Page 12 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER SIX

Daniela

Something is wrong. It’s been two days since his proposal, but Vinny’s kept his distance. I’ve spent those days inside my room, playing until the calluses on my inner thumbs blister and bleed. It’s a welcome reprieve, but the anticipation chills me more than the freedom from him gives me peace.

Time gives Vinny a chance to brood. A brooding Vinny is more likely to leave scars, like the kind that I know will mar my backside for at least a month.

The pain mingles with dread as I fidget on the seat of my vanity and eye the reflection facing me.

The woman in the mirror reveals none of Vinny’s secrets.

She’s curious. Too many questions battle for supremacy in her eyes when a sudden knock rattles the door.

I’m shaking too badly to even call out a reply.

Is it him?

What does he what?

What will he say?

Do?

“I’ll get it, miss. ”

My fiancé’s absence is joined by Olga’s. The morning after the proposal, a new companion shook me awake. I haven’t bothered to learn her name, and I can only pray that I never have to.

She’s younger than Olga, slender, with red hair that gleams as she crosses over to the door and pulls it open.

“Mr. Stacatto requests your presence, miss,” Gino says. His tone is flat, revealing nothing. “Eight o’clock tonight. He suggests that you wear the new dress.”

“Th-thank...” My lips are too dry, and it takes several swipes with my tongue before I can form a coherent response. “Thank you.”

“Miss.” He’s gone, closing the door behind him, and it’s a painful waiting game until night rolls around with all the finality of a tolling death bell.

The dress is silk. Lace adorns the sweeping neckline, and I’m alarmed to find that it plunges between my breasts, displaying a teasing V of cleavage.

It’s an upgrade from my usually demure wardrobe, but it’s not an improvement.

Vinny only likes to show off the toys that he knows are his. “You are mine , Mi Bella . ”

“Your hair, miss.”

My new companion expertly styles it, pinning the dark waves up to display my neck. The illusion pays off. I seem whole despite my healing wounds and the battle scars etched into my flesh beneath black silk. Vinny’s chosen word haunts me. Nice.

“The car is waiting, Miss Manzano,” Gino calls from the hallway.

I believe that all is well until I enter the hallway.

There are only three men in the suite tonight—Vinny’s taken the bulk of his detail with him, it seems. Their eyes chase me across the room, but on my way through the foyer, I catch sight of the grandfather clock perched against the wall.

The time is displayed in emblazoned numbers, and I freeze in my tracks.

8:15

“It’s late.” Fear chokes me. I think I’m going to be sick, but even my churning stomach knows better than to ruin my new dress .

Oh, God. Oh, God. “C-call him! Please.” I turn to Gino, and for a second, I forget myself.

My hand shoots out, seizing his collar. “Tell him! Please. It wasn’t me. It’s not my fault. I can’t be late.”

The room spins. Gino has to physically pry my fingers loose, but he lets me go just as quickly and backs away, leaving me to sway on my feet. His hand darts into the pocket of his suit jacket, withdrawing a slim cell phone.

“I will,” he promises, bringing the receiver to his ear. The words he speaks are barked out in another language, but he assures me that everything will be okay in English when he finally hangs up.

I believe him as he ushers me into the elevator and leads me across the lobby below. I have to believe him.

Out front, the car is idling, unconcerned by the danger its driver has placed me in.

I think of the girl in my room, fearfully organizing the clothes in my closet.

Will I learn her name tonight? God, the thought of it is too much.

It swallows me whole, locking me within a prison that seals me up tight, cutting off all oxygen.

Gino leaves me at the curb. I’ll travel to this nightmare alone. I’ll face Vinny alone. The thought has never terrified me more. I can’t. I can’t.

I’m a shell of a woman, sitting in the back seat of the car, my hands neatly folded on my lap.

My heart is a pathetic ball in my chest, incapable of churning blood.

I can’t take my eyes off the scenery darting past, muted by the car’s tinted windows.

I’m sure I’ll die before we reach the venue—suffocate.

But my pulse keeps thumping. My lungs continue to fill with oxygen. My body won’t obey me, so conditioned it is to following Vinny’s will.

My fiancé’s will.

My husband. The thought sends hot tears trickling down, but I don’t hold them back. I’m too tired to wipe them away. He’ll be angry when he sees. I’ll be punished.

Yet they continue to fall throughout the entire journey and still linger when the car finally comes to a stop and the door is opened from the outside. A sob hitches in my throat. My ring weighs me down. Whoever the unlucky goon is to greet me, he’ll have to carry me inside.

I wait for him to utter the usual line. He’s waiting, miss.

I don’t expect for whoever he is to climb inside instead and shove his body against mine. I don’t expect to hear a gun cock or feel the icy ridge of a barrel graze my temple.

It’s like waking up from a dream. This new rush of fear that jolts down my spine is another flavor from the kind Vinny inspires.

“Keep driving,” a gruff voice commands as the door is slammed shut again, but with me trapped inside. “Keep fucking driving.”

Dante

Being Arno Mackenzie’s “guest” comes with the perk of a fully furnished apartment above the pub.

It’s small but clean, something I’ve learned to appreciate after the shared quarters of a maximum-security prison.

It’s a rare luxury to have your own toilet to piss in.

Even rarer to take a shower without jostling for a spigot with twenty other men.

Arno himself claims to have his own place close by, but after the first night, I’m in no mood to reminisce.

I spend the first night alone. Back before, I’d troll the city, keeping an ear to the ground for information, or scrounge up old allies who might not run at the sight of me.

For what it’s worth, I avoid the bar, but I don’t have to for one fact to become crystal clear.

Arno wasn’t embellishing shit, for once.

Espi doesn’t want to see me. He lives at Mulligans as well, from what Arno would tell me, but in twenty-four hours, I’ve had a better chance of forming a relationship with the roaches that scuttle in the corners than I do of reconnecting with my suddenly “adult” kid brother.

The brush-off leaves me antsy. Espi knows better than anyone that I hate to be ignored. I prefer a man to face me head on rather than sulk in the fucking shadows. Van Hallen. Arno. They don’t know shit. Espi is still the same punk kid I left behind, pouting in the corners.

I’ve given him long enough. Impatient and restless, I head down to the bar just after midnight, descending the single rickety staircase that separates the two levels. It opens onto a back room behind the bar counter, beside the kitchen.

On the previous night, I heard enough noise seep through the floors to know that Arno likes to keep a full house, but tonight, the pub itself is nearly deserted.

Only Francisco and Arno sit at the counter.

The latter rests his head in his hands, but I know enough to suspect—despite how much he likes to knock back—that the man isn’t stupid or suicidal enough to get drunk out in the open.

“What’s wrong?”

Spotting me, Francisco rises to his feet. “Arno...”

“Leave him.” Arno raises his hand, slicing the air with it.

Like a good dog, his man falls back, but not without fixing me with a hostile glare, which I graciously return.

“What the hell is going on?” It isn’t too often that a man goes from a “brother’s” welcome to spooking the puppies overnight. Typically, that kind of swift change comes on the heels of a murder or two. “Where’s Espi?”

“Espi.” Arno releases a harsh bark of laughter as he pulls himself upright. His eyes are red. Bloodshot. Even back in the day, he never sampled his own product. The only other explanation is that the bastard has been...crying. “Where’s Espi. Where’s Parish ?” he growls.

“Parish?” I frown. Only twelve hours ago did the man kick his sister out on the street when she tried to ask me for money. “In an alley somewhere?” I guess, taking a stab in the fucking dark. “Getting high? I don’t fucking know.”

Arno laughs again, but the sound comes out dangerously unsteady. He’s the mad dog gnawing at his leash this time. “Getting high,” he snarls. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet, facing me with his stance open, his hands clenching into fists. “You want to take that back, Dante.”

“Arno.” Francisco, the dog, has enough sense to step back. “Arno. Try to keep a clear head. You don’t—”

“The fuck if you know what I don’t want to do.” Fire gleams in the redhead’s eyes. He’s burning—itching—for a fight. To beat something or someone bloody with his fists. To bare his teeth. Growl. Bite.

Don’t I fucking know the feeling? My blood boils. My fingertips burn. They ache. I can’t stop flexing them. I’m hungry for a battle. Fuck that; I crave it.

But I’m not an idiot.

“Listen to him, Arno.” I jerk my head in Francisco’s direction. “Sit back down.”

“I will,” Arno growls, the muscles in his arms straining. “Just as soon as you take back that shit you just said about my goddamn sister .”

I don’t hesitate. “No.”