Chosen by the Vampire Don

“Hailey, go wipe down those tables.”

“Hailey, get the drinks ready.”

“Hailey!”

“I’m on it!” I shout back, rushing through the hallway of Big Donnie’s Restaurant, too busy to even wipe the sweat off my forehead.

Today isn’t just any day. Federico Vitale—the mafia don himself—is coming here for a meeting. The whole restaurant buzzes with excitement at the news, like the President is about to walk through the door.

I hear people whisper about Federico. They say he’s the Don of all Dons, the king of the underworld.

I can’t say exactly how high his status goes, but one thing is certain: in this city, Don Federico Vitale is the man who makes the rules.

Everyone wants the chance to serve Federico in the private room. But a job like that never falls to someone as ordinary as me.

"Hailey," the floor manager calls out.

"Yes?" I ask, a little breathless from running over.

"I need you working in the private room tonight."

"What?" I startle. When he narrows his eyes at me, I straighten up—try to sound more professional and less confused. "Isn't Tammy scheduled for that tonight?"

"Yes," he says with a frown, making no effort to hide that he thinks Tammy is much better suited to the role. "But you've been specifically requested. By Don Federico no less."

"But I don't even know the guy. You sure he's asking for me?" I stutter out.

The floor manager shoots me a calm, cold stare. "I'm sure, Hailey. Now get to it."

Getting involved with Don Federico is bad news. I don't run with criminals, and I'm not planning to change that now. Doing that would be a recipe for disaster—it would end in an early grave with my name on it.

"You're going and that's final," the manager says. "Or do you want to bail on your debt, Hailey, and make things worse for yourself?"

It's a low blow. We both know it is. But we also both know it works.

I slowly grab the trays of appetizers on the counter and grab the bottle of wine the manager hands me. I don't meet his eyes as I leave for the private room.

The most annoying part of my debt problem is that it's not even my fault. It's not even technically my debt. No, I have my drug addict mom to blame.

She wasn't always an addict—I know she tried to be a good mom to me. But then she started spiraling, and nothing seemed to keep her clean for long. Not long ago, my mom died from an overdose.

In the same breath I learned of her death, I learned of my inherited debt. Her dealers had kept careful records and they had plenty of "business associates" who could do more than break a few bones over a late payment. At their insistence, I dropped out of college and started working at one of their restaurants.

Biggie's is actually a mafia-backed business. It was supposed to be a front, but then the restaurant started doing really well. These days, the clients are a mix of honest folk and hardened criminals.

I try really hard not to keep track of who's who. Usually I can get away with that. I just smile, keep my head down, and don't ask questions.

But the private room is different. Only mafia members ever rent it out. It's also stuck in the back of the restaurant, blocked off with thick dark curtains and a huge door—making it a great place to hold illegal conversations and business deals, I'm sure.

Hell, they might even torture people back here.

On that wonderful thought, I reach the door in question. I take a deep breath, knock, and enter.

"Your appetizers and drinks," I say quietly. I move through the room like a shadow, not making eye contact and trying not to see or be seen at all.

Still, I make out wrinkled hands and expensive suits as I take glass cups and fill them with wine. I hear hearty, aged laughter as I set down the trays of cut meats and cheeses.

One of the men here is Don Federico, the man who runs the mafia. According to rumors, Federico isn't even his real name—when a new mafia leader is chosen, his name is changed to Federico, after the first mafia leader. This Federico is from the fourth generation.

And he's also the man who personally asked for me. For some reason.

I'm not the type of beauty who can make someone fall in love at first sight—Tammy's got me beat in that department, though honestly she's not much better off. I'm mentioned in some yelp reviews, but pretty much all our staff is. There's no special reason to ask for me in particular.

Hopefully Federico will use some of his blood money to tip me. Then I'll be one step closer to paying of my mom's debt and going back to school. Then I can live a normal life again.

With all the food and drinks neatly set out, I take my leave—or at least, I try to. A leather gloved hand reaches out and presses down hard on my empty serving tray.

"Stay," the owner of the gloved hand says. His voice is young, yet commanding in ancient way.

Even though I know I shouldn't, I stay. Worse yet, I turn to face the voice.

He is young—he can't be more than ten years older than me. His hair is dark like the night sky and his blue eyes are piercing like the stars. In a room of middle-aged men, he stands out as strikingly handsome—yet I'm confident that even if he was surrounded by young male models, he'd still stand out just as brilliantly.

"Is she to your liking, Don Federico?" the old man at the young man's side asks. "She can stay during the negotiations if you'd like."

I blink, taken aback. The don of all dons, the most important member of the mafia is this young man? I would've expected any of the room's older inhabitants to be in charge—they certainly look the part more.

But now that I'm looking around, I can tell all of these leader-looking types are paying attention to the young man. They're showing him the type of respect reserved for kings.

A different older man sighs. "If we're taking a break from negotiations to play with a toy, she should look the part, no?"

It takes me a second too long to piece everything together. That they're in the middle of some business deal, that I really shouldn't stay no matter what Don Federico told me, and that I'm running out of time to leave.

"She should strip."

I turn to face the man who made the suggestion—another mistake. When I don't immediately comply, he pulls out a gun.

"You heard me, wench. So hurry up."

The barrel of the gun stares at me, cold and hard. I don't want to get naked in a room full of leering older men, but I don't have any choice. Just like I had no choice in coming here.

My hand reaches for the top button of my work blouse. My mind is racing with possible scenarios—none of them good.

At that moment, however, Don Federico pulls me into his lap before I can even get the first button undone.

"She belongs to me," Don Federico hisses out.