Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “This was her room…” He turned to Notte fiercely. “You stuck her in a closet?” Anteros grabbed Notte by the collar and threw him out of the tiny space. He landed on his back and proceeded to crawl away. Anteros looked from Notte to the crinkly destinations taped to the plaster.

  She deserved so much better, but Anteros knew firsthand that there was no choosing your parents.

  Anteros bent down, squatting so he was eye to eye with Notte, who still hadn’t stood. “I am going to return Frankie to you.”

  “What?” Notte’s eyes widened.

  Running a hand through his thick, dark locks, Anteros repeated himself. “And no Pavoni will bother you again. You have my word.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Anteros looked into the man, wondering what game he was playing. Was he going to try to negotiate for money?

  “I don’t want her back,” Notte said more firmly. It took a lot to surprise Anteros. A lot of people said they’d seen it all but really hadn’t. Anteros, though, he’d seen pretty much everything. You don’t ascend to the head of a crime family without seeing some fucked up shit. When Antonio Notte stared back into the eyes of Anteros, voice clear, and stated he did not want his daughter, for the first time in years, Anteros was surprised.

  Then again, he shouldn’t have been. He’d seen first hand how terrible parents could be.

  Quickly Anteros stood up, trying to regain composure, “What are you playing at, Notte?” he asked brusquely.

  “Nothing,” Notte declared. “Take the girl and leave me alone. I don’t want her.” Rage filled Anteros, white hot like the sun. He knew Notte was many things—craven, foolish—but this? Anteros reached and grabbed him by the neck, throwing him against the wall. He waited until Notte’s face reddened and then spoke.

  “You would throw your own blood to the wolves?” he asked. “What kind of man are you?” Notte clammed up, clenching his jaw. Anteros thrust him again. “Answer me.”

  “I should never have agreed to help a fucking Pavoni,” Notte spat. “No matter the money. Frankie and this fucking fairytale have cursed me! I used to be a good man, I had plans for a future, and now look at me—”

  “Explain yourself,” Anteros interrupted, curling his fingers tighter around Notte’s throat. “What fairytale? What do you mean you shouldn’t have agreed to help a Pavoni? Frankie helped you. She absolved your debt.”

  Notte paled. “I—that’s what I meant. What you said. I shouldn’t have taken any Pavoni money.” Anteros narrowed his eyes. Something was off. He dropped Notte and Notte stared up at him like a child who’d just been scolded. What a waste of life—not a man, not even a person, just taking up oxygen.

  “Tell me the truth,” Anteros said. “What fairytale?”

  “I am.” Notte rubbed his neck. “I just got mixed up is all.”

  “What fairytale?” Anteros bellowed.

  Notte dropped his head between his knees. “I just got mixed up…I just got mixed up…” He kept repeating it over and over again, like a child afraid of a monster.

  “If you are lying to me about anything, I will find out. I will come back,” Anteros declared. Staring at the man on the floor, he clenched his fists, deciding to deal with the problem once and for all. A man who would give up such a beautiful, smart, and rare daughter to death deserved to die. Frankie flashed into his mind, though, and he unclenched. With a sigh Anteros said, “You are lucky I gave the girl my word, otherwise you would be dead at my feet.”

  Anteros stared out the tinted windows of his town car up at Notte’s house. Frankie and this fucking fairytale have cursed me! That’s what he had said; Anteros hadn’t misheard him. He’d said Frankie and the fairytale had cursed him.

  The screen dividing him and his driver parted. “To Lucio’s?” Nikolai asked.

  “Yes,” Anteros replied, still staring up the hill at the small house. “But we have one stop to make first.” Anteros told Nikolai where to go, and the car pulled away from the curb. Dragging his attention from the house and Notte’s odd proclamation, Anteros thought back to the previous night.

  He vividly remembered the way Frankie looked up at him, bright blue eyes big and leery—and why wouldn’t she be? He thought back to the room—no, closet—he’d just been in, filled with small wrinkled photographs like wallpaper. Anteros knew she’d been thrown into the deep end, but he had no idea how shallow her world had been before.

  She was twenty. When he was twenty, he’d seen the world, seen bloodshed, was climbing the ranks, only a decade away from being the boss of the most dangerous and formidable criminal organization in the world. That room made him wonder.

  It was one thing to be a virgin, but Frankie appeared to have come from a world of complete naivety.

  With an exhale, he ran his fingers through his hair.

  Suddenly it made sense to him why she’d traded herself.

  She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

  The car slowed down outside a construction site. Snow was falling gently, making the industrial bank softer. The black partition slowly lowered and Nikolai’s golden mane appeared. “We’re here, Boss.” The partition lifted back up and a few seconds later, Nikolai opened the door. Putting one foot first, Anteros stepped out onto the snow-covered ground.

  He adjusted the lapels of his wool pea coat and nodded to Nikolai. “Be back in an hour.” Turning, Anteros faced the skeleton building. Steel beams and wood outlined what it would soon become. Tarp clung to the open sections as wind whipped it back and forth, and a razor-wire fence wrapped around the entire thing to keep people out.

  An hour was merciful.

  No one would question the screams because there was no one there to question them; it was an underdeveloped area. The sound of hammering, the sound of a drill—that was all very common. By the time the construction crew came tomorrow, the body would be cut up, poured into cement, and ready to disappear into the next wave of gentrification.

  But not before Anteros made a point out of him.

  Taking out a key, Anteros bypassed the razor wire and came upon the skeleton. When Anteros entered the room, the sound of the door echoing in the empty space had Arlo shooting his head up. Pale light streamed into the dank, barren construction site and Anteros's shadow was briefly emboldened before the door shut behind him with a harsh snick. Gray darkness enveloped them.

  Arlo looked like shit. After the beating Anteros gave him the day before, he was near death. His eye looked like it was out of its socket. His entire face was black and blue except for red drainage in the most garish of spots. His nose was swollen and jagged.

  “Boss?” Arlo’s shaky voice echoed. Anteros's Ferragamos clicked against the concrete in response, the loafers shining in the darkness. Arlo’s head shot to both sides as if trying to locate the source of the sound. Next to Arlo a table with a cordless screwdriver had been set up, along with pliers and a hammer, just as Anteros had requested.

  Anteros picked up the screwdriver and Arlo snapped his head to the side. His eyes adjusted to the dark and widened at the sight.

  “No, please, Boss.”

  Anteros turned on the screwdriver. “When a tree is about to fall, do you think it wastes time bargaining with the wind?”

  “What—” Anteros drove the screwdriver into Arlo’s thigh and the question was cut short by the sound of his scream. When fifty minutes had passed, Anteros's watch sounded. He pushed his sleeve back, the face of his watch bloody like red rain droplets on a windshield. Setting the pliers on the table, he returned to Arlo.

  His head lobbed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Blood pooled around his feet, reflecting the inky sheen of the dark room. His entire left arm was out of commission, obvious by the way it hung dead, the hushed tap tap tap of its blood draining into the bigger pool.

  Anteros grabbed Arlo’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. Arlo whimpered at the feel of Anteros’s fingers digging into his toothless mouth. “You are almost finished.” Relief washe
d over Arlo’s features. Anteros pulled out his knife, and relief bled from Arlo’s body even quicker.

  Death. He could see the word in Arlo’s eyes. Anteros kept his grip tight on Arlo’s chin as his other hand stashed the knife momentarily in his waistband. With the same hand, he undid Arlo’s waistband. Relief transformed into fear and dismay as Anteros grabbed Arlo’s cock. His eyes begged and pleaded as realization twisted inside him like the knife no longer promised to do.

  Anteros reached back for the knife and with slow certainty, sliced his cock off. Arlo’s scream was sharp and agonizing until it wasn’t. He passed out, but he did not die. He would die as slowly or as quickly as the blood drained from his body.

  With disgust, Anteros took the now dismembered cock and shoved it into Arlo’s mouth.

  When Anteros arrived at Lucio’s home, councilmember Dario “The Cuck” De Luca was reading a newspaper in the foyer, sun streaming across the sepia-toned paper in slats. Upon seeing Anteros, he folded his paper and stood. Dario was dressed in the usual three-piece suit, scowl ever present beneath his goatee. His hair was peppered with gray, wrinkles of disdain lining his olive-toned skin. The Cuck was father to Emilio Alessio De Luca, but also Gabriella De Luca, the halfwit he’d sent to tend to Frankie.

  The nurse came out and upon seeing the two men, immediately got flustered. Clearly Dario had been waiting to see Lucio, but custom permitted Anteros the first visit. She tugged her collar and looked to the floor. Smiling acidly, Dario sat back down.

  “It’s not like I’m a busy man,” he muttered. Flipping the newspaper page, Dario eyed Anteros’s hands, where there was still a bit of Arlo’s blood he had yet to clean off. “Busy day, I see.”

  “A nosebleed,” Anteros replied, following the nurse into Lucio’s room. Anteros would not mourn Arlo and he did not feel badly in the slightest for his actions, but he didn’t need The Cuck sticking his nose in business that didn’t concern him.

  When Anteros entered the ornate red and gold room, Lucio was sitting up in bed, which meant it was a good day. Still, the man’s eyes were glassy and far off.

  “Leave us,” Anteros said to the nurse and Lucio’s guard. Head bowed, the nurse backed away. The guard hemmed and hawed as usual, but still left. Anteros sat next to Lucio and took his hand. Immediately he began informing Lucio of the goings on, the way he did every week. Lucio barely blinked, bright blue eyes staring out a big window covered in sheer drapes. They blew with an eerie unseen breeze.

  Letting go of Lucio’s hand, Anteros moved on to the real reason for the visit.

  “Lucio,” Anteros lowered his voice. “Do you know anything about Francesca Notte?” He looked over to the doors, double-checking that the nurse was good and gone. Slowly, Lucio turned to look at Anteros and stared straight at him. His eyes were the famous Pavoni color: a crystal, cornflower color, like the sky liquefied.

  Anteros thought to Frankie, to her beautiful blue eyes, and to the famous fairytale every Pavoni learned from birth.

  “Yes?” Anteros prompted. “Do you know about Francesca Notte? Or,” Anteros lowered his voice further, “Francesca Pavoni?” Lucio blinked and turned back to the window. Anteros cursed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. He would see to Antonio Notte, that was certain, for making him feel and act like a fool. For a moment, Anteros had given in to the same insanity as the soldiers. Anteros lightly placed his hand on Lucio’s shoulder, then turned to leave.

  As the butler was handing him his coat to leave, Dario walked up. With the paper folded underneath his arm, he said, “I heard you inquiring about the Pavoni family.”

  “You were eavesdropping?” Anteros growled. Anteros afforded him the respect a council member demanded—his hands were tied in that regard—but eavesdropping? The man was practically asking to inexplicably die in his sleep.

  “Do you want to know what I know? Or I should I just continue on my way…” Dario trailed off, acting as if there was more to tell. Anteros hastily gestured for him to continue. “There were…rumors.” Dario paused, waiting for Anteros’s reaction.

  “Rumors?” Anteros raised his eyebrow incredulously.

  “Urban legend, a tale of a princess, stuff that gets passed around to the soldiers. There is no merit to them.” The way he spoke, it was obvious he believed there was at least little truth to it.

  Anteros scowled. This was what Dario had stopped him for? “The Pavoni Princess? Everyone and their mother knows that story.”

  “There are rumors…” Dario trailed off, shrugging coyly.

  “What rumors?” Anteros growled. Dario was obviously drawing this out.

  “Lucio Senior and Valeria had a fifth daughter, Isabella,” Dario continued.

  “I would know that,” Anteros replied quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Wouldn’t he? When Lucio Pavoni Senior had married Valeria Marchesi, they had borne only four children: Lucia, Lucio, Cesar, and Emilio. That was it. Anteros would know if the ones who started the Family had birthed a fifth child.

  “Valeria never wanted the risk this life brings for her family,” Dario continued with annoying serenity. “And supposedly Lucio Senior honored her wishes with the fifth child. No one knows what happened to her. Most say she is dead, but rumor has it she bore a child, and that child carried her name.” Anteros suddenly felt hot. What was Frankie’s mother’s name?

  “How could nobody know of her?” Anteros asked. “Of the child?”

  “Exactly. These are old wives’ tales of a long-lost princess that would ascend the throne as…” He gave Anteros a long, calculating look. “As now the blood is muddy.” Anteros returned Dario’s gaze with a steely stare. Dario was not exactly clean himself. Ignoring the fact that he had simply married into the De Luca line, he was part of the famous Sofia De Luca scandal. They called him “The Cuck” for a reason.

  “If you find the leadership distasteful, you’re always welcome to leave.” Anteros flipped his wool coat, allowing the gesture to expose the metal of his gun to the light. De Luca looked at it then smiled sourly.

  “I’m loyal to the Pavonis until the end.” With that, Dario walked into the bedroom of the still official patriarch, Lucio Pavoni. Anteros watched his steps, waiting until he had rounded the corner.

  I’m loyal to the Pavonis until the end. Anteros ground his jaw. That was what he feared.

  Nikolai waited at the curb of Lucio’s townhouse with the door already open. When Anteros slid onto the leather of the seat, Nikolai asked, “To the warehouse?” He was to meet with Emilio and Rhys that day but everything with Frankie had been so distracting. They could wait a little longer.

  “Home.” Anteros ran a hand through his hair. “Quickly.” Nikolai’s raised brow was subtle as he closed the partition. During the ride home, Anteros hardly noticed the cityscape, so consumed was he with thoughts of Frankie. He had allowed it to go on too long, the push and pull.

  He hadn’t taken her since the first night, but she’d left an imprint on him. She’d utterly marked his mind and not having her was driving him to madness. She possessed him, and not possessing her was sending him over the edge. He needed an exorcism.

  When Nikolai pulled up, he told him to stay in the car. It would only take a minute. He wondered if she knew the entire time—knew what she was doing to him. If it was a game to her, the way she twisted his mind and corrupted his life. If that was what she had planned when she’d traded her life for her father’s.

  She wasn’t in her bedroom and wasn’t in his, which only left one place for her to be. He advanced through the penthouse.

  The fireplace was glowing, crackling like the fire inside him. She was curled up beside it, a blanket over her legs, a book in her hands. The bright light reflected against her golden skin and her lashes fell across the clear blue of her eyes. Anteros walked over to her, his footfalls landing like violent thuds.

  He stepped to her, gripping her chin and pulling her attention to his so fiercely that the muscles in her neck stretched and cabled. Her breat
h quickened and so did her blinks, but he continued to stare into her eyes, a blue so bright, so penetrating they looked crystal. There were very few people he’d ever come across with that eye color.

  “Who are you?” Anteros barked. “Why are you here? Don’t lie to me.” Frankie dropped the book she was reading. Blanket now askew, a red glow shadowed the subtle peaks and valleys of her face.

  “Are you serious?” Her voice was breathless, the breathlessness of disbelief, as if her lungs were working overtime to understand. “I’m here because of you.”

  “Tell me your name,” he demanded.

  “What?”

  “Tell. Me. Your. Name.”

  “Frankie.”

  He gripped her chin tighter, the skin whitening beneath his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me your full name.”

  “Francesca. Valeria. Notte. You. Psychopath.” She paused then said, “Admittedly, the last part is new.”

  “Valeria?” Anteros dropped her chin and couldn’t help the widening of his eyes. As in Valeria Marchesi, of the original mafia family? The family that Lucio Senior had married into and then cut the crown off of in one bloody and decisive night? Anteros grabbed her shoulders, pulling her from the chair.

  “Who are you?” he asked. It was madness to think her the Pavoni Princess, but he felt himself succumbing to insanity.

  “Who are you?” she countered. “I’m Frankie. I’ve been Frankie.” She shrugged him off. “Weirdo.”

  “Who was your mother?” Anteros pressed.

  “Valeria Notte,” she replied. A part of him relaxed. That was different from the story, then. Dario had said the fifth daughter was named Isabella. He knew it was ridiculous to indulge this insanity, but he had to press. Had to know.

  “Her maiden name,” Anteros clarified.

  “I…” Frankie trailed off, her face freezing. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he hissed.

  “She died when I was young and Papa doesn’t talk about her.” Frankie pushed him, eyes filling with tears. “God, why are you doing this? Is this some kind of new torture? Remind me how little I know of my mother to make me cry? Why must you torment me?”