“I’m overjoyed to announce,” Governor Dubois said into the mic, “the temporary appointment of Emilio De Luca to senate—”
“You fucking motherfucker!” Everyone snapped their heads to the new voice, even Beast. A man, disheveled in appearance, with a wrinkled red tie that hung off his neck and a stained suit, ran into the room. At the top of the stairs, he pointed down.
It was Senator Hatch, but he looked nothing like the man I’d grown up watching. Senator Hatch had been in office as long as I’d been alive. With salt and pepper hair, a perfectly tanned face, and few wrinkles—likely due to a good relationship with a plastic surgeon—he wasn’t just a New York icon, he was prominent in the world. Hatch was one of the longest sitting senators and buddy-buddy with the Hollywood elite.
Which was why it had been such a shock, so horrible when Gabby told me the news.
He wasn’t pointing at Governor Dubois, though. He was pointing at Beast.
“You motherfucker!” he continued. “My life is ruined. You promised. You said if I stepped down you wouldn’t do it!” Security was coming in but the senator continued to run down the stairs, looking crazed. “Those men are liars!” Senator Hatch screamed. “They made a deal with me and they fucking lied!” I tried to follow where he was pointing now, but his movements were too crazed. “Governor Dubois is in league with the mafia and this new senator is just a puppet. This whole place is corrupt!”
Camera flashes were going off so quickly the whole place was illumined. Excited chatter broke out around us, and when Hatch’s hand finally settled, it landed on Beast.
On us, because Beast still hadn’t let me go.
Security ran into the room, gripping Hatch by the arms. The senator kept screaming as he was pulled out of the room, but it was too late. Everything Hatch had said had been recorded by the press and imprinted in the minds of the partygoers. My gaze moved over to where Crazy A stood, feeling like he was looking at me. Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy had joined him. All of their stares were on me, and they looked at me like I’d caused this.
It seemed there had been some kind of deal between Hatch and Beast, and apparently that deal had gone south. It made sense at least…in the ugly way that I was starting to understand was the true way of the world—not the world I’d grown up believing was Senator Hatch and his pretty face and pretty words, but Beast’s world. All four of them were looking at me like I had ruined everything. I looked away, but Gabby’s words took root inside of me.
You’ll still be a princess if you run away, you’ll just be a princess without a kingdom.
I knew something had just happened. Something I could never run away from.
Something irrevocable.
Twenty
“Governor Dubois is in league with the mafia and this new senator is just a puppet. This whole place is corrupt!” Anteros gripped Frankie, fingers curling around her forearm as flashes went off. Senator Hatch was finally fucking dragged away, but the damage was already done. The stares of his Wolves were hot on his neck, like fire branding him, a searing reminder of his incompetence.
All the work he’d done with Rhys the past few months was for nothing. He could bribe some of the reporters, but not all of them; there was always the noble one. As Hatch got dragged around the corner, Anteros’s grip on Frankie tightened momentarily then loosened before he shoved her off and went to find Rhys. Time for damage control.
“Wait,” she called, and he paused as if the cadence of her voice commanded him. “The reporters are coming toward me. What do I do? What do I say?” With a frustrated growl, he spun back around. This was just another reminder of his fuckup. No one should know about her. She was his goddamn slave. What business did he have dressing her up, bringing her to events like this?
Grabbing her arm, he dragged her from the dance floor. Frankie stumbled after him, struggling to keep up with his pace. Lucio Pavoni’s home was massive and anterooms lined the entire ballroom. No one ever went inside the rooms—most had been empty since the day Lucio bought the place—which was exactly why he was heading in their direction. When he’d arrived at one, he curled his fingers around the doorknob and pushed it open, shoving Frankie into the empty room. As he was shutting the door, her indignant voice stopped him once again.
“You’re just going to leave me in here?” she yelled after him. “For how long?” He paused, hovering over the porcelain doorknob. He looked back and their eyes locked. Her sea glass gaze was frightened, unsure, and he wanted nothing more than to rush in and take her in his arms. Instead he shut the door without an answer. The dance floor was still a mess of press and excited chatter. The band wasn’t playing any music.
How the fuck had this happened? How had he not seen this coming? This should have been a great night. Anteros should have been reveling. After years of planning, months of stringent timelines, he’d finally placed a man in the government—but that was all fucked now. His eyes scanned the room, looking for Rhys, but instead they caught the gaze of Crazy A.
Crazy A didn’t look surprised by the events; he looked knowing. Taking a sip of his drink, Crazy A’s harsh, clinical glare never wavered from Anteros. Ripping his stare away, Anteros scanned for the man he’d intended to find, finally doing so a few seconds later. Rhys was standing next to the steps, sweating and rubbing a handkerchief across his bald head. Anteros pushed through the tittering crowd, elbowing them out of the way, ignoring shouts.
“How the fuck did this happen?” he demanded, grabbing Rhys by the collar.
“I, uh, tried,” Rhys sputtered. “I tried to tell you. I told you he was upset and I was concerned about damage control.”
“You didn’t try hard enough,” Anteros said, letting Rhys go. He stumbled back and rubbed the handkerchief even faster across his bald head. Anteros stared at him, wondering what had happened to the man who had turned his gun on him in the alley. It was like he had used up all of his grit in that moment years ago.
“He’s still senator,” Rhys pointed out weakly.
“There’s no point if he doesn’t get re-elected.” Anteros was talking mostly to himself. He knew this wasn’t Rhys’s fault—it was his, and that’s what made it so fucking awful. He’d never made a mistake this catastrophic before—never really made a mistake ever. His eyes wandered to the door he’d just shut. He’d been planning on staying up on the stage with Emilio, but his focus had strayed, eyes wandering to the woman with perfect brown curls and striking blue eyes.
Frankie.
She’d been on the floor, looking sad and forlorn, and he’d had to know why. That ended up being yet another mistake in what was an endless stream of them. It was like a pressure inside him, the desire, and it was only sated when he was near her. He knew Crazy A and his Wolves were right. None of this would have happened if Frankie wasn’t in his life. Even after everything, though, he wanted to go to her. He wanted to open that door.
With a frustrated grunt, he ran his fingers through his dark locks and shirked his gaze from the door. Across the ballroom, his Wolves watched him. Unlike Crazy A, their expressions were a mixture of everything he was feeling inside. Anteros gripped the banister and turned from them, from Rhys, from the entire fucking thing, and then walked up the stairs.
He’d fucked up.
For the first time in years, he’d fucked up.
The frenzy was dulled, the sounds muted. In this room of death, Anteros could forget what had just happened for a moment. The man in the bed took rickety breaths like he was trying to pass rocks through his lungs. Slowly, Anteros walked over to the bed and sat next to Lucio. He was getting worse and worse, his coloring sallow. It had only been a few weeks since Anteros’s last visit, and his condition had worsened astronomically.
When Lucio first started showing symptoms, it was slow at first. A stumble here, a trip there. The occasional slurring of words. Then one meeting, he fainted. After that, the boulder rolled down the hill. Not even a year had passed since his illness had taken hold, an illness
doctors had yet to diagnose beyond dementia, but it was obviously going to kill him.
Anteros gripped his hand and stared into his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lucio was dead by the end of the week. This was the man who’d taken him from Venice, who’d given him a new life. Lucio wasn’t kind and had often reminded him of the fact that he wasn’t a Pavoni, but there were much worse things to be than an outsider.
“I bet you feel great about yourself.” Anteros snapped his head up to see Dario laugh behind him. Pulling his hand free from Lucio’s, Anteros turned to the councilman, keeping his face blank. Standing like a shadow in the doorway, The Cuck regarded Anteros with a look of pure satisfaction and a drink in his hand.
“Is something on your mind, Cuck?” Anteros asked. Dario scowled at the less than friendly nickname and walked farther into the room.
“I wondered what you were up to with Emilio all these months. Now I know,” Dario said. “Absolutely nothing.” Dario laughed again, his body rolling with the movement. Anteros narrowed his eyes for a moment then responded by laughing as well. His laugh was mirthless and cold, menacing in its rumble.
Dario could laugh all he wanted; in less than a week, he would be dead.
Anteros stood up and walked over, patting the councilman on his shoulder. He kept his palm on Dario’s shoulder a little longer than necessary so Dario would have to slide out from under him. With distaste, Dario wiggled his way out from Anteros’s massive grip. Dario then walked to the bed, setting his drink down and taking his seat next to Lucio, pulling the clammy hand between his own, brassy ones.
“I’ll never know what this man was thinking bringing you into the Family,” Dario said, staring into Lucio’s face. I have the same question about you, Anteros thought, but he shrugged and walked out of the room. He got nothing out of sparring with Dario. The Cuck was an old, bitter man with nothing to offer the world.
When he entered the ballroom, the press had been removed and the band had gone back to playing. Everyone was dancing, drinking, and mingling as if there hadn’t just been a scorned senator in the room. Only the scandalized looks on the guests’ faces gave anything away.
Anteros spied his Wolves near a pile of fake display presents at one of the many cocktail tables propped up near the walls. Crazy A had joined the group and he watched Anteros approach with narrow, curious eyes. When Anteros sidled up to the table, they all waited for him to say something…anything.
A few moments passed, a cocktail waitress appeared, and Anteros ordered a drink. Still nothing had been said. When his drink came, Anteros took a draw, the burn coating his throat. He finished his drink and set the empty glass down on the table. While his Wolves watched him with eager, albeit worried looks, Crazy A’s stare was something else entirely. It was smug. Bitter.
After what felt like another ten minutes, Big O asked, “Where’s the slave?”
Anteros shrugged. “I threw her in one of the anterooms. Can’t remember which.” That was a lie. Anteros remembered the exact room and wished he knew exactly what Frankie was doing. Was she sitting on a couch? Staring at the door? Had she’d taken off the small black heels that made her stumble?
At the lie, his Wolves released a collective sigh—all except Crazy A. While the others started laughing and talking, Crazy A’s stare never wavered.
“Tonight was a clusterfuck,” Little O said. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“Ever,” Big O amended.
“Not true. Remember July of 2000?” Pretty Boy asked. Big O laughed at the memory, which caused Little O to start laughing as he remembered. All three of them drew from their memory, talking about the epic failure that was July, the job that had lead to Beast being put in charge of all deliveries to The Institute.
Anteros bent his head, the ghost of a smile coming to his face. Big O had nearly lost them their account with The Institute, but here they were. He thought to Frankie in the room. Maybe things weren’t so bad… Then Crazy A’s callous voice drew his head back up.
“That was nothing compared to this,” Crazy A said. “But then we’ve never had a job go south with Anteros in charge.” Their stares met and Anteros clenched his fists at his side. He’d used his name again, this time in front of the Wolves.
“Uh, yeah…” Pretty Boy took a draw of his drink. “First time for everything.”
“And last,” Crazy A said.
“Yeah,” Anteros replied. He leaned forward. He shouldn’t let Crazy A get to him, but dammit he was unhinged. “There could be a last time for a lot of things.”
“I suddenly need a refill,” Little O said.
“But we have drinks right here,” Big O said, not getting the hint. Pretty Boy grasped his arm, tugging him from the table. Anteros didn’t watch them leave, stare still on Crazy A.
“I noticed the slave was talking to one of the older De Luca women,” Crazy A said innocently when they were gone.
“And?” Anteros asked. Crazy A shrugged, but it was contemptuous and insolent. His silence said everything. “Just let it go. Let it fucking go man. This isn’t like it was with you,” Anteros continued, frustration spilling over like a pot left on the stove too long. Crazy A leaned forward, meeting Anteros in the middle. Anteros clenched his fist tighter, staring into Crazy A’s cold, unrelenting eyes.
“I’ll let it go when the blood is drained from her body,” Crazy A replied, his impassive tone now icy. Anteros stared into Crazy A’s eyes. He thought they’d gotten over the past—or at least put it behind them—but his bitter tone betrayed him. This was about much more than getting rid of a threat. He wanted to get even. A second more passed and then Anteros slammed his drink on the bar and spun around.
As he walked away from the table, Crazy A’s laughter drifted over his shoulder.
When Anteros came back for Frankie, the party was dwindling and only drunks and wait staff were left. Emilio had left when Dubois left, hours ago, but that whole thing was fucked. Crazy A had disappeared after the confrontation at the table and Anteros stayed to watch his Wolves pick their prey for the night. He’d even done a few shots with them, so by the time he came to Frankie he was a little buzzed.
Frankie was lying down on a couch. The room was dark, but the light pushing in through the drawn curtains made the darkness navy blue. Every color was muted, her red dress subdued and dampened. The gold molding appeared bronzed as if the absence of light had weathered and decayed it. Dots of New York City light snuck in just underneath the hem of the curtain, like rogue merriment.
“Frankie?” Anteros asked, wondering if she was asleep.
“I’m tired,” she replied, unmoving. Anteros advanced toward her. It was nearing three in the morning and the party outside the room had just barely ended. Frankie looked so small and fragile on the couch that his mind drifted back to when he’d fed her dinner. More specifically, he thought of what she’d shared with him. In that instant his mind flipped through all the times she’d looked tired, fragile, and pale. A brief, horrible thought invaded him.
Instantly he snuffed it out.
“It is late…” he murmured, trailing a hand along her back. She sat up at that, her face catching the moonlight. She looked beautiful, ethereal. He sat next to her on the sateen, Victorian couch, fingering a lock of her curled hair. She turned away from him, the lock falling from his grasp.
“Please…” she whispered. “Please not tonight.” Her shoulders hunched, her breathing unsteady as she kept her chin down, interested in a spot on the floor. His palm fell on her shoulder, grasping the red satin of her dress then sliding until it fell on the exposed skin of her collarbone.
She shuddered.
His hand spread, splaying over her neck.
Still she didn’t turn. His hand gripped her neck, forcing her to turn and then her eyes locked with his. Her crystal gaze burned him like frostbite—hot, cold, uneven, angry yet lustful.
“You left me.”
“Do you remember what I told you while we were dancing?�
�� Her gaze transformed, anticipation and something else, something primal filling the blue orbs. She nodded slowly. “What did I tell you, Frankie?” Anteros lowered his hand into her dress, capturing the peak of her nipple in a sharp pinch.
She gasped, leaning toward him. “That you didn’t have time to properly punish me.” Anteros twisted her and her mouth fell open wide. He twisted harder and she asked on a gasp, “Do you have time now?” The car was going to be there soon. He didn’t really have time, but he would make it.
She needed to be punished. For everything. For tonight, for this past month, for everything she did to him.
“Take off your dress.” He could see the war raging on inside of her brain when he commanded her. Part wanted to stand up and slap him, to leave, but there was a piece of her that called to him, he knew, because there was a piece of him that called back. She slowly got up and undid the zipper at her side, her dress falling in a heap of satin fabric at her feet.
“You’ve been very good so far, Frankie, so I’ll give you a choice.” He stood up, running his thumb down her jaw. “You can either end your punishment right now and walk to the car, or beg me to go easier on you.”
“Like this?” Her eyes popped. “I’m naked. There are people out there.”
He shrugged. “Not many.”
She jutted her chin out. “I’ll never beg you.” At her words, Anteros gestured to the door. Frankie looked to the door, to him, and then back to the door. With a bold breath, she took a step and opened it. Her face transformed when she realized just how many people were still out there. The sound of lingering music and partygoers drifted inside and Frankie quickly shut the door.
She turned back.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Oh Beast, I want you so bad. I’m begging.” His cheek quirked, but he said nothing. Leaning back into the couch, he draped his arms over the sides and studied her. In the dark she was no less radiant, but he could tell the silence was making her uncomfortable. She rubbed one smooth arm, looking around.
Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning Page 32