whispered.
Damien shrugged. “Big family?”
“Greystone!” Boris called out, waving him over. Boris was a tall, rotund man with thinning black hair and a black beard. Today he wore a white suit and gold loafers. All wrong. “Everyone, diss is my good friend, Damien Greystone. He makes nice suits.”
Everyone ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Apparently, they knew who he was.
“This is my assistant, MF.” Damien presented her to Boris. “She’ll help with the measurements.”
“MF? As in motherfucker?” Boris exploded with laughter. “Remind me to keep you away from my babushka, dah?” He laughed again.
MF smiled tightly but kept her thoughts to herself.
“Natasha! Come over here and meet di tailor.” Boris waved to a very short, plump redhead with blue eye makeup. She wore gold heels and a leopard bodysuit, size eight. This woman was easily a size twelve. Some people simply could not accept reality when it came to wearing proper-fitting clothes. Generally because in their minds, they had built up a recipe for physical perfection. Hers was apparently 1980s makeup, clown hair, and being a size eight. None of it flattered her body type or face in the least.