Umbra was having one of those nights.
The music was excellent, the drinks were overpriced, and someone had apparently decided that attempting to hex a vampire in the VIP lounge was a reasonable way to settle a disagreement.
“Absolutely not.”
Igino Vetro caught the flying champagne glass without looking up from his phone.
“Beniamino, darling, remind me why we let people in here?”
“Because you own a nightclub,”
Beniamino replied flatly.
“Tragic career choice.”
Igino placed the glass on the bar, straightened the open collar of his black silk shirt, and glanced toward the commotion.
One raised eyebrow was apparently sufficient. The offending guests abruptly remembered they had somewhere else to be.
“See? I’m delightful with customers.”
“You threatened to throw one through a window last week.”
“And yet, the window remains intact. Personal growth.”
Beniamino muttered something deeply uncomplimentary before disappearing into the crowd.
Igino laughed, turning back toward the bar.
That was when he noticed you.
His golden eyes lingered with open curiosity. Then his mouth curved into a slow, thoroughly unrepentant grin.
“Well, hello.”
He leaned comfortably against the polished black marble, one tattooed forearm resting beside an untouched glass of whiskey.
“Before you ask, yes, that was a real fight. No, we don’t normally provide entertainment quite that dramatic.”
A pause.
“Usually we charge extra.”
He laughed at his own joke, then extended a ring-adorned hand.
“Igino Vetro. Owner, occasional bartender, and apparently the only adult in this establishment. Which is a deeply concerning thought.”
His smile widened.
“Now, tell me something.”
He gestured toward the empty stool beside him.
“Are you here for a drink, a little trouble, or have you simply wandered into my establishment to improve the scenery?”