Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

Suddenly life just doesn’t work.

  I wanted that.

  With a jagged sigh, I dug a nail into my palm, trying to stymy the thoughts of Beast that flowed through my heart at the thought of love. Darkness settled into the car as Nikolai pulled into the garage. We all have our parts to play, he said. I knew my part. It was the lead role, and the most important one. Junior high me would have been flipping out, because she really wanted the lead in the musical before she got too sick to audition.

  Now I not only wished I could be recast, I really wished I could just drop out of the play, go home, and play soccer or something instead. I knew deep in my marrow that once I started playing this part, I wouldn’t ever go back to being Frankie Notte. Once I stepped into the play, the only way the curtain fell was with death.

  Nikolai got out of the car and I saw him walk toward my door through the tinted glass. My face got hot and I bunched the soft fabric of my coat. I always thought when I died it would be obvious, like the casket funeral type of death, not this ambiguous thing, this Alzheimer’s of the soul where I was not only forced to watch myself die but be an active participant, where I took the dagger and plunged it into the soul of Frankie Notte so I could play the role of princess.

  Nikolai opened the door. I exhaled deeply, smiling to keep from crying, and stepped out. Just as I got out of the car, Nikolai grabbed me. With a surprisingly firm grip, he kept me in place. I stared at him, waiting.

  What now?

  “You must not let him break you,” he whispered against my ear. “Become whatever or whoever is needed, even if it is the antithesis of what you are now. Shed your skin and don another, so long as you survive, and remember this last thing: no matter what you do, no matter what happens, he is the one who set the fire that forced you to rebirth yourself.”

  Hours later, I stared at the fire in the library, thinking about what Nikolai had told me.

  Talk about a mind fuck.

  It was comforting in a way, but I felt Nikolai was saying it more about himself than me. What if I already had been reborn? Sighing, I turned back to my book. A copy of Nautical Knots by some obscure British writer was on my lap with a decoy next to me. I had to master a very complicated knot in less than two days and since I had no access to the internet, this was the way to do it.

  “Nautical Knots.” I heard his low, sultry voice before anything else. It snuck inside my blood, vibrating through my veins and body. I didn’t even hear his footfalls or the sound of creaking floorboards. The next second he was by my side, a nearly black lock of hair falling over an intense bluegreen eye. Raising a brow, Beast leaned over and picked up the book I had beside me.

  “Don’t even get me started on what I thought that was.” I raised up the decoy book, deflecting. “You really need a system here.” Beast thankfully took the bait, dropping the book on knots I’d been reading and going instead for Shakespeare.

  “Romeo and Juliet,” he commented. “My only love sprung from my only hate.” He smiled wryly and my breath hitched, my heartbeat stuttered, before I realized he was quoting the play. I looked at his quirked lips, remembering the verse in my head.

  My only love sprung from my only hate

  Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

  Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

  That I must love a loathèd enemy.

  I sighed. It was just more mind tricks. Raising a brow, I took the book back slowly. “I thought none of these belonged to you.” Eyes shrewd, I waited. The copy of Romeo and Juliet I held was worn, beaten, obviously read, and often too. I assumed that was because it had been given to him, though.

  As I studied Beast, waiting for him to reply, I’d already come to my own conclusion. Despite whatever he had told me in the beginning, every single book in this library was his. I should have realized it sooner. After all, it was Shakespeare who wrote that the wise man played the fool, and Beast knew the Bard so well he was quoting him to me by memory.

  Yet another trick I’d fallen for.

  But I wouldn’t fall for another one ever again.

  He shook his head. “You’ve forgotten, Frankie. I said a few do.”

  I laughed coldly. “Ah, right.” He clasped his hand over mine, gently tugging me up from the chair and into his arms. I waited, breath pulled. He’d hardly talked to me since the night before, since I’d lied to him. His deep gaze was utterly unreadable. I wondered if he would punish me.

  Then he pushed my hair behind my ear.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I…” I stuttered, gaze flickering from him to the fire. What was going on? I’d been waiting for punishment, for some kind of anger from him after lying about my period, but this was not that. Beast pressed his face into my neck, lips against the skin. I felt the connection deep inside me, shivers ran all through my body, and my teeth tingled like I’d eaten too much sugar.

  “Did men tell you that all the time?” he asked, voice hot on my neck. “Did they ever compliment your mind? It’s like a labyrinth, twisted and uncertain, filled with traps that would fell a lesser man. But there are rewards too, and I imagine once you reach the center, the treasure is unparalleled.” At his words it was like a gong hit my gut. One single thought resounded in my body. How unfair that the man who obliterated me entirely is the only one to ever know me so completely.

  He licked a trail from my neck to my earlobe. I gripped his shoulders. He bit and tugged at it, pulling the skin between his teeth. “What are your plans for New Year’s?” he whispered the question just below my earlobe.

  “Oh I don’t know,” I said, hating how breathless I was. “Probably go out with some friends.” He laughed, a harsh sound in his chest like it didn’t get used often. Like lighting a fire in a fireplace after years of no use. His hand snaked into my hair and he tugged me back slightly so that I could see into his eyes.

  Then he kissed me.

  Devoured me.

  Claimed my mouth in seconds. It was hot and fast and over too soon.

  He let me go and I stared up at him, waiting. “When I get home you will be asleep in my bed,” he said, then let go of me completely. Beast walked out of the library and I waited until he’d turned the corner. When I was sure he was gone, I fell into the chair. My limbs were like jelly, I was hot and breathless, and so, so confused.

  He’d said to fall asleep in his bed, but when he’d left, it was only the evening. With help from Nikolai, I learned that Beast wouldn’t be back until very late. I finished studying Nautical Knots and headed out of the library.

  I took a detour in the kitchen to check for cameras and blind spots. There was something I needed from the kitchen, something that was essential to my plan. I noticed a few black, shiny bugs, but there was at least one way I could get the thing I needed.

  Feeling empowered, I headed to my room to read a little bit from Sofia’s journal. Now that I was taking on this role, I felt even more compelled to read her life, as if she could teach me things, prepare me for the role I was about to step into. There were a few pages missing after the last I’d read, the one about Emilio, and I hoped it wouldn’t be too confusing. With my finger on the thin, starchy paper, I read.

  When I met Alessio he confirmed what the hushed tones of Mama and Papa had me guessing: a war has started.

  My eyes widened at the first line. A war? With a breath, I continued.

  The death of Lucio Senior has the Pavoni sons scrambling for the patriarchy, and we are all going to pay the price. I already know this will be different than the Night of the Bleeding Crowns. I can feel it. Even tonight, Alessio has said nothing about us leaving. I brought it up with him but he just changes the subject, says it is not the right time.

  I hold my belly, fearful for my unborn child, uncertain how to tell him now.

  How do I tell him I am pregnant? How? With everything that is happening?

  When Lucio Pavoni Senior and my grandpa, Massimo De Luca, married into the Marchesi family, it was different. It was only one night.
The story goes that the Marchesi family was the richest family in their small Italian town. It was no secret then that the Marchesis were a mafia. In return for his two daughters, Lucio Senior and Massimo would come to work for him.

  Instead they killed him. In what is known as the Night of the Bleeding Crowns, both Massimo and Lucio Senior walked into their new father’s home and took his head. They hardly even needed to sneak, as he had welcomed them inside. They took his head and hung it outside the palatial estate, declaring the new regime. It’s after that that the stories change.

  There’s the official story, and there’s the story I overheard. The story we all grew up hearing is that my grandpa believed so deeply in the Pavonis he didn’t dare try to take the reign for himself.

  But I heard another one. I overheard Grandpa Massimo talking one day. He said he saw the blood pour onto Marchesi’s bed and knew if he attempted to take the reign from Lucio Senior, he would see his own blood one day. He went on to say that he knew that no one could wear a crown without it pricking blood from the head that wore it. Since Grandma was already pregnant, he didn’t want to risk it.

  Lucio Pavoni became the Boss, and my grandpa his right hand.

  That was only one night. I know this will be different, because this is war. We all will bleed, even those without crowns. If only Alessio would run with me while we still can.

  I set the journal down, unable to continue. My fingers rested on the paper and I stared forward, not really looking at anything while Sofia’s words echoed in my skull. We all will bleed, even those without crowns.

  Twenty-Four

  The bloody, severed heads of The Council hung from the balcony, as if piked in some medieval castle. They were all there except Dario, who Anteros saved for last. Each of their faces was twisted in a dying breath, the face of their final mortal moment. It was garish and undignified, nothing like the men they had professed to be their entire lives. They were faces of surprise and indignation, of cowardice when confronted with a loss of steely privilege.

  The blood dripped slowly now, unlike the moment of their death when it had gushed quickly and with purpose, painting the banister red and violent. Now it was lethargic and calculated, building into a bulbous tear that fell with a drip into an already big pool on the floor.

  Anteros adjusted his rolled sleeves completely drenched in blood. Maybe it was ostentatious, but no one would question him. The blood from the bodies pooled around his shoes; where people usually got high, drunk, and danced, now blackish red liquid pressed against his soles. It shined even in the darkness.

  Only a few dim bulbs lit the room and the dingy yellow light blurred the lines. Even the bodies appeared faded in the darkness.

  “I haven’t seen you get this bloody in years,” Little O commented. Anteros turned from the severed heads, grinning at Little O. Next to Little O’s feet four headless suits slowly soaked up blood, their necks finished with expelling themselves.

  “It’s for a good cause. Finish up here.” Anteros raised the knife in his hand to gesture at the headless bodies on the floor. The knife gleamed like it was satisfied with a job well done. When Little O started readying the bodies for the cleanup crew, Anteros headed for the stairs, his shoes squeaky with blood.

  It had been awhile since Anteros had felt happy, if that was what this was. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually felt the emotion, even. Climbing the stairs, he thought this must be it. His limbs felt lighter, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face. Earlier in the library with Frankie, it had hit him, like the buzz of really good liquor. News of the councilmembers’ abductions had already reached him and everything was going according to plan. The coup was going to work.

  There was no one left to oppose him.

  It must be happiness. Beauty, the drug they sold in the warehouse, promised the feeling for forty bucks a pop. No wonder people went broke. His hand was slippery against the banister, blood sliding against the polished wood. It didn’t matter; the entire warehouse would be cleaned in the morning, and when the cleaners came, they would spread the word. They would see the heads and then everyone would know.

  The Council was through. The crumbling columns they had been propping up with Anteros’s back had finally been knocked down. Even if you hated the Beast, you’d have to follow him.

  Anteros entered the office. Pretty Boy and Big O held Dario on his knees, hands on each of his shoulders. Against the wall, Crazy A leaned. Even if he hadn’t been present for the planning, he’d at least shown up for the finale. Dario struggled against the hold, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to get out.

  “If you think you can get away with an unsanctioned kill of a councilmember—” Dario paused to laugh, looking up at Pretty Boy and Big O then back to Anteros “—you’re stupider than I thought.” Anteros slowly advanced to Dario, bending down until he was eye level.

  “There is no council.” Anteros gripped Dario by the lapels, pulling him up. Still holding him by the lapels, Anteros shoved Dario out of the room, making him stumble down the stairs of the warehouse until he was in the middle of the room. Holding him up so that he could see very clearly, Anteros directed Dario’s attention up to the banister where the severed heads of the former council were piked.

  Dario’s eyes widened. Anteros thought it was the only time he’d ever seen Dario truly stunned. A flicker of fear passed over the man’s face, even. Dario was always a stolid, impassive man, never showing his cards, the perfect poker player. Seeing the piked heads of the councilmen had caused him to stumble, to momentarily flash his hand.

  “You’re next,” Big O said from behind Anteros.

  “Obviously,” Little O said a moment later.

  “It was implied,” Pretty Boy added with exasperation. Ignoring them, Anteros shoved Dario to his knees. Falling to the bloody floor, the man’s bespoke suit soaked red at the knees. Whatever fear or surprise had been on his face before vanished. As he looked up at Anteros, he was once again the picture of impassivity.

  Anteros could respect Dario in his death, at least. Faced with the grim reaper, he did not balk. Unlike the other council members who had pleaded and begged for their lives, Dario faced him with a steely glare, goatee pinched around a thin emotionless line.

  “Last words?” Anteros asked.

  “You can kill the entire family,” Dario said. “You still won’t be a Pavoni.” Anteros narrowed his eyes as the man continued. Dario’s impassivity broke with a bitter grin as he said, “Your blood is trash. You will never be recognized as a true Boss of this Family.”

  Clenching his jaw, Anteros raised the knife and sliced through the councilmember’s neck with one quick motion. It rolled clean off his body, landing on the floor with a thud. Seconds later, Dario’s headless body lost the ability to stay upright, landing on the floor as well.

  Hand gripping the knife tightly, Anteros stared at the final councilmember’s head. Dario’s severed head was unlike the others—cruel and impassive, mocking even in death. With a deep, craggy exhale, Anteros turned and faced his Wolves.

  One by one they got to their knees on the blood soaked floor.

  Little O lowered his head. “Boss.”

  Big O followed, bending his own head. “Boss.”

  Pretty Boy continued, tilting his head in succession. “Boss.” They kept their heads bowed for a moment while an unfamiliar feeling filled Anteros’s chest—was it validation? Pride? The moment continued until Little O lifted his head and looked to Crazy A, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded. Big O and Pretty Boy lifted their heads next, looking to Crazy A.

  He shrugged and said, “Boss.”

  All at once, everyone got to their feet.

  “Well, that was climactic,” Big O said, shaking out his shoulders.

  “Do we have to stick that one up there too?” Little O asked, gesturing to Dario’s severed head. “I think four is pretty, you know, intimidating.” Anteros shot Little O a look that indicated, yes, the head did need to go up on t
he balcony. “Make Crazy A do it, he hasn’t done shit,” Little O whined.

  Crazy A stepped forward. “No.”

  “But—” Little O started.

  “I only came,” Crazy A interrupted, “to tell Beast how I’m gonna kill the girl.”

  “You still haven’t killed her?” Pretty Boy furrowed his brow. “Cutting it close to the wire.” Technically the deadline had passed. He should have killed Frankie before The Council’s death, but one more fucking day wouldn’t matter.

  “I’m doing it tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, pushing past Pretty Boy to get to the stairs. The blood was starting to dry, making his clothes stiff and starchy. He kept a spare set of clothes in the office—all of them did. He climbed the stairs, the footfalls of the rest of the Wolves hot behind him.

  When he reached the office, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Then you won’t mind if I tell you how I’m going to do it.” Crazy A’s impassive, slightly amused voice drifted to him from behind. Anteros paused, fingers on the blood-crusted buttons of his shirt.

  “Tell me how you’re going to do it,” Anteros said, continuing to shed his clothes. “I don’t give a fuck, but you’re wasting your goddamn time because I’m going to kill her.” Anteros ripped off his bloody shirt, not bothering to finish unbuttoning it. Throwing it on top of a plastic tarp on the floor, he faced the room. The other Wolves had come into the room and began doing the same, unbuttoning their shirts and pants, throwing them into a pile on the floor.

  “I was thinking I’d make you shoot her,” Crazy A said, voice light and airy, nonchalant. There was an edge to it though, sharp, like the tip of a needle…so fine you couldn’t see it, but lethal and malignant. Anteros paused. He knew what Crazy A was implying, the history he was alluding to. Ignoring him, Anteros continued undressing.

  Big O and Little O paused, exchanging looks. Pretty Boy stopped with one arm in one sleeve, then slowly continued putting the shirt on.