The Beast was the only one with leeway to walk around, and he did. He left my side every few moments to talk with someone else. Halfway through the funeral, my eyes drooped. I was so tired and it was so boring. Maybe that was a terrible thing to say, but I held no sentiment for Giovani De Luca. He was a murderer and a wife beater; he was better off in the ground.
“Frankie Notte?” a man whispered at my side. I look to see who it was, but he added quickly, “Keep looking ahead.” I stared as the priest continued to read from the Bible, feeling hot despite the cold weather.
“My name is Levi, I’m an undercover cop at the 72nd precinct.” I didn’t respond. Gabby had never shared the name of the cop she was crushing on, but I had a gut feeling this Levi was him. I had no idea why he was at the funeral, blowing his cover to me, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it.
“I helped cover up Giovani’s murder with Gabby,” he continued. Not very well, I thought, my eyes flashing to Gabby, face still invisible under her black veil, and then to Beast, who was still talking with a group of men I didn’t know.
“What do you want?” I hissed.
“It’s not what I want, it’s what you want,” he whispered. “I can help you. I want to help both of you.” In my peripheral I saw Beast walk away from the group of men and make his way back toward me.
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up,” I replied. “Go away.” I didn’t know if Levi did go away since I kept my eyes forward as directed, but he did at least shut the fuck up. The Beast settled next to me, my heart pounding. I focused on the priest, trying to act normal. A minute passed and I let out the breath I was holding.
Then I sucked it back in.
The Beast pulled me closer and my eyes popped open. He pulled me to his chest, covering me with his coat, and then lifted up the back of my dress. My eyes spun frantically in their sockets, wondering if anyone could see what was happening. They were all too busy paying attention to the priest. At least the guy—Levi—wasn’t next to me anymore.
“What are you doing?” I hissed. It was pointless, completely pointless to question the Beast. Why did I still think I had any control?
At least he somewhat hid what he was doing…unlike other times.
His cock was at my bare ass. Was he going to take me now? At a funeral? Hot tears branded my lids. People looked at me with sympathy, just another mourner. If only they knew.
He’d been ignoring me for days and of course now he chose to shower me with attention. It was sick and twisted, just his style. He didn’t enter me with his cock, though. Instead he snaked his hand around and slid his fingers under the lace of my lingerie.
His skin was so hot and that was all I could focus on. While my cheeks were numbed by the cold, his hot hand settled over my naked flesh. I swallowed, waiting. One long glide of his middle finger slowly separated my lips. I clenched, trying to keep his fingers still. That made him laugh.
“We’re at a funeral,” I said, mostly to myself. Just when I was sure I’d reached the bottom of his depravity, I realized he was bottomless.
I would never stop falling.
He chuckled, pulling me closer and entering me at the same time. “I’m bored.”
While the priest lamented a life lost too early, talked about heaven and those who would be lost to hell, the Beast fucked me with his finger. People cried around me, sniffed into handkerchiefs, and he rubbed me until I was slick and wet.
“Don’t act like you give a fuck about Giovani,” he whispered into my ear. “You covered up his murder.”
“Wh-why?” I stuttered against his ministrations. Why had he helped if he’d known I’d been lying the entire time? More importantly, what was I going to have to give up in return? I couldn’t think of much else I had left to give. The Beast didn’t respond, another question that would be left answerless.
“I’m going to make you scream. Here.” He pulled me against him, filling me with another finger.
“No,” I pleaded, but it was to myself, a cry to hold on to my sanity even though with each tweak and motion of his finger, my belly ached to lie back. Give in. Let go.
“Yes,” he growled. I bit my tongue as his thumb rubbed against my clit. I tried to breathe evenly as he slid gently along my folds, up and down, massaging me. I worried that I had become a game, that all he wanted was for me to come for him, and then I would be tossed aside. I had started wondering lately what it would mean to be tossed aside by the Beast. He wasn’t going to kill me, that was clear, so what was he going to do with me? What would happen if he really got bored with me?
It was too much living with the Beast. Worrying about what he would do to me, worrying about keeping my dignity, eventually giving in—my psyche just couldn’t handle it. It also didn’t help that he was actually pretty stellar in bed. Each time my body betrayed me, my mind moved closer to joining my body’s team.
Even here, at a freaking funeral, I couldn’t hold back the flood. As he rubbed me slowly, meticulously, a sigh left my mouth. He wanted me to scream, and I knew he was going to get his wish.
It was a lost cause, a war already decided.
The sparks had caught and I could feel myself going with them.
And when I opened my mouth and the scream finally fell, I fell to the ground as well—no, really, I actually fell. I was so fucking confused as the world shift sideways, my body colliding with the ground. Wet snow tickled my back and neck.
It took me a minute to come back to reality, and when I did, reality had changed. Beast was on top of me, the mourners were screaming.
Bullets were flying.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, staring up at him. His hand held my head, keeping me pressed to the wet, cold ground. His sharp chin was against my forehead as his eyes darted furiously around us.
“Saving your life.”
Twelve
Anteros reached across and brushed a bit of broken glass from Frankie's cheek. She flinched but stilled, and he continued to rub the dirt and debris from her face. She watched him warily.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He pulled back his thumb, hovering above her cheek even though there was nothing left for him to swipe away.
“I didn’t get shot.” She swallowed. “I don’t think…I don’t think anything else hit me.” That wasn’t what he meant, but he wasn’t about to clarify. Instead he nodded and sat back.
Nikolai pulled to a stop at the docks. There would be no mourning today—not that there would have been much for Giovani anyway, but the pretense had been shattered. Anteros ran a hand through his hair. He would meet with the Wolves, who would already have their own ideas as to who’d orchestrated the assault. Rhys too. The Council would want to meet with him, but he would put that off as long as possible.
When Nikolai opened the door, he got out.
“Where are you going?” Frankie gripped his forearm. He stared at her fingers, dusted with dirt, the radiant skin beneath was like a sunflower hidden beneath earth. She crushed the fabric of his suit as he attempted to leave. Her eyes were wide, pleading.
His voice was hoarse when he responded, “Nikolai will take you back to the penthouse.”
“Okay.” Her voice didn’t waver and she looked away. It was the same callous strength he’d come to expect from her over the short time they’d spent together. Anteros expected her to go inside herself, to harden to petrified wood and quickly calcify all that she was so that nothing—especially him—could get to her, but still she didn’t release her hold of his arm. Anteros waited, but Frankie looked gone, her eyes misted. It was like she didn’t even notice him though her fist still clasped his suit.
Anteros knelt, Gucci shoes smashing the snow. He had every intent to rip her arm off him, tell Nikolai to drive away, and go finish business.
Instead he placed his own hand over hers and said, “Come.”
The discomfort was palpable. The minute Anteros entered the building with Frankie in tow, everyone closed up. His Wolves and Rhys watched si
lently as Anteros walked through the office. He knew what they were thinking; it was what they had been thinking yesterday at the warehouse, even if Crazy A was the only one to say it aloud.
“Giovani is dead,” Anteros said, addressing the Wolves as snow flurried around them. “The Council is distracted, which means plans for Emilio will go smoother than expected.”
“Is she in the car?” Crazy A asked, interrupting him. “Did you bring her tonight?’
Anteros glared. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Pretty Boy, Little O, and Big O shifted.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Crazy A growled. “Forget The Council, the bitch in that car is going to ruin everything, just like the delivery.” Anteros had been purposely putting space between himself and Frankie for the past few days. It was less than a week before Emilio was to be put in place, and he couldn’t afford any distractions like at the dinner. When she’d shown up at his office, begging for her friend, somehow all of that was forgotten.
“I know what the fuck I’m doing,” Anteros said, turning to walk back to the car.
Anteros took a seat behind his desk, noting that Crazy A was absent. Not showing up to a meeting without warning was something none of the Wolves had ever done before. It was a huge disrespect.
“Who is responsible?” Anteros asked, pushing Crazy A to the back of his mind. Frankie sat herself on the ratty couch by the window, staring out to where ice dotted the Hudson. Only the sharp curve of her cheekbones and jaw could be seen from beneath her hat. The tall black thing was entirely too extravagant juxtaposed against the fogged warehouse window, but it was what the funeral had called for. She turned and he caught a glimpse of her eye, just as quickly it disappeared beneath layers of matte and shiny fabric when she returned her gaze to the window.
She looked like a Victorian lady fallen through time. The collar of her ebony dress went up to where her throat betrayed her unease with large gulps and was tied with a black satin bow that fell to her rising breast. The bow was held together with a diamond broach, and soft velvet fell to the hands she pressed against the windowpane and kept falling beyond the knees she crossed, to her ankles.
Elegant, but beyond that, bold.
He remembered seeing her for the first time before the funeral. Something had occurred to him: if he kept dressing her like a queen, people wouldn’t question her ascension. He shook the thought quickly; the soft velvet had bunched just as easily as any fabric. He’d been able to grip it, pull it up, and do whatever he wanted to the girl beneath, just as he had with all the other dresses she wore.
“Who is responsible for this?” Anteros asked again. Everyone in the office exchanged looks. Since the night Anteros had missed the delivery with The Institute things had been strained. “Well?” Anteros repeated.
Rhys was the first to speak up. He looked to Frankie then back to the Beast. “I think you’d prefer we discussed this in private.”
After Frankie had been escorted out, Anteros turned to them, impatience on his face. None of them had taken a seat except for Little O who lounged in the chair. Standing uncomfortably, arms folded, feet wide, they watched him, waiting.
“What?” Anteros snapped.
Pretty Boy ran his fingers through perfectly coiffed hair, eyes darting to the men in the room. There was obviously something on their minds. He could see it pressing against their lips, words they wanted to say but were keeping inside. Like bees inside their mouths, the buzz was loud against his ears, and the pain of keeping it inside was palpable.
Rhys shifted. Big O looked to Pretty Boy. They still stood, which was out of the norm.
“Do you know who did this?” Anteros asked.
“No one has come forward, exactly…” Big O said.
“Was it the Russians?” Anteros asked, brow furrowed. He had mostly destroyed the Bratva, the Russian mafia, years ago, but you never know—they were like weeds.
“It could be The Institute…” Pretty Boy said, eyes flicking away so he didn’t have to make eye contact. Anteros scowled. The Institute was known for getting pissed, but they often gave warning first. Plus, the way Pretty Boy spoke belied that he thought it was something else.
“Am I playing twenty questions?” Anteros asked with a growl. “How many guesses do I have left?
“We have reason to believe the Pavoni Princess is behind the attack,” Big O started.
Beast stood from his chair. “What? She’s alive?” He thought to Frankie, sitting downstairs in the warehouse, dressed like a queen.
Little O shook his head and sat up a little bit in the chair. “No. Dumbass means the rumor is behind the attack. We know there have always been radicals within the Pavoni family…” Little O trailed off, probably thinking about the rumor. “We think the rumor has given them strength.”
“Apparently there’s a rumor that you have a girl who may be the princess,” Pretty Boy said. Anteros sat back down and reached across his desk. Grabbing a loose piece of paper, he crushed it in his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them he already had Nikolai looking into that rumor and whether there was any merit to it.
Instead he said, “That’s bullshit, and you know it. She’s my fucking slave, the daughter of some loser in Jersey.” Even as Anteros said the words he didn’t quite believe them.
“After today’s attacks,” Rhys said, stepping forward. “The veracity doesn’t matter.”
“You know what you have to do,” Pretty Boy said.
Anteros exhaled. “I know.”
“Your position was untenable before,” Rhys said. “Now it is…”
“Now everyone thinks you have a pretty little Princess Peach,” Little O started.
“And you have to kill her before a-Mario comes looking,” Big O finished, tacking on an exaggerated Italian accent.
“I said I know,” Anteros growled. Standing up, he gestured to the door. “Leave. With all the shit that went down at the funeral, I’ve got a fuckton of work.” He sat back down, not bothering to watch them leave. It wasn’t so much work that drove Anteros to send his men away. The idea of killing Frankie was fucking impossible and he was not eager to have them see his weakness.
Focusing on his clenched fist, Anteros thought about business. In the few weeks Frankie had been in his life, he’d made more mistakes, cost himself more money, and made more senseless decisions than in his entire life. He knew his men were right; Frankie needed to be terminated. With an exhale, Anteros stood, but when he looked up, Rhys was still there.
“This may not be the best time,” Rhys said, shifting slightly.
“Spit it out.”
“It’s Gabriella,” Rhys continued. “She must be remarried, right? She still hasn’t born any children.” Anteros headed to the door. He hadn’t taken off his coat, which was still dusted with snow and dirt from the funeral.
“I said as much to the official council,” he replied. “I assume you have a person in mind?” That was how he’d procured Gabriella’s life. Gabriella was a broodmare who hadn’t bred, he’d reminded them. To kill her now was a complete waste.
“This would be an excellent time to move into Africa,” Rhys said, following him.
Anteros nodded. “Make the arrangement.” Anteros remembered the look on Frankie's face when she thought The Council had believed her story. She’d tried so hard to hide her joy. Like a child told not to guess at what presents lie beneath the wrapping paper, she shook the box anyway to try to figure it out. He hadn’t corrected her assumption.
Together he and Rhys left the office, and Anteros walked down the stairs to where Frankie waited. He imagined the look on her face when she discovered Gabriella would be sold and sent away. The Council would also be unhappy that Ekwensi wouldn’t take the De Luca name…but all he could picture was Frankie’s face.
When the car pulled up to the penthouse, Frankie was asleep. Her head rested against the juncture of between the seat and the window in what looked to be an uncomfortable position, but she was completely
out. Anteros assumed she was not used to staying up for days like he was. He leaned forward to wake her, but stopped short, hand midair.
She looked so peaceful. Her lashes fell against smooth honey cheeks and she breathed even, steady breaths. Her lips were slightly parted. The tone of her skin was paler, almost feverish, and Anteros assumed that was due to lack of sleep or the day’s events.
Nikolai opened the car door, breaking the spell and ushering in the light from the garage. Anteros stepped out and without thought, immediately walked to the other side—her side—and opened the door. He pulled her out from her car door into his arms. She stirred a little but then situated herself against him, head on his chest.
There was something right about holding her.
Something that fit a piece that he hadn’t realized was missing.
Walking past Nikolai, who was stunned to the spot, Anteros pressed the button for the elevator and stepped inside. He saw himself in the reflection of the brassy walls. Her head fell right into the crook of his neck, obscuring her face. His arm encircled her waist and his hand spanned the length of her ass. His other arm carried her beneath her knees. Looking at their metallic reflection, the words of his Wolves echoed in his mind. He knew he needed to rid himself of Frankie, whether by ending her life or somehow selling her.
He couldn’t figure out which was more merciful.
He couldn’t send her to The Institute—once a contract was forfeited they didn’t renegotiate—but he could still sell her. The Institute wasn’t the only way to sell a woman. Still, the type of man who buys a woman isn’t usually the type to treat them right. There were exceptions to the rule, but it would take time—months, usually—to do the proper background checks and personality tests to weed out the psychos and sadists.
Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning Page 21