Shadow's Bane (Dorina Basarab 4)

“Curly has something he’d like to tell you.”

Chapter Fifty-seven

“C-c-c—”

The security guard waited patiently.

“C-c-c—”

Less patiently.

“C-c-c—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” That was Ray, who hit Curly on the back of the head.

“Curly Abbot!” Curly spat, as if the strike had knocked something loose. “And friends!”

The guard ran Curly’s little black membership card through a reader. Curly made a sound that defied description, and then bounced a little in the driver’s seat. “Hurry up! I have to go to the bathroom.”

“There’s one in the—”

“I know where it is!” Curly said, grabbed his card back, and hit the gas, skidding the tires and shooting us away from the gatehouse.

So much for a low-key entrance, I thought. And then forgot to worry about it when the crappy industrial park ahead of us rippled and changed. Big-time.

“So this is how the other half lives,” Ray said, sounding impressed.

I didn’t blame him. A second ago, we’d been looking at a rusted-out hulk of a factory, about to fall into the sea. It was the kind that Red Hook, Brooklyn’s lesser-known seaside hood, had a lot of, along with parking lots like the one next door, where razor wire and rusted shopping carts passed for landscaping.

But, suddenly, all that was gone. Instead, manicured lawns spread out in all directions. Flower beds materialized, planted in undulating rows of different shades of blue and edged by taller, white blooming bushes, like the ocean followed by breaking surf. Silky smooth blacktop replaced the pitted wonder outside, and a space opened up in the middle of the big circular drive, boasting a reflecting pond with sprays of water and a huge sculpture of silver metal and aqua glass.

The sculpture was abstract, with mostly curved pieces shooting upward from a central base, but it nonetheless managed to give the impression of a group of sea deities rising from the water, presumably the ones that gave this place its name: Oceanid.

In case your mythology wasn’t that good—and mine wasn’t—it was also written in crystal letters on the five-story white stone building that framed everything else. I could see right through to the other side, courtesy of an all-glass section that went the full height of the building, showing the water and city skyline beyond. Where a tiny Statue of Liberty was looking dull and kind of chintzy in comparison.

We slung into a parking spot off to one side, and Curly jumped out, rabbiting for the employee entrance. I guess he really did have to go. The rest of us piled out and followed him, while a line of beautiful people inched closer to the casino’s front entrance and valet parking.

I watched a gorgeous brunet in a few wisps of red satin get out of a Maserati, with the ease of someone used to driving about a foot off the ground. She nodded to a bleach blonde in yellow silk and her earrings caught the light. The huge things sparkled like lasers, despite the fact that we had to be a third of a football field away.

“Remind me why we didn’t take Radu’s Bugatti,” Ray muttered, adjusting his suit.

It was a little wrinkled, having been dug out of a suitcase less than an hour ago, but he looked fine. I’d thought I did, too, but suddenly, an LBD and black pumps just didn’t cut it. But at least one of our group was styling, I thought, watching the car in question sling around the drive, bypass the peasants, and careen to a stop directly in front of the building.

“That’s why,” I said, as Louis-Cesare got out and tossed a valet the keys.

He had a fleet of cars back home, but that was three hours away, so he’d borrowed Claire’s. Like he’d grabbed a tux off the rack, since he didn’t have time to go back for any of the bespoke numbers in his closet. But, goddamn, you’d never know it.

“I don’t know why he gets to be Mr. Look-at-Me,” Ray grumbled. “I coulda done that job.”

I stayed quiet, because no, Ray could not have done that job. Nobody could have done that job like Louis-Cesare, who had effortlessly captured everyone’s attention without saying a word. The blonde and the brunet stopped and stared. An older woman, swaddled in mink despite the weather, almost fell off the steps before her husband caught her. Even the valet did a double take.

Because Louis-Cesare shone, from the dark auburn mane, which had been slicked back into a discreet clip at the base of his neck, to the platinum and diamonds that glittered on his cuff links and studded the front of his shirt, to the glossy Berlutis on his feet. He hadn’t bothered with a tie, because when you look that good you don’t need a tie, or with the open-container laws despite the fact that the car was in convertible mode. He grabbed a bottle of Dom out of the passenger side, took a swig straight out of the bottle, and stared up the steps like he owned the place.

He looked gorgeous. He looked rich. He looked ready to drop a huge amount of dough.

Most importantly, he drew the freaking eye, which was his job. Specifically, to make enough of a spectacle to give security something to watch besides us. Which was why he was all blinged out, and the rest of us were sneaking in a side door looking as bland and boring as possible.

Or we were supposed to be.