Page 11 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)
Not mine. I inhale. Exhale. My fingers still shake.
They burn. I have to clench them up so tightly that the knuckles pop.
I pace, slamming my heels into the fucking floor.
I breathe. One. Two. There’s a buzzing working through the back of my skull.
It itches when I notice it, irritating the inside of my head.
I crush the fingers of my right together with an audible crunch.
Then I slam the fist into the palm of the left—hard.
The pain jolts through my system, clearing my thoughts for a split second, but it’s like taking a bone from a mutt. The relief is only temporary.
When my vision clears, I face Arno again, and he has enough sense to pretend like he didn’t notice the slip. “Where is he?”
“He’s safe,” the man says carefully. He knows me too well. He doesn’t move an inch. He gives me no excuse to react. I’m a caged animal, but Arno knows too damn well how to hide the key. “I wouldn’t let him in the crew. You know me better than that—”
“Do I?” It’s an animal’s howl, barely constrained by a raspy tone I force my voice to keep.
“Yes, you do,” Arno says without hesitation.
There’s something in his heavy Brooklyn accent that muzzles the beast inside me. My fingers flex again, and the burn subsides a little. It wouldn’t be a good idea to lose my shit here anyway. Can’t let the cops come running too soon. Can’t lose control yet.
Not yet.
“Okay, then.” I shake my head like I’m trying to clear it of water, and I can’t shake the feeling like I really am submerged underneath something—not water. Something heavier. More suffocating. Addicting.
“I’ll take you to him,” Arno suggests. “But let’s get some alcohol in you. The good stuff.” He glances at the bar behind me in disgust. “None of this cheap shit. Then we’ll talk. Catch up, and maybe you’ll tell me why the fuck you really aren’t in prison.”
I don’t miss the way his voice lowers an octave on that last part.
In five fucking minutes, Arno’s proven that he trusts me.
He still knows enough to tread carefully around Dante Vialle—yet he isn’t stupid.
Men don’t just crawl out of prison, skirting a twenty-year sentence.
He’s afraid I made a bargain or licked some police commissioner’s ass to get a deal.
I’ll prove him wrong at some point. Right now, it seems more important to accept that promise of a drink. If I’m to stay out of prison for longer than seventy-two hours, I’ll need it.
“Okay.” I nod once. “Deal.”
Arno breaks into a smile, cutting years off his age.
He’s a teenage boy again, with a batch of heroin in his pocket to sell.
“Good, good. I’ll introduce you to the crew, starting with ol’ Francisco here.
” He nods to the man behind the counter, who’s watching us, clutching a bottle of booze in one hand and a dishrag in the other.
“You won’t find a more loyal man on this side of town. ”
“Happy to help,” Francisco says, inclining his head, all transgressions forgotten.
Still smiling, Arno heads for the door, jerking his chin for me to follow. “Welcome back, Kitty,” he says.“Let me show you around my corner of hell.”
Arno’s set up shop in an old pub on the corner of Finch and Horn.
The name on the storefront reads Mulligans .
It’s a decently sized place—a far cry from the run-down gas station where we used to set up shop.
The Gardai logo spans a banner hanging on the wall behind a well-stocked bar—that six-pointed star.
Dark walls and hardwood floors create a spacious barroom with a color scheme designed to disguise any bloodstains. Reds. Greens. Blacks.
The puppy’s chosen his doghouse well. His human bloodhounds rise to attention the moment we walk inside. There are maybe ten of them gathered. They sniff around, their hackles rising at the sight of me. I recognize a few. The rest are all new blood. Arno’s been building himself quite the army.
“Friends,” he says, his voice booming. “This is my brother, back from the dead.” He slaps my shoulder once, but the display of friendship doesn’t seem to put his men at ease.
These aren’t the run-of-the-mill punks he used to command.
They look rougher. Some of them are sporting expressions I recognize from prison—a look I know I wear myself.
It’s a mask, hardened by anger and reinforced with bitter hatred, worn at all times, even in your sleep.
It’s the mark of a wild dog who’s been locked in a cage one too many times.
“Friend?” one of the men pipes up. He’s about Arno’s size, with a sizeable mass of black hair growing out in all directions. His eyes are brown, but they surprisingly aren’t hostile when they meet mine without fear. Good fucking choice on his part. “Does this ‘friend’ have a name?”
Arno opens his mouth, but I speak for myself.
“Dante. Friend .”
A few men started forward to circle my position, but they quickly step back now. It can’t be helped. I tend to have that effect, whether I say my name or not. Dogs can sniff out other dogs, after all, and even the average mongrel knows when to submit to a bigger, more brutal beast.
The man who questioned me doesn’t flinch, however. There’s a grudging bit of respect that flares up before I can smother it.
“I’m Dall,” he says. “Any friend of Arno’s is a friend of mine.”
“Now, don’t go busting out the fucking friendship bracelets now,” Arno grunts, placing a hand on my shoulder. He steers me toward the bar, and I allow him to, remembering the promise of that drink. “At least let me get wasted first.”
“Where’s Espi?” I wonder. Scanning the bar, I don’t find him anywhere. My gaze lingers on a small, scrawny figure hunched over a stool, but they’re too short to be Espisido. The blond hair spilling from beneath a ratty hoodie gives me another clue.
“Is that my Kitty?” The figure stirs, lifting her head, and her green eyes seek mine out. They’re bloodshot and caked in a layer of black makeup. She’s high. Judging from the half-empty bottle in front of her, she’s drunk and high.
I smell her from here. Fuck, it’s a wonder what five years can do to a person. She’s twenty-three but looks twice that much.
“Parish?”
“As I live and breathe.” Her smile is uncomfortable.
It’s like her mouth has been too busy being stretched around a cock for cash to buy drugs that she can’t even form the expression right.
At some point in her life, she used to be pretty, with Arno’s nose but paired with softer features.
Now, she just looks tired. “I thought you were in prison?”
Apparently, Arno’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to fucking turn a television on.
“They let me out for good behavior,” I say.
“Good behave—” Parish laughs. “My ass. You’re a bad boy, Dante. Prison tends to not like to part with bad boys.”
“Well, they parted with this one.”
“I can see that.” She looks me up and down, her eyes focused on my pockets. Desire flickers across her gaunt features, but it’s only for cash. She needs a fix, and even being the sister of a dealer doesn’t come with the perks of an unlimited supply, I see. “Got any dollars you can spare?”
“No.” Arno muscles his way between us and grabs his sister by the shoulder, manhandling her from the stool. “You’re going to beg for cash in my bar? Get the fuck out.” He shoves her to the door. “Come back when you don’t smell like piss and some old man’s jizz, Rish.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She makes a talking motion with her right hand. “Fuck you, Arnold .”
He scoffs and tosses back, “Only when Mom’s not around.” Despite his tone, there’s concern in his expression as he watches Parish stagger through the main doors.
“She’s still using.”
It isn’t a question, but he nods anyway and takes a seat at one of the stools, gesturing for me to do the same.
“Still using. Still a pain in my ass. Not all of us lucked out in the family gene pool.” He glances at me, his expression unusually serious.
“Espi’s a good kid, but he won’t be happy that you’re back. Mark my words on that.”
I grunt in response. My brother is my fucking problem.
“So, what now?”
The bartender is a woman with tattoos draped over her arms, her black hair pulled back into a bun. When Arno snaps his fingers, she’s ready and places a bottle of something dark and tempting down before him.
“Now?” Arno rips the lid off the bottle. “Now, we play, Kitty. Welcome back.”