| BOOK ONE OF THE VENANDI SAGA | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE |
Teeth scrape over skin as he nips at my earlobe, "I told you..." Threading his fingers through the strands at my nape, he rolls my head to the side and his lips continue their exploration, "...
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Sanguis. Pecunia. Potestas.
Three words embossed in simple, gold lettering, on three separate, ebony banners. That's the greeting one receives upon entering the Syndicate compound. Kole tells me they mean, "Blood, money, and power." That they're, "Our Motto and you'll see them everywhere," but for me, they're a glaring reminder that I'm not in Kansas anymore. That I've traded my monochromatic home world for a glimpse behind the emerald curtain. Only in this glittering city, the residents are cold-blooded killers and the yellow brick road is actually paved in gold.
"God, this place gets more ridiculous every year," Kole grumbles, scowling at the gilded setting before us.
At an impressive three stories, the Grand Ballroom is a halcyon haven for Miami's criminal aristocracy. Ivory walls, adorned in cream, Damask paneling, gleam under the brilliance of twelve,crystal chandeliers; bursts of red dot the horizon where elaborate bouquets tower atop their seven-foot columns; and above us, a barrel-vaulted, coffered ceiling with pockets of etched, foil tiling caps the opulent décor. All of it trimmed in gold. All of it. Gold crown molding, gold bas reliefs... gold upholstery. Its resplendence is matched only by the glitz and glam of its patrons who mill about in a river of jewel-toned designer wear floating over a freshly waxed, parquet dance floor so flawless and polished it resembles a giant, golden mirror.
"Mhmm..." I rasp, "It's-uhhh... S'lot to take in," as I pluck a champagne flute from a passing tray. "You know with the-ummm... the banners..." Chugging the entire glass of bubbly, I croak, "...and the gold."
"So much gold," he echoes, snagging us another round of effervescent relief.
"Don'you jus' looove it?" Chirrs a velvety alto; its feminine timbre is drizzled with a light Italian accent. "I had it-a redone for the Chrrristmas Ball last year," our mysterious voice continues, "Of courrrrse, you would-a know that if you'd-a been herrre," and a giant swan materializes in front of us.
Oh, what fresh hell is this?
Ensnared in a billowing faux-plumage of pure white, ostrich quills and pearl beading, our uninvited guest swoops out of hiding for her grand reveal. Smirking, the swan's mask falls away to unveil a refined, mature beauty with olive skin, high cheekbones and pouty lips painted a deep shade of crimson. She's exquisite. Chic. Not a single eyelash or walnut strand is out of place. "Good Evening, Kole-a. It's been-a too long," she hums low in her throat.
Dark chocolate irises heat to a flirtatious caramel like she's imagining herself slathered all over his body and Kole sputters, "E-Evening, Yo-Your Majesty."
Hmpf.
"Please-a, Kooole-a," the swan sings in her sugary inflection. "You know I prrrefer to be called-a 'Merrrceeedes'." Manicured French nails present themselves, wiggling in invitation to which Kole awkwardly grips a couple and grants them a tiny jiggle. Watching him, those flirtatious caramels dim to a disappointed shade of common brown - her coy façade crumbling at the edges.
