Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  “Then where would he go?” It isn’t until Arno cocks an eyebrow that I realize my fingers are already flexing, aching to rip, tear, destroy. I clench them into fists, but they still fucking shake. Funnily enough, it’s her face that I picture ramming them into, not Stacatto’s. “Where?”

  “The fuck if I know,” he snaps. Then he seems to realize something, cocking his head. “Dante...you can’t really mean to go after her—”

  “Your phone.” I hold out my hand, and he resists for a second before reaching into his pocket with a sigh. “Son of a bitch. You are going after her. That little bitch...”

  When he slaps the phone onto my palm, I turn away and barrel through the doors of the bar. Icy rain lashes at the ground outside, smearing the gray horizon. It’s already past sunset. How fucking long had Mack and I fought? What had seemed like minutes must have translated to hours...

  Hours that he’s had her. Espi claimed that he’d kill her—but I knew better. Vinny wouldn’t put his little dove out of her misery just yet, and the caged songbird who’d tasted freedom surely wouldn’t be inclined to remain captive again for very long...

  The thought goads my fingers into typing a single number into the keypad and when a gruff voice answers I don’t waste any time on formalities.

  “Where is Stacatto?”

  “Ah, Vialle,” Van Hallen grunts, sounding too tired to fuck around either. “Want to tell me why my phone has been ringing non-stop with women—all with broken English, mind you—who are more than willing to testify against an illegal sex-trafficking operation?”

  I flinch, caught off guard. So, the girl’s plan worked after all—a victory that will soon be turned against her. For every girl she set free, Stacatto would be sure to make her suffer. Who knew what the fucker had already done to her. He’s had hours, after all...

  “Stacatto.” I clip the name, and it cuts like a whip. “Where the fuck is he?”

  Van Hallen takes a second before answering. “Vialle, I wouldn’t tell you where Stacatto was even if I knew—but let’s say I did know,” he adds before I can cut him off. “Let’s say...hypothetically, that I just received a tip that the man bought a house in the waterfront district. Walnut street. Number 216. And if this tip panned out, I wouldn’t then be an accessory to a crime, now would I, Vialle?”

  I hang up. With the address burning in my brain I cut through Mack’s territory, my gaze on the fenced-in perimeter. It’s only when a fist rams into my shoulder that I realize I’m being followed.

  “Slow the fuck down,” Arno snarls, moving to stand by my side before I can whirl on him with a blow of my own. He wears a leather jacket over his tattoos with the hood drawn to cover his hair—the same tactics he used when he ran deals for Dino to avoid being spotted. “What? You think I’d let you go after this fucker alone?” He jerks his head behind him to the scattered remains of his crew who fall into step like jackals in a pack. I spot Dall and Francisco among them, their eyes sharp, eager for a fight.

  But then my eyes hone in on two figures who don’t belong. One of them is just a kid who clutches his injured hand to his chest and does his best to fight back the pain. “Es—”

  “I’m coming,” he insists before I can say a word. Fuck, he almost sounds like me.

  The other figure lingers a few paces behind the others, his cocky smirk bloodied and smug. “Did you really think I’d let you boys have all the fun, Kitty?” he demands, his voice still rough despite the bruising around his neck. He reaches into his pocket and tosses whatever he pulls out into the air only to catch it in a closed fist. “We’ll take my van.”

  “We need a plan,” Arno grunts as the van approaches the address Van Hallen gave me—who at the end of the day was still a fucking cop. Any other time I wouldn’t go near the place with a ten-foot pole.

  Tonight? Tonight I can’t think. I can only taste. My tongue clings to one flavor in particular, and I spit it out onto the floor of the van, not that it helps any. Heroin had been easier to come off of than her. On dope I’d been meaner, too. Colder, liable to beat the living fuck out of anyone unlucky enough to meet me in the cage.

  Now? It’s impossible to think above the buzzing. To drown it out, I’ll barge in there alone through the front fucking door. I’ll drag her out by her hair if I have to. Right there in front of her beloved fiancé, I’ll kill the bitch myself—slowly.

  I’ll make her regret taking it upon herself to break one stupid fucking promise.

  My thoughts drift while Arno plots out a method of attack out loud. “We’ll sneak up from behind. Case the property for an hour. Think this through...”

  But there is nothing to plan. No thoughts to think.

  Gritting my teeth, I scan the narrow street, searching for the house of that prick. No matter what he does to her. What he says. How badly he hurts her. How loudly he makes her scream...

  She won’t ever truly belong to him again. Not if I have any fucking say in it.

  “Dante!” Arno snaps his fingers beneath my nose. It’s only then that I realize the van stopped moving, but he has his arm barred over the door to stop me from climbing out. “Dante, wait—”

  I shove him off and wrench the door open. When my boots hit the pavement, I’m a beast again, aching to kill, tear, rip, bite, destroy.

  But when the sound of sirens reaches my ears and smoke fills my nostrils I realize that I won’t have very much left to sink my teeth into.

  Nearly a block ahead, a gated townhouse burns beneath the glow of a wild, uncontrolled fire. Firemen attempt to battle the blaze, but I can tell even from here that they don’t waste too much energy trying. It’s a lost cause—the kind of shit that screams “intentionally set.”

  “We...we don’t know if she was even in there,” someone says—maybe Espi. They may not know, but I do. Her scent rides the wind, mingling with the smoke. She was here.

  The little bird got tired of waiting for me, apparently; and she set her entire cage on fire.

  I’ve been stabbed before. Shot once. Beaten. Punched. Stomped. None of that shit felt like this. It’s part amusement, part hatred, part fucking rage, and I can’t see anything but black. Vinny won after all—he’d taken her soul right down to hell with him.

  And all I can do is...laugh.

  The sound trickles out of me like blood. First in unsteady drips, and then a steady, gruff stream. I laugh so hard that I have to cling to the van for balance. Then the laughter turns into a different sound—deeper, more guttural—and the hand I brace against the vehicle door becomes a fist.

  A hammering thud echoes off the inside of my skull at least ten times before I finally connect it to the metal meeting my knuckles. Again. Again. Again. The blood and dents beginning to decorate the front of Mack’s van are irrelevant. I can’t stop fighting. I can’t stop punching. I can’t stop. Not even as a sharper, higher pitched sound battles the shouts and curses echoing after every hit I land.

  The newer sound is insistent—more annoying than the typical buzzing. A song? I don’t know what about it makes me turn to notice Espi’s good hand reaching into his pocket, his mouth twisted in confusion as he withdraws a cell phone.

  I snatch it out of his grip before he can answer. His little story didn’t mention Stacatto giving it back before he ran. When my eyes scan the screen, the name flashing across it makes me grit my teeth so hard they crack: Pyro Girl.

  With my focus on the ruins of Stacatto’s latest hideout, I strike the call button and bring the receiver to my mouth. “Dan...Danny?”

  “She’s alive,” a man replies. Anger nearly short-circuits my brain—but his accent is different from Stacatto’s. It’s heavier. Eastern European. “If you want to see her again, you’ll do as I say.”

  I feel Espi’s eyes on the back of my neck, but I don’t turn around. I swallow hard instead and flex the fingers of my free hand. Do as I say? Is the little bitch really worth becoming some asshole’s puppet? Hell no. But when my jaw finally unhooks, I spit out the wrong word. �
��What?”

  The man inhales, but the sound doesn’t betray an ounce of emotion. He’s plotting the next stage of his plan, surprised that I even gave in this far. The girl claimed that Stacatto had a Polish man working for him. This fucker certainly sounds cold enough to have played Arno for the fool at a madman’s say-so.

  “Come to the riverbank. Alone,” he says finally. “Two blocks, make a right, first alley on your left. Leave your men behind—I cannot stress how important that is... I would really hate to snap her neck and throw her body in the river if you cannot comply with such a simple request.”

  “How do I even know that you have her?” I scan the street and spot a break between two houses where the sunset reflects off the surface of the river. I head toward it and thrust out a single hand behind me to prevent anyone from following.

  “You don’t,” the man replies, his voice steady. “I suppose you just have to decide how badly you want to see her again. Turn left.” The command comes before I even reach the mouth of the alley. The fucker must be watching. Wary, I drag my gaze along the row of houses and empty alleyways but find nothing of interest. He’s a slick bastard. “Take the next right,” he says when I reach the end of yet another alley.

  The direction is slightly different from the first ones he gave—it was a test, I realize, to see if I’d go charging in with Arno in tow. Still cautious, the fucker leads me in circles to further shake anyone who might be on my trail, but when I finally do reach the waterfront, there’s no one in sight. Before anger can begin to rise up, I hear a voice that sounds like it didn’t come from the phone.

  “Over here.”

  I turn a corner and finally spot a man standing in the shadows beside a dumpster up ahead. One hand holds a cell phone against his ear while the other casually reaches into his pocket and draws a gun. “That is far enough,” he says quietly, aiming the barrel over my chest.

  Armed with only the girl’s shitty knife, I’m the perfect target. I’m also a fucking idiot. Either way, the bastard has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll go down without a fight—but before the thought even fully crosses my mind the man jerks his chin toward the garbage bin. “Wait there,” he says into the cell phone. Then he hangs up and backs away slowly, never letting the gun slack for even a second. When he’s almost completely behind the dumpster, he stoops behind it and reappears with something draped over his shoulder.

  “Approach me slowly,” the man warns. “I will be able to tell if you plan to attack me, and while you may kill me, I’ll snap her neck before you can even take the first step.”

  Shoving Espi’s phone into my pocket, I blink back the red threatening to drench my vision. My fingers flex, but I keep them open as I start forward while sizing up the other man with the same scrutiny he analyzes me. He’s no average fuck, standing at about my height but with a stocky build that betrays a knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. His blond hair is slicked back, his chin sporting a slightly darker goatee. When he comes closer, I recognize the coldness in his eyes as the mark of a trained killer.

  “She is alive,” he tells me once I see the girl for myself, dangling limply against his back. “But I will warn you that she is in bad shape—I only just got her out in time. I will set her down between us. You reach for her slowly.”

  I don’t move until he does what he said. When I crouch down beside the woman lying on the pavement, I barely recognize her face beneath the bruising. Stacatto had enough time to do some damage. She’s wearing another skimpy black dress, but it only reveals more battered, broken skin.

  “She was badly burned,” the man states the moment my eyes settle on the red, blistering flesh spreading from her wrist to her shoulder. “The other arm is broken. Who knows what internal injuries she’s sustained. If you do not keep a doctor in your...establishment, then I suggest that you get her to a hospital as soon as you can.”

  I don’t answer, prodding the girl’s hip with my thumb. Her eyes are closed, her breathing noisy and uneven. She doesn’t even cry out when I lift her, jostling the limp arm that even I can tell is definitely broken. She’s worse than “pretty bad off,” but she’s alive...

  I’m not stupid enough to assume that it’s by luck.

  “Why?” I demand of the stranger who watches me with an expression I can’t read when I toss her over my shoulder.

  He shrugs. Then a real emotion taints his features, tugging on the corner of his mouth. “My...my sister was one of the women that you saved.” He pauses to let that statement sink in. “Anastasia, a foolish little seventeen-year-old girl who fell for the first man who offered to take her to America ‘to be a model.’ It wasn’t her they were after, however. I have experience in the military, and my...unique skillset makes me a useful commodity.” His tone falls flat. He discusses his own value the same way someone might tick off their eye color. “Stacatto wasn’t the one who took her—a ‘business associate’ of his did—but as long as I worked for him, he promised that she would stay alive...even if her soul didn’t remain intact.” His voice deepens, a gruff note straining the crisp edges. “A life for a life. I assume this makes us even. Besides...a man like Vincent Stacatto deserved to die alone.”

  I can’t fucking agree more.

  “I would have saved her regardless,” the man adds, “but I cannot pretend that I will not ask you for a favor that I am willing to repay. I need money to send my sister back home—but I am willing to work for it. If you are in need of a man with my...attributes, then call the number in your cell phone. Ask for Gino. With Stacatto dead, I am in need of a new employer, and my loyalty will lie with whoever is willing to earn it...”

  I don’t say a damn thing, but the man nods as if I’ve given a goddamn speech. “And one other thing,” he adds, frowning. “That boy. It was implied that he was you when his location was given to Stacatto—”

  “Given?” Something in my tone makes the man nod again, confirming a suspicion before I even have to mention it out loud. Espi hadn’t stumbled into Stacatto’s clutches by accident; someone had offered him up on a fucking silver platter.

  “The information came from one man,” Gino admits. “A Donahugh. I do not know how he came across such intel, but something tells me that it won’t be hard for you to track him down and ask him yourself.”

  The words barely finish leaving his mouth before he raises the gun again and backs away toward the nearest alley. “We will part for now. I would suggest that you not follow me.”

  I turn without bothering to note the direction he heads in. With only the sound of sirens to guide me, I run, straight through the upscale neighborhood and to the smoking ruins of Vinny Stacatto’s fucking castle. My eyes latch onto an ambulance as it starts up the driveway, and I pounce on the first paramedic who leaps out. One look at the woman in my arms is all it takes for the man to call for a stretcher.

  I don’t bat an eyelash when a cop appears just outside the door of the girl’s hospital room a little after midnight. Apparently “car crash” could only explain away some of her injuries, like the broken arm and four cracked ribs—but the lie doesn’t cover the burns or her partially missing ear and given how close she was “found” near Stacatto’s burning manor I’m not surprised that some skittish nurse called the police.

  I’m surprised by which cop shows up, however.

  Meeting his gaze, I shake my head once before he can even take a fucking step over the threshold. Then I rise to my feet, making sure not to jostle the kid dozing beside me. Nothing short of an earthquake could wake the woman lying in the hospital bed with “safe and legal” drugs flooding her system through an IV. Somehow, I still feel her eyes on the back of my neck as I cross the room without taking my gaze off the man lurking in the hallway.

  “Vialle.” Van Hallen jerks his chin toward the room, his expression gruff. “Isn’t it funny that not even a minute after you called we got a tip about a house fire at that very address? Yeah, very funny indeed,” he grunts though I don’t say a damn thing. “But, you
know the part I find interesting?” He hesitates for a beat as his eyes pierce my own like a laser honing in on its intended target. “That fire was a clear-cut case of arson, but I assume you know that already, huh Vialle?”

  “Are you trying to insinuate something, detective?” I wonder, keeping my voice down as a nurse scurries by with a clipboard clutched to her chest. “That’s what I thought,” I reply when he responds with only a lift of his eyebrow. “Well, I guess those Dick Tracy detective skills have paid off for you after all, huh? So, let’s just put the case to rest once and for all then, shall we? You’re right... I did it.” I step forward, kicking the sliding door to the room shut and then I hold out both hands, baring the wrists. “You got your fucking wish—”

  “You can knock it off with the smart-assed ‘detective’ shit, Vialle,” Van Hallen snarls. “And, it’s Interim Police Chief Van Hallen now.” He shakes his head, unused to the weight of the figurative crown that’s just been shoved on top of it. “Those girls you sent my way had interesting stories to tell. Some of them claimed to be smuggled over state lines for ‘parties.’ That makes it the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

  I bristle at the news of FBI involvement. This shit isn’t going to go away easily now. Van Hallen nods as if he can read my mind.

  “Of course, none of this is official until the press conference tomorrow, but you can cut the fucking heroic act now. I know she did it—I know she set that fire, and I’m not going to do a goddamn thing about it so you can take a step back, Vialle,” he warns.

  I say nothing, and I don’t move a fucking muscle either.

  “I am planning to reopen the Manzano murder case, though,” Van Hallen continues after a second’s pause.

  “Why? Stacatto’s dead.” I spit out the words, though I’m not even sure if I really believe them. At least in the girl’s case, he was alive and well. Killing a monster didn’t erase the scars they inflicted—I knew that for a fucking fact.