One of them opened the door to a sleek black limousine, flanked in front and behind by two other vehicles.
“I didn’t wear the corset,” she said as she settled into the seat across from Big Al. “I couldn’t move in it.”
Capone looked as if he wanted to retort—he did not like to be naysaid—but then pursed his lips. “Suppose I best look at changing that then. Yain’t no good to me if ya can’t strike out when necessary.”
Macey hadn’t been inside Capone’s personal limousine before, and she looked around at its luxury. The engine purred as the vehicle slid away from the curb, and her employer noticed.
“Ya don’t need to worry when you’re in my car,” he said—as if the thought had crossed her mind. But maybe it should have, for as he had pointed out previously, Capone had been the target of assassination attempts by competitors multiple times over the last year. “It’s got reinforced doors, and the glass is so thick no damn bullet’s gonna pass through it. Cost me twenty grand, and General Motors made it specially for me—one of a kind. I even had ’em put special combination locks on the doors so no one’s gonna be able to slip a bomb inside for me. And Johnny and the others are in front and behind us—we’ll get to the Castle safely, don’t you worry, doll.”
“What do you want me to do tonight?”
He seemed neither surprised nor irked by her demand. “Watch. And do whatever has to be done,” he said with an impatient flap of his hand. “But make it quiet. Don’t be disrupting the damned show, you got it?”
“Are you expecting undead to be there? How on earth would they get past your boys?”
“I prepare for the unexpected, so what I expect is irrelevant. I’m hosting Satchmo tonight, sweets—the last thing I wanna be doin’ is worrying about whether there’s an undead lurking about. That’s your job. You got that?”
“I got that.” Macey settled back in her seat and realized for the first time how incredibly quiet the vehicle ran, and how she didn’t feel even the slightest bump on the road. As the sights of Chicago rolled by, she smoothed the skirt over her thighs and adjusted the flower in her hair, watching the street and business names to orient herself to their location.
“Damn, you got some nice legs there, doll,” said Al. His voice was as objective as if he was talking about the taste of coffee. “You got a whole ’nother set of assets than my boys an’ their guns. Use them wisely.”
Macey saw no reason to respond, and soon the limousine purred to a halt in front of The Music Castle. Lights shone everywhere: from streetlights studding the sidewalk, to the colored marquee of the club’s name, to a trio of spotlights that circled and dodged like manic fireflies around the entrance to the venue. Al Capone Welcomes Louis Armstrong, announced the sign, punctuated by a frame of gold light bulbs that looked like a moving rectangle. People gathered in front of the theater, but eight burly, ferocious-looking men were arranged to keep the bystanders at a safe distance from the new arrivals.
Macey followed her boss out of the limo, and she felt as if she were being physically pelted by flashes of camera bulbs. One of his goons helped her slide from the low vehicle, then Capone offered her his arm. Instead of escorting her inside, however, he paused to greet the crowd thronging the sidewalk.
She stood there, the sultry April breeze ruffling the hem of her frock and tousling her curls as Big Al held court with his admirers. Jovial and expansive as usual when greeting the public, he answered some questions from bystanders, made a few jokes, and accepted the offer of a light for his cigar from one of his bodyguards.
“Hey, Snorky! Who’s the dame?” asked someone whose face was obscured by the bright spotlights and the continuing flashes from photographers.
“This here’s my escort for the night,” Al replied, tightening his grip on Macey’s arm, as if expecting her to flee. “Don’t she got a nice look to her?”
Someone hooted and whistled, others cheered, and another person shouted, “The broad’s sure got some sweet gams on her!”
“What’s Mae gonna say, Snorky? She gonna make you go to confession again?”
Some of the crowd laughed, for Capone was known for going to confession weekly. He chuckled too, gesturing with his cigar. “Well, Mae ain’t gonna know if none of you tells her! Anyway, she knows my heart belongs to her, even though it’s nice for a little variety now and then, eh, boys?” He leered at Macey, and some of the men in the audience cheered, while a few whistled catcalls.
Her cheeks were hot with fury, and it was all she could do to keep from shaking off the odious man’s arm and showing him—and the rest of the men—a little variety of her own.
As if sensing her rising ire, Capone chomped on his cigar, and, with a mere look, indicated to his goons that the interviews were over. He whipped off his fedora and adjusted his white carnation boutonniere as they strode through the double doors thrown wide.
As soon as they were inside the theater, Macey shook off his arm and rounded on Al Capone. “I am not your dame, your broad, your doll, or your anything.” She was shaking, and though she was less than a third his size, the height of her shoes put her almost nose to nose with the fiercest gangster in Chicago. She could smell the wine and garlic, as well as the expensive vetiver and sandalwood cologne, that emanated from his person. “I am here to fight the vamp—”
“Shut up,” he snapped, his voice low and furious. A sharp gesture kept all of his handlers—and therefore the bystanders—at a distance. His fingers closed tightly around one of her wrists and he brought it down between them so she was forced closer to his body. “I know that. But you gotta role to play, and I expect you to play it. Otherwise, people will ask what you’re doing with me.”
“I won’t pretend to be your whore,” she responded from between clenched teeth. She could see the pores in his skin, the stubble on his clean-shaven chin, a tiny clump of pomade near his temple. “I’ll walk on your arm, as your escort, but if you ever refer to me as anything more, I’ll expose you and everything else right then and there. I don’t have anything to lose, Scarface, but you sure as hell do.”
His eyes flashed with cold, violent fury. He moved closer so she could feel the metal of his hidden revolver pressing into her hip. “Don’t you fucking threaten me, Macey Gardella. I have you in the palm of my hand—”
“You need me. For the prophecy,” she spat. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”
“I do—God help me—but that don’t mean I don’t have my ways of makin’ you behave. You think you can threaten me, doll, you think you can disrespect me, you got a lot to learn. I got ways of making people cooperate. And I ain’t above using ’em.”
She glared at him, cold and furious, and yet deep inside, aware how thin the ice was on which she tread. He would do it. She knew he would. Damn him.
Think of Dottie, and Dr. Morgan, and Grady.
Sebastian. Chas. Temple.
She lifted her chin and pivoted away from Capone, presenting him with her back. Still furious, she looked around the lobby of The Music Castle, which was thronged with people dressed in furs, diamonds, and other finery.
And that was when she saw him.
He was watching them—as was everyone else in the lobby, though most were pretending not to—from his position leaning against one of the huge potted ferns that created private alcoves in the corners of the room.
Macey met his eyes coolly and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. Then she accepted Capone’s arm once more.
“Our seats are waiting,” muttered her escort. “Now behave yourself, Macey.”
“Of course,” she murmured between stiff lips. She’d sit down, all right. She’d play the game for a few.
And then she’d excuse herself to slip away and find out what Chas Woodmore was doing here.
As Grady drove past The Music Castle, he recognized Al Capone’s limousine parked at the curb. The crowds gathering on the sidewalk in front of the nightclub indicated the gangster had either just arrived or was preparing to exit his vehicle.
Grady’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He accelerated a little more than was strictly prudent considering the number of pedestrians about, and rumbled past the public display without slowing down. He simply couldn’t imagine Macey Denton working with that mobster, being around the bootlegger, taking part in his sordid life. It made him physically ill to imagine her as one of those gawking, shiny-eyed molls who worshipped gangsters and found their money, brutality, and power exciting.
Surely she’d been lying.
She’d definitely been hiding something—but what? He knew all about her secrets, he knew about the danger of vampires—though he’d never encountered one himself—and he knew about her family legacy. He knew what beauty was beneath her dress, and how she looked when she came, and the way her already wild and curly hair was even more tousled and sexy when she woke. He knew she was very smart and bold and even a little sassy.
Well, a lot sassy.
And brave. She must be brave, to have faced vampires more than once—Venator or no.