Beauty, a Hate Story the End

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “I guess you would say my mother and father were abusive, but that wasn’t a word I learned to use to describe them until much later. They died, I became an orphan. I picked the pocket of Lucio Pavoni, he brought me to America, I worked my way up the ranks from slave to soldier to Boss.” A few minutes passed, and Anteros didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes on the gray granite countertop, watching the way the joints in his knuckles bent.

  “You didn’t tell me anything,” Frankie finally said to his back.

  “I don’t want your fucking pity,” Anteros snarled. “If you know this, it will change how you see me.”

  “You think I’m going to judge you for having a sad story?” Frankie said. “After what I just told you?”

  He turned around, met her eyes. “My father hit me.”

  She raised her brows. “We should start a club. Get t-shirts.”

  “My mother touched me.” That shut her up. Her mouth parted, eyes widened, but as if she could see what her pity did to him, she quickly made her face stoic. “They had a dance worked out. My father would beat my mother bloody, then he’d turn on Blue Christmas and mop up the blood while singing.”

  “The song…” She trailed off, opening and closing her palm as if wanting to say something else, but she didn’t. She let Anteros bleed his past, as Anteros had let her.

  “While the song played through the house, my mother would come for me, seeking the only affection she could find. They were twisted,” he continued. “It didn’t come from a place of sadism, at least not intentionally. Occasionally there were glimpses of us as a family. For my birthday they gave me a cat, but when I opened the box, the cat was already dead. One of them forgot to put holes in the box.” They had argued back and forth, ignoring Anteros and his dead cat. Anteros had pulled the cat from the box, hugging the foul-smelling animal, trying to curtail the argument.

  “Everyone was punished that night,” Anteros recalled. “The record played and we continued our twisted loop.” Frankie’s breath hitched.

  “But they died?” she asked.

  “They were killed.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “I turned seven.” His voice went frigid, recounting the memory robotically. “My father turned on the record player so my mother came for me. I started with her. I used the clock from my nightstand and bashed her head in. She didn’t expect it. Next I went for him. He didn’t expect it either. I took the record, snapped it in half, and stabbed it into his jugular.”

  “The police?” she whispered.

  “I was gone before they came. For a while I thought they would come for me, but they never did. Maybe they were corrupt, maybe they just didn’t give a shit about an orphan. Either way, I lived on the streets for a year before I found Lucio.” Frankie stepped toward him, trying filled the gap between them, but Anteros stepped back on instinct. After what he’d shared, he was too fucking vulnerable, like exposed, raw muscle. She paused, hand midair.

  “No one knows this about me,” he said, eyeing her hand.

  “No one ever will,” she said as she closed the distance, placing her palm on his chest.

  It should have been awful bearing his truth like that, letting her know his deepest weakness, but instead it was emboldening. It was as if they became powerless so they could become powerful together.

  “Enough questions,” Anteros said, pulling her in for a quick, fierce kiss. “It’s time you see the hot tub.”

  “I wanted to try the hot tub at your place,” Frankie said, running her fingers along the fireplace adjacent to the tub. Stones crawled down the cobblestone fireplace to the floor, like a rockslide. The tub was set in the floor, overlooking a wall of glass. In the daytime, snow-covered beech and pine trees were visible, but now it was just black.

  “You did?” He hadn’t realized she’d noticed the hot tub. She nodded, tiptoeing around the open water. Two rolled up towels sat next to the bubbling aquamarine tub that lit up the room in shimmering, uneven hues. Frankie dipped her toe in.

  “I don’t have a swimsuit,” she said, shaking out her toe then looking at him. Frankie had thrown her curls atop her head, and even though Anteros loved them down, there was something to this too. He got to see her face.

  “I wouldn’t have let you wear one.” Done watching her, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her close. Her eyes never strayed from his as he reached for the hem of the shirt he’d given her and pulled it over her head, throwing it to the side.

  He got in the tub first, holding his hand out for her.

  “Salty,” she said when she was fully settled, bubbles kissing the tips of her perky nipples.

  “Sea salt,” he corrected, and she rolled her eyes, but smiled too.

  “We can’t do this forever, can we? Stay out here?” Frankie asked, voice a hum in the steam. Anteros could watch her for fucking ever, with her palms floating atop the water and her big eyes glued on his—but she was right. They couldn’t stay at the safe house forever. Eventually Lucia would find them.

  “No,” he said. “We can’t.” Frankie nodded at his response, gliding around the tub. He never would have imagined his life to turn out this way. Never would have hoped.

  It had taken finding Frankie to realize his greatest fantasy, the want lurking deep inside his heart, the one he’d never acknowledged: someone to rule with.

  A queen.

  But Frankie may never want that, and if she wanted to run, he would run with her.

  “Will you give me one more question?” she asked, tilting her head. In lieu of response, Anteros reached out and pulled her atop him. He brushed his lips along her neck, underneath her chin, her shoulder, the swell where her breast met her nipple. In the water, her skin was slick, and the heat and the salt made her taste even better. He would never get enough of her. He would use her until she was wasted then he would use her more.

  He gripped her face between his palms. She was damp from the steam, lips shining. He sucked the bottom one then plunged his tongue into her mouth, determined to mark every inch of her.

  “Please?” she asked when they broke for air, breath fogging his lips. “Tell me the truth about Nikolai.” Frankie’s gaze slowly collided with his. Lidded. Heavy. Small curly tendrils stuck to her sweaty face.

  “The Pavonis aren’t the only crime family in the world, Frankie. We’re just the biggest.” He went back to kissing her, neck tasting like saltwater and sweat and her. He groaned—it was so fucking good. He wondered if she knew what she did to him.

  “Tha—” Anteros sucked on her earlobe and Frankie stuttered, the word getting lost in a sigh. “That doesn’t answer my question,” she finished. Exhaling, Anteros pulled back.

  “Nikolai was heir to the Sokolov crime family,” he explained. “His family openly waged war on us and they lost. When you lose in war, you die. It was my fault for showing a boy mercy. I should have slain him like I did his father and mother.” He was bitter, angry—still pissed from the betrayal. He should have killed him. Mercy was for the weak, and showing Nikolai mercy had weakened him. Now his empire was teetering on collapse.

  “He said you slaughtered his siblings,” Frankie murmured. “How old were they?”

  “Babes,” Anteros responded, staring past her into the black window. Her gasp rose with the steam, and it pissed him off. “I could lie to you like Nikolai did, would you like that?” he snarled, turning back to her. He gripped her waist, tangled his other hand into the loose, wet bun at the nape of her neck. “I took the children and I made sure they were given to the best families. They are living happy, fulfilled lives.” He tightened his hold on her slippery waist and wet hair, made sure she had to see him. The way she looked at him, not disgusted, not angry, but nervous, pissed him the fuck off.

  “Should I put on a mask, Frankie?” he taunted. “Should you?” He bruised his lips against hers, biting the top one, diving his tongue into her mouth. He demanded her submission, demanded she admit the truth of them. Of herself.

  She moaned an
d he captured the sound. She tried to move but he kept his grip tight. Her hands scratched ardent lines down his chest before resting on his cock. She stroked him and he tugged her hair so her ear was against his lips.

  “Should we pretend to be like everyone else?” he asked on a hiss. She groaned, a choked sound low in her throat. He took her hand from his cock, replacing it with her cunt. He forced her to sit on him, to feel how hard he was, to rub herself against him.

  The water was cold compared to them. Sweat dripped down his chest, trailing into the lines of his muscles. With one smooth motion, Anteros spun Frankie around, pinning her to the tub’s edge. He thrust inside her without pretense and she groaned when he broke through.

  “Rip it off.” Pound. “Keep it off.” Pound. “Stop. Fucking. Pretending.” Pound. Pound. Pound. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, over the stone, drenching the towels laid at the side. Frankie cried out his name and he let go of her hair, gripped her face with both of his hands, and craned her neck so he could kiss her. She took his tongue, sucked him in.

  “Revel in the darkness I know you have,” he said against her lips.

  Afterward, Anteros carried a tired and sated Frankie to the bedroom upstairs. She curled into the blankets and fell asleep immediately.

  She slept on her side, wet hair making a spot on the pillow, chocolate strands black in their wetness. Her mouth parted and her breaths were almost musical in her sleep. She grasped the pillow with small, slender fingers.

  Fuck.

  He ran a hand through his wet hair, getting it out of his face. He wasn’t sure what god he’d blown in a past life to get her, but he wasn’t letting her go. Ever. He wanted to get into bed and pull her to him, but first, he had to take care of something. Frankie’s question about the letter had reminded him how important it was to get rid of the fucking thing.

  Anteros quickly unlocked his desk, grabbing the piece of paper from inside. Then he went to the other side of the room and sifted through a stack of books. Years ago, Anteros had acquired the journal of Sofia De Luca in hopes of using it for leverage. He’d gone looking for it a few days after Frankie escaped but hadn’t been able to find it. There were a few pages Anteros had torn and kept hidden in various places, though, ones he thought might be important and needed to be kept separate. Most were just business shit, but one had always stuck out in his mind. He’d never been able to figure out the reason, but now he knew.

  After sifting through a few books, he found it in a faceless, leather-bound book. It was stuck in the middle: a ripped, yellowing entry from Sofia’s journal. The entry had started with Sofia overhearing Lucio talking with Lucia. She’d feared for her life over the conversation.

  * * *

  They spoke in hurried, angry whispers. Lucia said a child was coming and there was no way to stop it. Lucio struck her and said the bastard could ruin everything he’d built. I ran away, worried for my own safety. I cannot believe what I have overheard, am too disgusted to write it down, worried my pen will make it true.

  This child will change everything.

  * * *

  When Anteros had first come into possession of the journal, Lucio had been at the height of power, years away from showing signs of the poisoning that would take his life. Anteros had yet to learn the truth behind Sofia De Luca’s demise, as her journal ended abruptly before the start of the First Blood War. He’d been fed lies as Frankie had been. Since whatever child Sofia had overheard them discussing clearly hadn’t ruined anything, he’d brushed it off as more Sofia De Luca drama, something in the past and not relevant to him.

  As Anteros had gained more power, he’d only thought about Sofia in terms of her widower, Dario. Lucio had been dying and clearly wasn’t a threat, so he’d diverted his attention to more obvious ones. To Anteros, that day in the street all those years ago had been about Lucio and some random woman. When people called Frankie the princess, he’d just thought it was another rumor. For as long as he could remember, the rumor had always been alive, even before he came to America.

  Now he knew the truth. Once Lucio had realized Lucia hadn’t killed Frankie, he’d concocted the rumor to distract everyone, and it fucking worked. Anteros had held all the puzzle pieces, but he’d been too busy putting together the wrong puzzle to wonder why his pieces didn’t fit.

  Holding the letter and the torn journal entry in his hand, he stared into the barren fireplace. He needed to burn it. This was a secret that could never come out. As much as he tried to prepare her for the inevitable, Frankie was still searching for a happy, normal family. If this got out, it would crush her.

  “What are you doing?” Frankie’s sleepy voice called to him. “What’s in your hand? Why are you lighting a fire now?”

  He turned around to find Frankie looking at him, rubbing her eyes and tilting her head. Quickly he stuffed the letter and journal entry back into the book and shoved the book in the middle of the pile.

  “Nothing,” Anteros said, sliding into bed. “Go back to sleep.” He pulled her close and she fell right back asleep, breaths heavy against his arm. He looked to the stack of books, where one was like a beating heart.

  Fourteen

  Books were everywhere. It was different than the penthouse where there they were all organized, contained in the library. Here, books were piled high in stacks. On the kitchen counter. Overflowing in the bathroom. You couldn’t walk anywhere without seeing a stack. Some might say it was cluttered, but to me it was heaven.

  I’d woken up early enough that Anteros was asleep. I’d first gotten up to go to the bathroom, but got so lightheaded, I had to sit down. Luckily there was a pile of books next to me, so it wasn’t so bad. I sifted through them, searching for something interesting, as it looked like I was going to be there for a while. I was already pushing it before running around all hours of the night, and now with a bullet wound and nearly drowning…I shouldn’t have had sex with Anteros the night before.

  I shouldn’t have had sex all those times.

  “What are you doing?” I turned at Anteros’s voice. He was so quiet I hadn’t heard him get up. He stood next to the bed in silk sleep pants and nothing else. It reminded me of the penthouse. With his arms folded he seemed angry; his jaw ticked, the muscles in his biceps flexing furiously.

  “Trying to find something to read.” I held up the book for emphasis. Most of them were in Italian. Some were in a few other languages, like French and Spanish, and I wanted to say Russian? I couldn’t tell. My American was showing.

  “How many languages do you speak?” I asked, setting one down.

  “Enough.” I furrowed my brow at the laconic response. He definitely wasn’t happy.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios?” I responded with a smile. My arm ached something fierce, but he was right in that it was just a flesh wound. I was lucky. If my body hadn’t already been broken, I would probably be up and walking.

  “Get off the floor,” he ordered, and I smiled wanly. I would have loved to get off the floor, but the truth was, I couldn’t yet. I was exhausted. It was hard to breathe. If I tried to stand, my knees would buckle. My vision would black out.

  And he would see it all.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Once I find the right book.” I should have told him what was going on. I stared at the cold fireplace and knew I should tell the truth. It was stuck in my throat like barbed wire and it was making me bleed.

  I was so afraid. Afraid he would love me less. Afraid he would leave me. Afraid I would be stuck in the darkness he’d unearthed within me, alone again, forever.

  Fucking coward.

  I hung my head just as he came up behind me, lowering himself to his knees, kissing my neck. It felt so good, and my body was responding, but I just couldn’t.

  “I’m—” I’m too fucking tired to have sex. The further I push myself, the harder it is to crawl back. “I’m not in the mood,” I lied. He froze, hands on my shoulders.

  “None of these books are
in English,” he said, standing and taking the small stack away. “The ones you want are downstairs.” When he left I wanted to sob for him to come back and take care of me. Instead I stared into the dark, empty fireplace.

  It was hours before I got up. Anteros never came back, but I heard him downstairs. All I had to do was call for him and I was sure he would come, but then he would ask questions. And I would have to answer them.

  When I got downstairs, the stack of books he’d taken was next to him and he was reading one; it looked like the Russian book. He didn’t say anything when I came down, so I sat quietly on the rug in front of the fireplace. I had a bit more energy from sitting all day, but I was still tired. I watched him read.

  “You’re staring,” he said.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked. He set the book down and slowly came over to me, sitting on his heels until we were almost eye to eye.

  “I was wondering the same of you.”

  “Not at all,” I said quickly. A silence engulfed us. He was so close, his heady scent invading my brain. I wanted to tell him how much I’d missed him, even for the few hours. Instead I said, “So…” and trailed off, rubbing my arm.

  A slow, wry smile twisted his cheek and he pressed his palm into my chest, pushing me back into the soft fur rug. He pulled off the shirt I’d slept in and I wondered why I even bothered wearing clothes.

  He traced pictures on my naked back for hours. It wasn’t demanding. It was just us, on the ground, by the fire. We had little conversations about nothing, and I wondered if that was what “normal” couples did. We talked about our favorite foods—his frittole, mine tomato soup.

  He had to explain what frittole was, and it sounded like a beignet. He said it was something you get in Venice around a festival and I’d laughed. I’d always thought his favorite food would be something like steak, but it was basically a donut.