Page 10 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

Dante

A rabid dog can live for a week on nothing but scraps. It knows which kennels to scratch at. Which favors to call in. Who to intimidate when it needs a bone to nibble.

Some habits are impossible to shake, as the good detective subtly hinted at.

But, if I wanted to keep my nose clean, then the rumors that swirl wherever I go certainly don’t help.

Nothing lures a mutt into trouble like the scent of another alpha’s piss trail, and Vincent Stacatto has figuratively lifted his leg over the entire city.

Arno’s mark is fainter, but still there, from the Lower West Side, all the way down to the docks.

There seems to be no fire hydrants left for an ex-convict to mark all over.

Good. Blood is a better marker anyway.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender insists while tucking the twenty I slipped him into his pocket. His gaze shifts from one corner of the narrow room to the other as if checking for spies lurking under the shitty pool table in the back. “Mackenzie? Never heard of him. ”

“Okay.” I turn on my heel and head for the door only to pause somewhere in the middle of the room.

The bar’s a shithole. The prison cafeteria had a better setup than the mismatched chairs surrounding rickety card tables.

Torn posters of irrelevant bands line the walls, but one piece of artwork sticks out.

Between two shots of the Beatles, someone painted a six-pointed star directly onto the wood paneling.

Each arm of it alternates in silver and black paint.

“So, you don’t know him?” I call over my shoulder. “Just for the record.”

“I told you, asshole,” the man snarls back. “I never heard of no fucking Mackenzie.”

“Right.” I nod while turning on my heel. I return to the counter in two steps and snag my empty shot glass before he can take it away. “Give me another.”

I nod to the rack of bottles behind his head, and the bastard makes a show of pouring the shot of whiskey. I bring the rim of the glass to my mouth and inhale the burning swill inside it. Then, when I’m sure he’s watching, I tilt my hand and allow a drop to land on the counter.

“Hey, watch it—”

“Imagine this is my patience,” I explain, cutting over him. “Imagine that it’s running out.” I allow another drop to strike the counter, melding with the first. “And let’s imagine that, when it does, this glass is going to become part of your fucking eye socket.”

He flinches, shaking his head. “I...I’d love to see you try, asshole.”

“Don’t tempt me.” The words come out closer to a plea than I care to admit.

My fingers shake. To hide the motion, I twist my wrist and half the glass splashes onto the countertop while the bastard shouts in anger.

“Just riddle me this: If you don’t know Mackenzie.

..then why the fuck is his symbol hanging in your bar? ”

The man swallows. His skin goes a shade paler, but to his credit, he doesn’t flinch when I make eye contact.

At least, not at first. The fucker’s a good liar—but not good enough.

Arno must have grown some balls in the five years I’ve been gone to earn this kind of loyalty.

His thugs don’t lounge on street corners these days, conducting business in full view of the pigs.

He doesn’t own the twitchy addicts getting high in alleyways anymore.

He’s into distribution now. My little puppy’s grown up into a mad dog of his own, and I can’t fucking wait to rub his goddamn nose into the mess he’s created.

“Where is he?”

The bartender frowns, trying to suss out more than he can from my plain shirt and jeans. My tattoo may give him some clue, but he doesn’t seem to recognize the name.

“Who...who are you?”

I chuckle and take a sip of whiskey. Who am I?

My prison docket says case number 09-05962.

The good, Christian name on my birth certificate is even vaguer.

The bastard I face in the mirror every morning gives the best answer, I guess.

The identity was etched right there on the side of my neck. Kitty.

“Don’t worry about me.” There’s barely a drop left in the glass when I set it down. “Let’s say I’m looking for an old friend.” I even manage a smile, but there’s no warmth in it.

The fingers of my left hand shake. I form a fist until the knuckles whiten, but they still tremble all the way down to the goddamn bone.

I take deep breaths and count them—that bullshit they taught us in group therapy—but it doesn’t make a dent in the anger swirling through my blood like poison.

Like heroin. I’m addicted to that fucking high.

I want nothing more than to take that glass and jab it into the bastard’s face until his nose breaks.

Until I can feel his orbital socket crunch beneath my fingertips and his blood speckles the floor.

I want to send my fist through his fucking smart-ass mouth so that his teeth decorate the walls along with the fucking Beatles. I want.. .

Stop. I inhale sharply and blink until my vision becomes less red. The counter turns brown again. The glass is still clear with only a drop of amber liquid left in the bottom of it. Maybe that anger management shit works after all.

“Just tell me where Arno is,” I say once I regain control of my voice. This time, it only wavers slightly.

That’s a good thing. Not beating this bastard into kingdom come—that’s a good thing. No need to take Van Hallen up on his bet so soon. The party hasn’t even started yet, and I still need an invitation.

“Look.” Something in my expression makes the man clear his throat. His gaze darts around the dim barroom, but it’s empty this early in the day. I made sure of that. “I can’t just give out that kind of information freely. He’ll...he’ll kill me.”

I grunt out a sound that might be a laugh. “And what do you think I’m going to do?”

The bell above the door chimes before he can answer. I don’t turn to face the newcomers, but I sense two, both men. One is taller than the other, and his footsteps make a firmer thud as he swaggers inside.

“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” he croons. “That’s no way to make new friends.”

My jaw twitches. The smile might actually be real this time when I glance over my shoulder and meet the gaze of the man standing in the doorway.

He’s grown some since I last saw him. Bulked up.

His reddish curls have become a full mane that drapes his shoulders.

The puppy’s grown into a lion, but he still has enough fucking sense to show respect to another predator.

“Dante.” His eyes narrow in recognition, but he’s still wary.

I haven’t been exactly subtle in my search for him—but subtlety was never my thing. He’s never been much for it, either, though I suppose some things haven’t changed in five years. Arno Mackenzie is just as fucking reckless as always.

“Jesus Christ, Dante .” He takes a step forward and raises his left hand. A scar crosses the center of it, a single line identical to the one that mars my right palm.

Espi and I might have been born sharing my blood, but Arno has earned it.

“It’s about fucking time.” I step forward, slapping my hand against his. The violent thwack echoes throughout the piece-of-shit barroom, more intimate than any hug or handshake.

“Shit,” Arno grunts, shaking his fingers free of the sting. “Tell me I’m not high and you aren’t some fucking hallucination. They put your ass away for twenty years.”

I shrug and let my hand fall back to my side. “You probably are high, but I’m here. Try picking up a fucking newspaper. The merits of ‘good journalism’ got me out.”

“What?” Arno scratches at his chin with a broken fingernail. He’s grown out the start of a beard, and it makes him seem older than twenty-seven. “You mean that shit at the DA’s office?”

I shrug again. “That same shit, but...I’m not here to catch up on old times.” I take a step closer, invading the invisible bubble of space every man creates around himself.

Given the situation, it’s a bit like bringing a knife to a family reunion. Arno tenses, but to his credit, he doesn’t step back. He holds my gaze, and for the first time, I notice the man he’s strategically placed near the door, who has one hand hovering near his jeans pocket.

So, the puppy’s learned a few tricks.

“Espi,” I say. “Where is he?”

Arno snorts out a laugh, his posture relaxing a fraction of an inch. “Is that what this is about? I hate to tell ya, but I don’t keep tabs on the kid—”

“I told you to keep an eye on him,” I interject, my tone catching on a growl. “An eye . Not involve him in your shit, Arno. So, do you want to tell me why a cop saw me today, shoving proof in my face that you have Espi working for you?”

Arno shrugs, but the motion serves to open up his stance.

He’s built up a few more muscles than he had last. So have I.

My left hand flinches. There’s blood welling at my fingertips, and a muscle in my jaw aches.

Shit. I turn away, shaking out both hands as if lashing out at the air might quell the urge to smash them into something.

Somethingbreakable, made of flesh and bone. ..

Fuck. Arno stares back when I look at him from over my shoulder. He keeps his hands out at his sides, his expression blank. I know that fucking look on his face. It’s the same one the guards wore on patrol, always waiting for the moment one of the beasts might lunge.

“You asked me to look after him,” he says carefully. “I have. But he’s not a kid anymore. I don’t tell him what to do. He likes to paint. And if he just so happens to do that in the territories I’m looking into, then that’s his business. Not yours.”