Page 73 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

“Wait!” Van Hallen breathes heavily into the receiver.

“You... This is all just hypothetical, right? You don’t really have her?

Because, if you did...well, then that makes what I’m about to tell you a little clearer: Stacatto’s put out a hit on a man who sounds an awful lot like you.

Half a million dollars for a bastard with blue eyes, dark hair, and a tattoo that says ‘Kitten’ across the left side of his neck. ”

Half a million dollars. I have to chuckle at the amount. It’s the biggest pot put on my head, though definitely not the first. I have a feeling that it won’t be the last.

“You’re right, Detective. Sounds an awful lot like me.”

“I knew you had an interesting rap sheet, Vialle,” Van Hallen admits, “but getting on Stacatto’s shit list within a week is quite the feat to manage.”

“I’ll expect my award in the mail,” I toss back.

This time, Van Hallen doesn’t parry with a jab of his own.

“Look...if your information is credible, it’s probably best if you contact me again through my direct number.

If what you’re saying is true about the girls.

..then I think any prosecutor worth the paper his license is printed on would overlook a few murky details if a rogue detective launched his own counter investigation. ”

I don’t say anything. It’s his neck on the line, but the bastard seems eager to put it there just to nail Stacatto to the wall. Heroes. Or maybe it’s just plain, old stupidity.

“Memorize this number,” he says before spouting off a round of digits. “Call it only when you have something tangible I can work with.”

He hangs up, and I return to the bar counter and toss the phone to Arno. He catches it with a wary look—though, if he overheard anything, he’s smart enough not to admit it out loud.

“Mack won’t be up for a while,” he says, tucking the phone into his pocket. “The fucker went heavy on the drink...” He cracks a tired smile that almost reaches his eyes. “You must have shown him up good.”

I feel a matching grin tug on the corners of my mouth for a second. “Just like old times.”

I leave him there and head for the garage.

I don’t know why I take my time mounting each step, my gaze on the door to the apartment.

I can almost taste her beyond it. Nervous.

Anxious. The little bitch probably thinks Arno is right at my damn heels, and a part of me takes pleasure in that.

If thunder weren’t choosing this moment to rumble in the distance, I would go back to the bar and get the bastard just to prove. ..

What? That her little pleas don’t matter? That she doesn’t matter? I could turn her over in a second and still fucking sleep at night.

When I finally get the front door open, I don’t find her in the living room or the kitchen. For a second, I entertain the notion that the little bitch wised up and ran, but I catch her scent lingering just beyond the doorway to the bedroom, and I find her seated on the edge of the mattress.

Blank. Her expression registers nothing. She’s the same creature she was the night Arno’s man first brought her in. Empty. Distant. She’s ready for whatever I’ll throw at her—and it won’t fucking faze her.

“Arno’s waiting downstairs,” I tell her as I enter the room. With one hand, I reach for her wrist, gripping her so tightly that I feel the bone underneath. “Come—”

She waits until I drag her to her feet before she lashes out. Nails. Teeth. Hands. Feet. The little bitch comes to life kicking and screaming. “No!” Her wounded hand lands a blow across my cheek, and I taste her blood. She ripped the cut open again, but the pain doesn’t even seem to faze her.

When I drag her closer, pinning her arms to her sides, I find terror in her eyes, but the fear isn’t directed at me.

Oh, no. The little bitch is afraid of herself .

She doesn’t know why she’s fighting. Why she’s angry at the thought of me turning her over like a piece of meat.

She would have never fought him like this, and it’s that realization that makes me shove her back so hard that she lands faceup on the mattress.

“Stop.”

She lies there, her teeth bared, her hair streaking the dark comforter like a shadow. Her face stands out in stark contrast, displaying a real, true emotion for once. Hatred—only the dumb bitch isn’t smart enough to direct it at me.

She hates herself.

“I’m not going to give you to him,” I say, flinging the words at her like punches.

Her chest heaves. She sighs. She’s...relieved.

Her eyes shut against the admission, but not before I catch sight of it.

Stacatto’s little whore only has enough room in her bed for one monster, apparently.

Realizing that pisses her off—as much as a little princess can be pissed off.

Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and she bites down until it turns red.

“Unless you want me to change my mind?” I add, but it’s a vicious taunt, and she winces as if I’d slapped her.

Her mouth twitches anyway. Yes. She wants to say it. She wants to don her emotionless armor and take every evil thing dished out at her like a good, caged songbird. But she can’t. Her newfound will is too damn strong, even for her to resist.

“N-no,” she croaks, wrenching her eyes open to stare me down. “No one else.” She drags herself upright, raising her freshly bloody palm as if she’s not quite sure why. “No one else...”

I don’t move. That’s a promise that I won’t make—not to a bitch with another man’s name on her chest. Not to her.

Her fingers flutter, dripping blood onto the bedspread, but she can’t seem to pull the hand back.

Maybe she can’t bear to be used, even to piss off Stacatto.

Deep down, maybe the little bitch doesn’t want to die, either.

It’s a grim realization she can’t force herself to face, and I’m not sure what course of action she’ll take when a knock rattles the front door.

My eyes cut to her. Cut through her. “Stay here.”

She stiffens when I enter the hall again. I move slowly. Cautiously. My fingers flex, and I almost wish I’d taken her knife. My hands have taken enough of a beating over the past few days.

“Who is it?”

The only response is another quiet knock. I shift my stance as I pull the door open, prepared to shove anyone right down the fucking staircase before they can make a move. I see a shadow. A hulking figure. Blue eyes.

“Shit.” I pull back at the last second and brace my open palm against the nearest wall. “Espi?”

The kid doesn’t acknowledge me with more than a flick of his eyes and a grunt. “She here?”

She? Something tugs at the back of my mind. Her. She’s spoken to him, and who knows what the fuck she really told him.

“She isn’t—”

“Is she here or not?” Espi pushes his way past me, muscling through the door, dragging something behind him. It’s a case, oddly shaped.

My mind is slow to place it as he pulls it into the living room and scans the corners for Stacatto’s woman.

“Danny? Danny, are you here?”

When there’s no answer right away, Espi glares at me and seems about ready to hit me with whatever the fuck he has when she finally creeps to the doorway.

“H-hey.” She smiles, but her bruised lips undermine the expression. She does her best to move without wincing as she enters the hallway, and I know why. She’s suppressing every ounce of pain, humiliation, and abuse...for him.

I can’t tell if Espi can see through the bullshit or if he chooses to believe the illusion instead .

“I brought you something,” he grunts, manipulating the case so that she can see it.

When she does, she stops moving. Her eyes widen.

They fill—flood. Whatever has been done to her, Espi’s magic case is enough to erase it long enough for her to stagger forward and brush the length of it with a trembling finger.

Without a word, he sets the case onto the floor and undoes the latches before flicking it open.

I don’t know what I expect to find inside it. Gold? Money? Dope? Besides pussy, those are the things that seem to matter wherever you look. Most men—let alone most people—wouldn’t be brought to tears by the sight of a wooden instrument, and her own words haunt me. Cello.

She glances up at Espi, shaking her head. “How...how? Why—”

“I got it from a friend,” he says, gently cutting over her.

Speechless, she caresses the body of the instrument like it’s glass.

Like it’s the motherfucking holy grail. For a second, I know she’s forgotten all about Vincent Stacatto, Arno, Mack.

..Dante Vialle. We’re just dust on her periphery, swept away by her one true passion.

Right now, I understand why her precious Vinny was willing to kill her family as punishment for pursuing her dreams. Why he made her play while he killed.

Why he held her captive for five years and forced her to bear his ring.

He knew what I know now: Nothing in the world will ever matter to her as much as this.

She will never look at another man the way she looks at a fucking piece of wood.

It’s the kind of knowledge that would drive some jealous fuck stupid enough to fall in love with her insane.