Beauty, a Hate Story the End Read online

  Nikolai had untied him, got him a tank, and spoke nothing of what had happened. They’d concocted the lie that Frankie drugged him and escaped, and that was all that was said. Anteros paused, touching the raised edges of the F. If he could go shirtless, he would. He opted for undershirts and muscle shirts because it was the closest to being shirtless.

  “Where was it found?” Anteros asked, throwing on a new shirt and heading back toward the couch.

  “It was left in front of the door.”

  Anteros nodded then said over his shoulder, “Leave.” Without another word, Nikolai withdrew. Anteros heard the door open and, he thought, close. Then, he picked up the book.

  Paradise Lost.

  It was the first book he’d caught Frankie reading. That was not a coincidence. The leather was worn, cracking, but still soft. He could still envision her reading it. Curled up on the wingback, face scrunched in concentration, wearing the ugliest clothes she could find but that did nothing to hide her beauty. The day was tattooed in his blood, because that day he’d given her rules.

  Rules she would break.

  Always fucking break.

  He opened the book farther, finding one page had been dog-eared and some words underlined. Next to the underlined sentence, she’d written a message. As Anteros was reading, the floorboards groaned. He snapped the book shut and turned around.

  Crazy A leaned against the wall, watching him with interest.

  “What’s that?” He nodded his chin at the book.

  “A book,” Anteros replied easily. “Come to take a reading break?”

  Crazy A clenched his jaw but only said, “The substance found inside the needle in the hotel Bible is proving difficult to analyze. It’s unfortunate the slave wasn’t killed on time, then none of this would be happening.”

  This was the game they’d played since Anteros had punished him. Crazy A didn’t question him outright, but he made sure Anteros knew his intent. A month ago, Anteros wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him over his fucking attitude, but now Frankie was fucking with his head.

  There were two stories to how Crazy A became “crazy”: the truth and the lie. For years the lie hadn’t bothered Anteros, but now when Anteros looked into Crazy A’s eyes, he saw a craziness that matched his own. A madness at being without his other half.

  With a deep exhale, Anteros walked over to Crazy A, calmly lifted him, and threw him against the wall.

  “Keep questioning me and I’ll take a tongue instead of some fucking fingers.” His eyes shifted to the nubs on the end of Crazy A’s hand where a thumb and pointer used to be. Crazy A tried to respond and Anteros pushed his elbow into his neck until he sputtered breaths.

  “I didn’t catch that.” Anteros pressed deeper until Crazy A’s face purpled, then all at once stepped off. “Get the fuck out.”

  Crazy A coughed, gasping for air. His face was crimson, eyes taut in a fierce glare, but he wordlessly walked back the way he’d come. Anteros waited until he was down the hall to lock the door and open the book.

  The message Frankie had written set fire to his blood. Before Anteros knew it, he’d thrown on a leather jacket and slipped out of the club.

  He’d started driving his own cars and bikes again—no more fucking town cars. So, after hopping on his Ducati, Anteros was in the heart of Manhattan in no time. One foot on the street, engine still running, he stared at a nameless beige building made of perfectly symmetrical stone bricks.

  Lucia Pavoni’s club.

  Although so much other shit went down inside you could hardly just call it a club. It was more like all the circles of hell shoved into one tight dress.

  “We know where she is,” Little O had pressed right after his twin’s death. “Let me go. Let me fucking take her out.” Anteros had ignored him because “taking Lucia out” was easier said than done; he realized that now. He’d grown up being told Lucia was a frail old woman stuck in Venice with nothing better to do than gossip. He would be swallowing that mistake for a while.

  Lucia was a Pavoni.

  He was a fucking fool for ever doubting her.

  Anteros turned off the engine after a few minutes but watched the building for over an hour. People went in and out, mostly ones he didn’t know, but a few he did, like De Lucas he wasn’t surprised were loyal to Lucia. One person caught his attention, though not his surprise.

  Governor Dubois, the fucking spineless prick who hadn’t been responding to any of their messages, entered the building. Anteros stared at the faceless black door Dubois had disappeared through as the wind kicked up, leather jacket stretching over his muscles as he flexed and relaxed his folded arms. He wondered how long Lucia had been in correspondence with the asshole, wondered if they’d been working together throughout their entire liaison.

  Curtains rustled on a second-floor window, catching his attention. Just half a face appeared next to the filmy fabric, but it was unmistakable. Skin like sunlight, eyes bright and blue. Frankie. Their stares collided, then she quickly shut the curtains and disappeared.

  That more than anything fucking enraged him. How dare she show up after a month away, give him a taste of what he’d been missing, then just fucking vanish? Goddamn tease. Even the curtains’ flutter after she’d gone was a fucking tease.

  She knew exactly what she was doing giving him that book, writing that message—and if she didn’t, he’d show her.

  Anteros tore out into the street. As much as he wanted to scale the wall and climb into Frankie’s room, it was too damn risky. One hour of recon wasn’t enough to know what else was in there.

  Back at the club, the first thing Anteros did was find the Wolves. In the VIP section, they reclined on a sateen couch and smoked hookah. Puffs of sweet-smelling smoke wafted into the curtained off area, making it hazy and foggy. Pretty Boy’s arms were lazy over the back of the couch and Little O sucked on the uncoiled hose, blowing a big puff. Their eyes were red and glazed. Crazy A didn’t participate.

  “Get the fuck up,” Anteros said.

  “We’re taking a vacation,” Little O responded, blowing another puff of smoke. “You don’t give us enough vacation days. We’re filing a complaint with OSHA.” There was a deadness to Little O, a glassy film that coated his eyes.

  Pretty Boy took the hookah and puffed. “That’s not who you file the complaint with.”

  “Fuck you,” Little O responded without heat.

  “You lazy fuckers are going to help me kill Governor Dubois,” Anteros cut in. Pretty Boy dropped the hose, which hit the polished floor with a clang.

  “That’s a vacation I can get behind,” Little O said.

  When Anteros finished filling them in, they decided grabbing Dubois before he reached his home in Albany was best. It would be easier, less messy, if they avoided the governor’s mansion. Assuming Dubois spent a few hours at Lucia’s, they only had a few hours to do the grab if they were going to do it that night.

  And Anteros wanted to do it that night.

  Pretty Boy drove and they arrived by dusk. The city was like an old photo, the blues and oranges of sunset muted by the gray of falling night. A light snow fell, dusting the cement. As the Wolves observed the door, Anteros found himself staring at the second floor, studying the curtains for the slightest flutter.

  It was almost two in the morning when Dubois’ sandy blond head came out. The guard he’d brought opened a jet-black umbrella, reflecting streetlights as it got wet. They got into a charcoal SUV—just one guard and one driver they noted, and pulled away from the club. Pretty Boy followed at a close, but not too close, distance.

  “Shit, he’s going to the private airport,” Little O said when the car made a left turn.

  “Knock him off the road,” Anteros replied evenly. Pretty Boy revved the gas until they were side by side and, with a violent jerk, swerved the Escalade. They caught the driver unaware and knocked the SUV into the guardrail, causing it to tumble down a small hill.

  Anteros thrust open his door,
Dubois’ screams for help turning to distorted yowls in the night. Gripping the metal guardrail with one hand, Anteros flung himself toward the overturned car. The wheels were still spinning, heat from the car warping the crisp night air. As Little O went and pulled Dubois from the upended vehicle, Crazy A put four bullets in the guard and driver—head and heart, two for each.

  “You’re so bad at returning our calls,” Little O said, grabbing Dubois by the hair. Dubois stopped screaming when he saw who’d come for him, but he grappled with the grip at his head as Little O shoved him head first into the Escalade. “It really hurts a girl’s feelings.”

  Pretty Boy slammed the door shut, the inky tinted window reflecting all four of their faces.

  Pretty Boy tied Governor Dubois to a thin, metal chair. In a soundproofed room at the back of the club, it was like someone had thrown a thick blanket over the place. Only the occasional thump of a heavy beat rattled the barren walls.

  “I don’t know what the misunderstanding was here, men,” Dubois said, frantically trying to make eye contact. There was a crescent-shaped cut bleeding into one eye, and his shoulder was out of its socket. Dubois was probably in pain, but he would be out of it soon enough.

  “Let’s talk this out like men,” Dubois attempted. Anteros shot a look at Pretty Boy, who then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a strip of fabric.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Dubois squirmed in the chair. “Hey wait—” Pretty Boy shoved the fabric into his mouth, tying it around his face.

  When Dubois was secure, Pretty Boy joined the Wolves near the door, standing behind Anteros. Eyes wide, Dubois still sought to make contact as if it would save him. Exhaling, Anteros put one hand on his head and regarded Dubois. A traitor, but more than that, a visage of his old life.

  “I tried doing it the Pavoni way,” Anteros said, folding his arms. “I tried wearing the fucking suits. I tried putting the words in my mouth. I thought if I did all of that, I would become who I wanted and get what I needed. The more I did that, the farther away I got. So I think I’ll do it my way.” Anteros flexed his knuckles, thinking about the book Frankie had left, and slowly advanced on Dubois. “I’ve been trying to fit a Beast into a suit for too goddamn long.”

  Anteros put a hand on the seat, gripping the metal back. He bent over Dubois so his breath was an unwelcome heat on the man’s neck. Dubois craned his neck to get away, but it was fruitless. Anteros was at his ear, his next words earwigs that would tunnel down and ruin him.

  “Anyone who gets in my way, dies. Anyone who fucks with me, dies. Anyone who screws me over, dies horribly.” Dubois yelled through his gag, shaking so much the chair screeched against the concrete floor. Anteros pulled out the gag and Dubois spat out cotton bits.

  “You can’t do this,” Dubois blubbered. “I’m a governor!”

  Anteros stood up straight, rubbed a finger under his nose. “You’ll still bleed.”

  “You’ll go to jail.”

  Anteros laughed. “I’ll be dead before then. You’ll be bone dust long before then.” Dubois continued to sputter as Anteros walked back to the Wolves. Pretty Boy and Little O eyed Dubois, bloodthirsty and eager. Placing a hand on Crazy A’s shoulder, Anteros pulled him aside.

  “I’ll give you guys a few minutes alone, but then he’s mine.” Anteros briefly glanced at Dubois then returned to Crazy A. Eyes wide, Crazy A regarded Anteros like he’d never seen him before. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Time starts now.” Anteros headed for the door, but Crazy A grabbed him.

  “Look.” Crazy A dropped his hand, rubbed it on his pants. “I’m glad you’re back.” Anteros stared into his eyes, knowing Crazy A would go ape shit if he discovered the real reason he was back. With a terse nod, Anteros left, Dubois’ frantic pleading silenced when the door shut.

  Anteros went to his room, walking along secret hallways that lined the club. Every room in the building had its own adjacent hallway, each one a dusky mirror of the main club. When he got to his room, he grabbed Paradise Lost, putting it under his arm and hiding it in his jacket. He took his time on the walk back, letting the Wolves have their fun.

  When he got to Dubois, the governor was leaking blood from his mouth, eyes, and nose, and was already missing a few fingers. Upon seeing Anteros, Little O set down the pliers and stood up. Without further communication, the Wolves left the room.

  The door clicked shut and Anteros pulled the book out, placing it on the table next to the wrench. Dubois wasn’t just a traitor, he was a glowing memorial of what he’d lost himself inside. So Anteros would turn him into an effigy, a bloody warning to never let that happen again.

  “I want you to know this will be public,” Anteros said, gripping Dubois by his bloody chin. “You’re not going to end up at the bottom of a lake with cinderblocks at your ankles. Your blood is going to drench the streets until the asphalt is stained and everyone knows who you fucked over.” Dubois’ one unbroken eye widened as Anteros released him, turning to the instruments.

  The scalpel was so cold it felt wet in his palm, but it wasn’t right. None of the items were—wrench, pliers, they all felt wrong. Weapons had their place, but he’d always relished the grinding of bone against bone, blood on skin.

  Anteros slammed his fist into Dubois’ nose, crushing it flat. It wasn’t until Dubois leaked brain matter that he finally reached for the scalpel. When Anteros had killed Arlo, he’d felt a tug on the restraints inside him, but now as he worked on Dubois he was finally undone. Ripped open. Freed.

  Anteros set the scalpel down, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and went to open the door. The Wolves were leaning lazily against the wall, but when the door opened and they saw him, they jumped to attention.

  “I need a box,” Anteros said. “Something special. I’m sending someone a present.” They looked beyond him and, seeing what was left of the governor, grinned and dispersed. Anteros shut the door and turned back, focusing on the book he’d set beside the tools. Anteros walked over, stepping over what little remained of Dubois, and picked up Paradise Lost.

  His bloody fingers smudged the paper as he turned to the words that had brought the Beast—the real Beast—back. Frankie had drawn a messy black line beneath the sentence Better to reign in hell, than to serve in heaven, and underneath it she’d written, Let me fall with you, Lucifer.

  Two

  Everyone heard the scream. It cut through the pounding electronica like a knife through butter and all heads turned to a woman holding a neatly wrapped gold box. Once it was clear no one was dead, they continued to party. The music never stopped.

  If the music stopped, there would be death

  “Oh my God,” the woman continued. “Oh my God, oh my God.” She was a “princess” at the club, but really just one of Lucia’s whores. I never got any of their names. They were just called princess. I still wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with me, but I suspected.

  The present she held was elegantly wrapped in gold leaf with a now untied red satin bow. Her grip trembled and she looked around with bright, blinking eyes. The red ribbon fell from her shaky grasp, twisting down to the floor, catching the movement of everyone around her. Lucia’s men swarmed her and I wanted to get there before she disappeared like the others. After the previous night, I felt like the box was a message.

  I didn’t know what the fuck I’d been thinking going back after the night I’d killed Big O. I could have been murdered or captured and tortured, but I hadn’t been able to control myself. My eyes trained on what little of the present I could see, every molecule in my body wanting to see how he’d responded. I squeezed through people, trying to get to the princess. Even though she was clearly upset, no one cared.

  Mirrors wallpapered the walls and dangled from the ceiling. In the darkness, they became like water at night. Instead of seeing a clear reflection, I got glimpses of shiny objects like a sequin dress or a man’s expensive watch. Everyone wore the latest in haute couture, and all the me
n wore black tie. I stood out like a sore thumb in my jeans and t-shirt.

  Tea lights floated in the darkness, reminding me of Disneyland—or at least the pictures I’d posted on my wall. Of course the princesses here were trapped and the magic was just smoke and mirrors.

  Lucia’s club was unlike any I’d been to before. All kinds of debauchery went on here—gambling, whoring, and if they didn’t want to have sex, rape. I thought I’d seen the depths of depravity with Anteros, and then I met Lucia.

  When Lucia had taken me up here the day I’d carved Anteros, I’d hoped we would leave New York City. My city of fairytales had transformed into one of nightmares and I wanted to get out, but we’d only gone deeper, into the heart of Manhattan. She’d stopped outside of a building with no name and we went inside. I realized now that was how they wanted it. In this clandestine, dirty world, everything is a secret. Even their very existence.

  Now that I was close enough to the princess, I saw red stained the edge of the gold foil wrapping paper. Dread filled my gut. The princess had tears in her eyes, was mouthing something to a soldier as two more approached her.

  “You don’t like pretty dresses?” Someone breathed into my ear, pulling me against him. “I can get you pretty dresses.” His breath was stale, like his lunch was digesting and he hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth.

  “You must be new here,” I said, peeling myself from him. No one touched me. Lucia had a rule about it, I assumed. The men watched me—they all watched me—and sometimes that felt awful, but then I remembered the basement, and I shut my thoughts the fuck up.

  “I thought the rule was you girls didn’t fight.” Be more obvious you are the scum of the earth, I thought as he tugged me against him. You’d think the asshole would get thrown out, but not in this club. In this club, his perversions would merely be redirected to the right caste of women.