“Gabriella De Luca is not the daughter of Sofia De Luca. She was born years later to some random whore Cuck had been fucking.” Anteros reached for her wrist, pulling her back to his chest.
“How did this happen?” she asked, sliding into his embrace. “How does an entire mafia believe such a brazen lie with so many holes?”
“History is written by the strongest pen.” It was a lesson Anteros had been forced to learn the hard way, through trials with the Pavonis and studying world history himself. History was taught as fact, when in reality it was just men telling their experiences—or worse, what they wanted you to see. In the Pavoni world, history was taught so you didn’t see what really happened.
“I’d hoped the truth would make things clearer for me,” she whispered, tilting her head on his chest to see him. “I’ve been living with Lucia for over a month and I’m no closer to learning anything about my family.”
“If I knew something, I would tell you,” Anteros replied. “I can at least promise you that.” Frankie grew quiet and Anteros grabbed his discarded tank, draping it over her body, making sure to leave the A visible.
“Anteros…” Her voice caught in the air. “There’s something you need to know.” She pushed herself off him, the tank he’d placed sliding to the floor. She held her hands in her lap, an unreadable expression on her face.
“It’s…I…the leak…” She trailed off, fiddling with her hands in her lap, keeping her head down.
“Do you know something?” Anteros asked. She lived with Lucia, so it stood to reason that she knew things. She could even know something about the leak. Before, he wouldn’t have pressed her, but after everything they’d shared, it was time. “Frankie, do you know anything about who’s leaking my information?”
“I want to come with you,” she said in response. “There has to be some way.”
He placed a palm on her cheek. “There isn’t.” Frankie tore from his embrace, eyes falling to the floor. It must have been five minutes before she looked at him again and when she spoke, it was barely a whisper.
“Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Anteros narrowed his eyes. “Something was on your mind before, Frankie.”
“It’s nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He placed a thumb to her forehead, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. She swayed into his touch, closing her eyes. “Tell me, mio cuore.”
“I promise I don’t know anything,” she said. “I wish I could tell you something.” Anteros etched a line from her forehead, to her neck, down to her newly branded A. In his life Anteros had known nothing besides subterfuge and deceit. He never imagined he could trust anyone like he trusted Frankie—deeply, in his marrow.
Earlier she’d surrendered to him on her own. She’d taken his initials on her body willingly, happily. So instead of pressing, Anteros pulled her into his arms and back down onto the blanket. He snaked his arm around her body, cupping his palm between her legs possessively.
For the night, this was enough.
The light streamed into the church and Frankie’s A blazed at him while she lay back on her elbows, smiling up at him as he put on his shirt. Forces beyond their control were ripping them apart from all sides, but it was a pain that let him know they were fighting.
Before he’d been numb.
He would never go back to that life.
“I just realized I have no shirt to wear.” She sat up, folding her arms across her chest. Without hesitation, Anteros reached to the material at his neck and pulled the tank over his head. He bent to his knees and handed it her. She took it wordlessly, sliding it on before reaching for her discarded pajama bottoms.
They had shared a lot with each other the previous night. For the first time in his life, Anteros hadn’t layered his responses under multiple levels of motive—how would this benefit her? How would this benefit him? He’d simply answered her. It had been refreshing until Frankie had closed herself off. Like now. Her eyes were distant, muddled, scrunched and on the worn carpet, but focused on nothing at all.
“Mio cuore.” Anteros put a finger to her chin, tilting her gaze to his. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said, tearing herself from him. “It’s nothing.” Bullshit, Anteros thought, but he wasn’t going to push it. Whatever it was, she would tell him eventually, or it wasn’t important.
He was sure of it.
She stood up, A on her chest poking little red dots through the tank that fell past her thighs. They kissed at the door, she went right, he went left. He followed Frankie at a distance, waiting until she’d arrived safely inside Lucia’s—as safe as she could, considering where’d she gone—before going to his bike. Then he rode back to his club.
Inside Crazy A would be waiting to tell him how he planned to kill the woman he’d just branded. With Emilio dead, the Wolves pointed out that the Pavoni throne was back in view. Anteros should have cared. He should have been inside, planning with the Wolves, and seeing what new information Levi had for him.
He noticed he’d been saying that a lot—should.
Anteros had never been a man to shackle himself to shoulds. What he wanted to do was destroy Lucia, raze her empire, and claim Frankie. He was fucking tired of shoulds getting in the way. While Anteros was sitting on his bike, unable to reconcile the shoulds and the wants inside himself, he slid his hand into his jean pocket. He hit scratchy paper.
It was the letter Frankie had given him, the one she’d taken from Lucia—he’d completely forgotten about it. Anteros uncurled his palm and studied the piece of paper. It was a letter in Italian.
* * *
Dearest Lucia,
* * *
My love, you’ve given me the only joy I’ve ever known in this world. I was too harsh with you before, and I hope you will forgive me for my passion. This child ruins nothing, but can give us everything we never dared to hope for. The minute I can get away I’ll come to you in Venice. We’ll figure out a way to keep our child safe, and then we’ll be together. I’ll bring the pendant because even if fate decided against us, you should wear it as all the true matriarchs before you have.
* * *
I love you, my heart.
* * *
Your Lucio
* * *
Anteros read and reread the letter. Even when snow started falling, he stayed in the parking lot reading. His brain told him it had to be wrong, but the lead in his gut spoke the truth. He gripped the page until it nearly tore in two, unbelieving as memories of the first day he met Lucio flooded his brain and puzzle pieces fell into place.
Twenty years ago, almost twenty-one, Anteros had followed Lucio, preparing to pick his pocket. He had been so young, the memories got warped, but one thing was clear: a child had been born.
Years later, Anteros acquired Sofia De Luca’s journal. She’d written in her journal about Lucio and Lucia, speaking of a child born out of wedlock. Anteros had ripped the page out to use as leverage. Sofia never said whose child it was, and Anteros had always assumed it was a De Luca bastard.
Now the truth was blinding.
Anteros had been present the day Frankie was born. She was the child of Lucia and Lucio Pavoni, daughter of brother and sister.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Frankie could never know the truth.
Ten
Light streamed into the church, crisscrossing over Anteros’s naked back. Something was telling us we shouldn’t be together. First I was his slave and he my captor, and now I was walking across enemy lines to sleep with him. Some people were made to be together, the stars aligned for them. Other times they imploded, creating a black hole. Still, even if we were going to destroy everything, I wanted to be with him during the ruination.
I tore my gaze away and forced myself to look at the old carpet. I had come so close to spilling the beans, to telling Anteros about Nikolai, but as I formed the words, I didn’t know how to do that without giving away Levi. I ju
st couldn’t do that to Gabby.
The really fucked up thing? I would have told him everything if only he could assure me we would implode together. I just wanted to be certain I wouldn’t be left alone in the ashes, but he couldn’t give me that. His initial bled through the shirt he’d given me, a scarlet A forming on my chest. How could I go back to Lucia’s after everything?
But I had nowhere else to go.
“Mio cuore.” Anteros’s pointer finger rested beneath my chin, lifting it so I had to stare into his eyes. “What are you thinking?” That I’m torn, lost, living in Limbo. I don’t belong with you, where your Wolves will tear me apart. I definitely don’t belong where Lucia is tearing me apart.
“Nothing,” I said, pulling my chin back. “It’s nothing.” He narrowed his eyes, indicating he didn’t quite believe me, but stood back up anyway.
Anteros quickly threw on his pants—jeans, fucking jeans. He’d arrived in a tank, a leather jacket, and jeans. It was as mouthwatering as it was baffling. After giving me his shirt, he only had a leather jacket. When he zipped it, leaving only a little slice of tanned muscle showing, I stared like a dope.
We kissed at the door, he went left, I went right. I decided to leave the phone at the church as the tank and pajama bottoms left little to the imagination and I didn’t want to risk my luck twice. I hoped to return and grab it as soon as I could. I walked as slowly as possible back to the club, watching my feet hit the pavement and counting each step. I couldn’t postpone the inevitable, though, and when I got back, the club was the same. Dark. Glittery. Filled with ugly people with beautiful faces.
Lucia was at the bottom of the stairs and if I wanted to change my shirt I would have to go past her. She would see the tank top, the blood. I rubbed my chest, felt the sting of the brand, and then looked at the two goons guarding the basement.
I thought about Papa, and how he was most likely not my papa. I wondered if I had a different name. I wondered if that different name would make me a different person. A person who had a place in the world.
I wasn’t sure what to say to make them let me go down, but upon seeing me, they stepped aside. Nonplussed, I looked over my shoulder as I descended, sure they were going to change their minds. Not only did they not come after me, they left.
They glanced down at me, then at each other, and then walked away from their post. I should have realized what that meant, should have recognized the sourness in my stomach for the omen it was, but instead, I kept my head down as I walked to Papa, not wanting to look at the velvet curtains.
The air got ten times heavier when I got to his cell.
“The kitchen needs work and that’s the only reason I took that money,” he mumbled. “It’s the only reason.” My eyebrows furrowed, but I said nothing. Even if most of it was nonsense, the past month had been the most Papa had ever talked to me since I was a child. I could remember the moments like picking falling stars out of the night sky. There was the time he read me a book, but not a children’s book. It had no pictures and I remember struggling to understand. The big words had sounded odd and scary to my child brain, but mostly I’d been excited for him to read it to me at all.
As I grew up, Papa paid less and less attention to me. He only took breaks from watching games on TV to yell at me, usually belligerently. It was so fucked up that I was savoring the way our relationship was now, locked in the dungeon my maybe-grandmother-maybe-not had put him in.
“Frankie,” he called out.
“Papa? Do you recognize me?” I couldn’t help the hope in my voice, but it immediately drained when Papa’s response was more gibberish. Again I wondered if I was crazy for hanging on to him for answers—but at the same time, his nonsensical mutterings contained more truth than any of Lucia’s calculated and elegant explanations.
“Francesca, there’s so much I want to tell you,” Papa said, but this time I said nothing in response, knowing he wasn’t speaking to me. His features were gaunt, hollow, his eyes black, the pupils entirely dilated. His chest was cavernous, each breath taking tremendous effort. He was so different than the paunchy red face I remembered. He hadn’t even gotten up when I came into view. I wondered if he could get up. My heart ached, but anger had long since choked me.
Why did it have to be this way? I wanted so badly to just have a father-daughter relationship. To be loved.
Papa took a deep breath and said, “I don’t have much time left. Frankie I’m not, I’m not—” A cough seized him, and he broke off, sputtering and clutching his chest. When he spoke again, it was more gibberish.
My feet made shuffling noises against the stone floor as I listened to him mumble. I contemplated going back upstairs—doing anything other than this—but I hadn’t learned anything about myself. I clung to the weak thread of Papa’s enlightenment.
“Frankie…” I looked up, and it was like the fog had cleared in his eyes. Hope bloomed in my chest despite the fact that my brain warned me to keep my expectations low.
“Papa?” I hedged.
“Frankie, I’m not…” He took a deep breath and I held mine while I waited for him to finish his thought. “I’m not your father, Frankie.”
It was like someone hit my chest with a hammer. It shouldn’t have hurt. It shouldn’t have. I’d known it was coming. I was here for a reason. People called me princess. Still, there had been this niggle of doubt in my mind, a weak shred that said I might still be me.
I hoped I might not be lying when I said I was Frankie Notte.
Then he tore through the last string, leaving me alone. Fatherless. Someone I didn’t recognize. Branded and bleeding with no way to stop the flow. Officially in the dark.
“Frankie, did you hear me?” His weak, raspy voice drifted through the silence. I swallowed a lump, trying not to cry.
“Then who is?” I demanded at last. Was Mom even my real mother?
“Don’t trust Lucia,” he rasped. “You can’t trust her. She’s not who she says she is.” I wanted to scream. I wished people would just say what they really meant. I already knew I couldn’t trust Lucia, that didn’t help me decipher the Tokyo metro that had become my bloodline.
“Who is my real dad?” I asked. “Who is my mom?” Just as Papa prepared to speak, a shadow grew on the wall, darkening the little yellow light we had. I spun around to see who it was, but I already knew. There was only one person who’d come down. Seconds later the click-clacking of Lucia’s heels sounded as she made her way around the curve of the hallway.
“Frankie, you need to know about your mother.” Papa’s—or not Papa, fuck—voice was high and hurried as Lucia appeared in the mouth of the hallway, wearing an ivory skirt suit and a tight smile. One hand rested lightly on her forearm, the other—holy shit. My eyes widened at the item in Lucia’s other hand.
A gun.
My heart hammered in my chest painfully. Something was wrong here. Something was going to go wrong. Lucia walked past me, paying me no mind.
“What are you doing?” I tried to ask just as my father spoke.
“Frankie your mother—” Lucia fired the gun, silencing him.
It was so loud. That was what I registered first, before anything else, before I could react to what had happened. My ears rang painfully and I opened and closed my jaw to help with the pressure, but then I came back to circumstance in a hard crashing avalanche.
Feet slipping on smooth stone, I pressed myself against the wall, afraid of where or at whom Lucia would fire next. My breathing was so fast and hard it hurt my chest. My nails dug into my palm. My eyes shot from her to Papa, limp on the ground in his cell.
Lucia eyed me, then Papa. She walked over to him, graceful and deadly all at once. She opened his cell, and Papa moved. He’s alive! He dragged himself into a corner, blood making a sluggish trail.
“What are you doing?” I asked again, surprised at the fear in my voice—not for me, but for Papa. I should have been afraid the bullet had barely missed me, but my eyes were glued to Papa. This couldn
’t be the way it ended. I was still so angry.
I hadn’t been given enough time to forgive him.
I stood off the wall, ready to rush to him, when a man appeared, big and mean and ready to do damage. He and Lucia exchanged some kind of wordless communication and then he came at me, grabbed my elbow, and dragged me toward the jewel-lined hallway. I dug my feet into the ground but it did nothing to sway the ogre.
“Stop!” I yanked at him but he just dragged me farther away. “What are you going to do him?” Lucia turned back, exchanging more silent words with the asshole dragging me, and suddenly he stopped. We paused right before the curve of the hallway, where Lucia and Papa would have been out of sight. I elbowed the brute holding me, but he was like a fucking oak. I was stuck in place so I couldn’t rush back down.
“He’s served his purpose,” Lucia said, raising an eyebrow at Papa. Her voice wasn’t cold; it was emotionless. Not even the chill ice of anger slipped through. “And rather poorly, I should say.”
“But…” I struggled to find the words to save him. He’d been a terrible father. He’d left me to fend for myself my entire life. He’d given me to the Beast with no idea how that would turn out. He wasn’t even my father, but… “We can’t just kill him.” He was just about to tell me something real.
She spun around and raised a brow. “Why?”
“It’s wrong?” It sounded lame, even to me.
Lucia laughed. “That’s rich. As if I don’t know about your extracurriculars?”
“What?” I attempted to push off the ogre off again. “What are you talking about?”
She smiled venomously. “Did you think you were the only one who knew about your little excursions? That it was a secret?” My eyes widened and my heart stopped. The worst part wasn’t that she might know, it was that I had to think about what she knew—the letter I stole? Or Nikolai? Me sneaking to meet Anteros? Big O?
Beauty, a Hate Story the End Page 15