Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(143)

Over to the side, there was a bank of public telephones from the fifties and two cigarette machines from the Kojak period, and as usual, the place smelled like oregano, garlic, and good food. In the background, there was also the lingering whiff of cigarettes and cigars—even though by law you weren’t supposed to light up in this kind of establishment, in the back room, where the reserved tables were and the games of poker got dealt, management allowed people to light up.

Rehv had always been a little tight-balled at being around all the red, but he knew as long as he could look into the two dining rooms and see that the tables with their white linens and deep leather chairs receded properly, he was okay.

“The Brotherhood’s already here,” Trez said as they went down to the private suite where the meeting was going to be held.

When they walked into the room, there was no talk, no laughter, not even a throat cleared among the other males in the space. The Brothers were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Wrath, who was positioned in front of the one door that was not reinforced with steel—so he could dematerialize free in the blink of an eye if things came to that.

“Evening,” Rehv said, choosing the head of the long, thin table that had been set with twenty chairs.

There was a patter of hi-how’re-yas, but the tight knot of linebacker-and-then-some warriors was solely focused on the doorway he’d come through.

Yup, you f*cked with their boy Wrath and you were going to get fed your future—right up your own ass.

And what do you know, they’d taken on a mascot, evidently. Off to the left, a glowing Oscar statue of a guy stood tall in combats, his blond-and-black hair making him look like an eighties headbanger looking for a backup band. Lassiter the fallen angel didn’t seem any less fierce than the Brothers, however. Maybe it was his piercings. Or the fact that his eyes were all white. Fuck it, the guy’s vibe was just hard-core.

Interesting. Given the way he was glaring at the doorway with the others, Wrath was clearly on the protected-species list with that angel.

iAm came in from the back, a pistol in one hand, a tray of cappuccinos on the palm of the other.

Several of the Brothers took what was offered, although all those dainty cups were going to become gum for their shitkickers’ heels if they had to fight.

“Thanks, man.” Rehv also took a cappuccino. “Cannoli?”

“Coming.”

The instructions for the meeting had been spelled out clearly beforehand. Members of the council had to arrive at the front of the restaurant. If anyone even so much as jogged the handle of another door, they assumed the risk of getting shot. iAm would let them in and escort them down to the room. When they left, it would be through the front again, and cover would be provided for safe dematerialization. Ostensibly, the security measures were because of Rehv’s “concern over lessers.” The truth was, it was all about protecting Wrath.

iAm came in with the cannoli.

Cannoli were eaten.

More cappuccino was brought out.

Frank did “Fly Me to the Moon.” Then it was that song about the bar closing and him needing another for the road.

And the one about three coins in the fountain. And the fact that he had a crush on someone.

Over by Wrath, Rhage shifted his massive weight in his shitkickers, the leather of his jacket creaking. Next to him, the king rolled his shoulders and one of them popped. Butch cracked his knuckles. V lit up. Phury and Z looked at each other.

Rehv glanced at iAm and Trez, who were in the doorway. Looked back at Wrath. “Surprise, surprise.”

Putting his cane to good use, he stood up and did a lap around the room, his symphath side respecting the offensive tactic of this unexpected no-show by the other council members. He didn’t think they’d have the balls—

A bing-bong sound came from the front door of the restaurant.

As Rehv turned his head, he heard the soft metallic slide of the safeties coming off the guns in the Brothers’ hands.





Across the street from the closed gates of Pine Grove Cemetery, Lash walked up to a Honda Civic that was parked in the shadows. When he put his hand on the hood, it was warm, and he didn’t have to go around to the driver’s side to know that the window was busted out of it. This was the car Grady had used to get to his dead ex’s grave site.

As he heard the sound of boots approaching on asphalt, he palmed the gun in his breast pocket.

Mr. D was tugging his cowboy hat down as he came over. “Why’d you call us off—”

Lash calmly leveled his gun at the lesser’s head. “Tell me why I’m not blowing a hole in your motherf*cking brain right now.”

The slayers on either side of Mr. D stepped back. Way back.

“Because I done found out he was gone,” Mr. D said in his Texas twang. “That’s why. These two had no hide nor hair where he was at.”

“You were in charge. You lost him.”

Mr. D’s pale eyes were steady. “I was counting y’all’s money. You want anyone else doing that? Don’t believe so.”

Shit, good point. Lash lowered his gun and looked at the other two. Unlike Mr. D, who was stick-steady, they were in full fidget. Which told him precisely who had lost the asset.

“How much money came in,” Lash asked, still glaring at the men.

“Lot. It’s right there in the Escort.”