Page 68 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Daniela

Dante wears tension the way most men wear clothing.

He draws it tight around his chest, and it cloaks him all the way down to his toes.

When the van comes to a stop in a section of woods that I assume is near Mack’s fenced-in compound, it ratchets up until I can taste it, barreling off him in waves.

Vinny rarely got nervous, but he didn’t handle it well.

It made him antsy and more liable to lash out at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong.

Lucifer, on the other hand, shoulders his nerves with pride.

Calm, the man is untouchable, uneasy; he is a creature one might find only in the pits of hell itself.

Some beast who would thrive in the relentless heat of the fire.

I don’t know what to make of it as Mack climbs out of the van first, quickly followed by his two men.

I expect Lucifer to exit as well, but he lingers and pins me here right beside him, his hand gripping my wrist. His free hand pries my fist open and prods the crumbled piece of paper hidden inside it.

“Read it,” he tells me, his voice a harsh rasp. “Memorize it. Swallow it. ”

I know in an instant what he means—the weapon he’s just given me—and a part of me wants to ask why.

Why make me such a central piece in his plan?

He told Mack that only I knew the locations: a lie.

He made sure to maintain control of the only other object that might ruin his hand, and he positioned the pieces on this twisted game of chess to get me exactly what I wanted.

So, why ? His broad face, guarded by the shadows of the van, offers no answers.

I’m not stupid enough to risk tempting him, so I nod once and crush the paper against my palm.

The next second, Lucifer has the van door open, and he pulls me along by the wrist, coincidentally keeping me close.

Mack’s men can’t muscle in to separate us, and Lucifer makes sure of that by wrenching me even closer when they try.

Like hound dogs, Mack and his men sniff at the air instead, so eager for a little taste of the treats Lucifer’s holding over their heads.

But he’s a good master, and he wields the figurative whip well.

Without waiting for the others, he hauls me forward and starts up what I realize is a driveway paved in loose gravel.

I have to cling to him more than I like—more than he likes.

My nails clutch at his coat, and I sense the bulk of the man underneath.

His heat is a flare in the darkness, guiding my way until the vague outline of a structure comes into view, illuminated by the light spilling out of sparse windows.

It’s the building that houses the pit, I realize as we pass it and my ears pick up the howl of barking dogs.

Up ahead lies the garage and then the bar.

“Food’s in the Chain,” Mack says, referring to the bar, I suppose. His voice tickles the lobe of my good ear, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dante.

Suddenly, I’m wrenched to stand on his other side. I turn my head just in time to catch Mack’s trickle of laughter. His eyes gleam in the faint light as he jerks his head toward the bar.

“See you inside, Kitty. Though, if you do decide that you aren’t hungry, I’ll have Darcy send you a little doggy bag. ”

He breaks away, and his men fall into step behind him.

Dante slows, waiting until the moment they nearly reach the one-story structure.

Then he turns and marshals me toward the garage.

When he reaches the door, he opens it first and peeks inside, every bit the cautious cat Mack teases him to be.

Whoever he finds there makes him stiffen, but he steps inside anyway, allowing me to follow him in on my own.

“Dante...”

I glance over Dante’s shoulder to make out Arno leaning against the base of the steps, his arms crossed. When he sees me, his eyes narrow.

“You might want to get her out of here—”

“That him?”

The door to the apartment opens, and someone else appears at the top of the stairs.

A man, tall and slender. The moment those blue eyes meet mine—so similar to Lucifer’s—I sense everything in the entire room stiffen.

Unease rides the atmosphere. Lucifer doesn’t know whether to take Arno’s advice and shove me from the door, and the artist—Espi—can’t seem to decide what to make of my outfit or the new bruise shaping up over my chin, courtesy of Donahugh.

There are only seconds to react. Seconds to break the tension on my own before it spills over. In Vinny’s world, I would go with the first option and obediently hide out of sight. This time, I step free of Dante’s shadow.

Looking past the red-haired man, I face the artist directly. “H-hey...”

He sighs, and some of the tension that crept into his posture eases up. “You’re okay.”

I force a nod, though Dante’s gaze is like a knife that cuts through me. He hides his shock well, however. His fingers twitch to reach for me, but he doesn’t. He eyes the artist—his brother—instead, and I can almost taste the amount of control it takes him to keep his voice steady .

“Espi. Where the hell have you been—”

“That’s none of your damn business,” Espi counters. There’s a duffel hanging from his shoulder, and he wrenches it higher while descending the steps two at a time. He shoulders past Arno and then approaches the door, his narrowed gaze focused solely on Dante.

The two brothers eye each other, one fallen and one still above reproach.

All you’d need is a sheet of glass between them and you would have a twisted mirror.

I eye the artist’s wiry frame and the lack of shadows lurking within his blue irises.

Was this how Lucifer looked before his tumultuous fall from grace?

The thought tugs at something inside my chest, and I have to brush it aside.

They communicate in their own silent language, more ancient than any spoken tongue. I can almost see the emotions that spark between them. In the end, Espi has the last word, and Dante shifts his weight ever-so-slightly to the side in defeat.

“I’ll see you around, Pyro,” he tells me, cocking his head in my direction. “Take this for now. I’ll try to bring you something more girly next time.”

“N-next time?”

Without answering, he shrugs the duffel from his shoulder and presses the straps into my hand.

I take them, testing the weight that dangles from them.

There are more clothes inside it, I suspect.

Maybe another case of deodorant. All in all, it’s just one more simple act of kindness I will never be able to repay, but he’s gone before I can even get a thank-you out.

Dante watches him head out of the door, his jaw clenched. “Espi...”

Whether the artist doesn’t hear him or just ignores him...I can’t tell. He disappears into the darkness, and for a moment, my devil almost looks human. Pain softens the intensity of those eyes before even more cold ice replaces it.

“He knew about her,” Arno says, starting forward. “Espi. He asked about the little bitch.” His eyes cut over to me, blazing with suspicion. “Did you hear what the fuck I’ve just said? Dan—”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Lucifer rakes a hand through his hair, displacing the black strands across his forehead. The look only serves to intensify the hard expression bolstering his words. He’s a wolf, his hackles raised, and the red-haired man knows when to back off.

He chuckles darkly and then waves a hand through the air before strolling to the door. Over the threshold, he hesitates and glances back at Dante. “Let’s say that I want her. Now. Would you give her to me?”

I don’t know what terrifies me more—the thought of truly being at Arno’s mercy or the look in Lucifer’s eyes when he stares the man he called his brother down. It’s completely unreadable. Stone. Once again, Lucifer proves to be a code I’m not adept enough to crack. Arno, however, has no trouble.

He shakes his head suddenly, choking out a scoff. “I thought so.”

He’s gone in an instant, and in his absence, Lucifer switches from stone to.

..lightning. His gaze is piercing when it finds mine.

His fingers flex at his sides, hungry. I know I have a second to save myself, and for some reason, I take it rather than do the smart thing, which would be to let him flatten me beneath his rage.

“I knew him,” I choke out, taking a step backward until the railing of the staircase juts into my spine. “Espi. I m-met him once...before.”

“How?” It’s a simple question made dangerous by the harsh undercurrent of anger it carries.

“A few days before...before I was taken,” I admit. “He was painting in the alley near Vinny’s hotel. When we were at the apartment, I met him again. He made me answer the door for him—”

I hear a sound like something striking wood and the world sways—my foot, I realize when I glance down. I’ve mounted the first step of the staircase without even realizing it. Unconcerned, the devil continues his slow advance toward me, and I find myself climbing yet another step.

“He told me he’d call the police if I didn’t,” I say, though for some reason, my voice doesn’t hold an ounce of fear, even as my heart threatens to pound its way right out of my chest. “I let him think—”

“What did you tell him?” Lucifer’s demand rivals the insistent howl of the barking dogs I can hear even from here. The blistering rage gives way to the tumult of emotions that lurk underneath. Fear. It’s the strongest, breaking through before he even seems to realize it. What did you tell him?

“I told him...” My tongue shoots out to coat my bottom lip as if that bit of moisture might protect me from the heat he’s giving off through those scorching eyes. “I told him that I was a prostitute and that you were helping me escape my pimp.”