Page 80 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

In the end, Arno surveys the dead man with a grunt and runs a hand through his red hair. “I guess Dante’s not the only one used to fighting his way out of a cage.”

“You...you were going to help me,” I say, my voice rasping. Not only that, but he wasn’t throwing me down, eager to try to “kill an hour” for himself. My fingers tense over the unfamiliar hilt of the knife just in case he changes his mind, and a part of me cackles at the motion.

Anyone should have been easier to bear than Vinny—only a few days ago, I swore that to myself. Am I really willing to fight my way through another man—and possibly even more—just to preserve what little tarnished “virtue” I have left?

One twitch of my hip—which triggers a painful throb in my core—and I know the answer. To protect the deal I made with the devil, I just might ...

Rather than make a move for me, Arno grits his teeth.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But not for you. If I let that fucker touch you, Dante would kill me—and I’m not being funny when I say that.

If I let that man touch you, Dante would kill me .

” He spits out each word so that I don’t miss the bitter undertone of truth.

“A skinny bit of ass isn’t worth my life. ”

I have to agree with him as I finally let the knife fall.

I’m not worth anyone’s life, and when my gaze falls over the dead man again, I feel pity instead of guilt. What a stupid way to die.

A rap on the partition separating the back of the van from the front is the only warning before it starts moving again, and I’m not exactly sure which emotion churns my stomach as I scramble to get my bearings. Am I sick with fear? Sick with anticipation? Sick with pain?

All three have their merits, and I’m trembling when the van finally comes to a stop right before the door is opened from the outside.

“Get back.” Arno all but shoves me behind him to reach the exit first, and his voice reaches back to me on a low whisper. “We have a problem.”

Faint light spills in as Arno climbs out—but I can’t make out the figure standing on the other end. Mack is my first guess, but when my vision clears, I make out two piercing blue eyes...

The devil waits until I creep closer before he plunges a hand through the doorway of the van and clasps the one I’m sticking out to meet him, pulling me out onto a narrow street.

Relief is such a powerful emotion outside of Vinny’s cage.

It weighs me down until I can only stand here and observe every inch of my devil.

He’s not dead, at least, and I don’t make out any fresh bruises or cuts forming over his body.

But there’s a look in his eye... It’s familiar for a reason that drenches me in dread.

His eyes seem more dead than those of the man I just killed.

Speaking of which, I’m jostled aside as an unfamiliar man peeks into the shadow of the van.

“Kayden?” he calls out.

When he doesn’t get an answer, he climbs in, and I assume the startled curse he utters next means he noticed the body lying in the corner.

“Kayden? He’s dead! What the fuck?” Before the man even fully leaves the van, three men standing behind Dante start to draw their weapons—though they quickly change their minds when Arno pulls his out first.

Two other men automatically step toward him, and invisible lines of loyalty are drawn in the sand.

“Your friend had a little ‘accident,’” Arno says coldly. “Had to learn the hard way that ‘no’ means ‘no.’”

“You?” the man who drew the gun demands, his weapon still trained in our direction.

Arno scoffs. “Who else?”

My hands flex, still wet with warm, sticky blood—but no one even looks at me.

Arno wears the suspicion with pride. “You wanna end up like him?”

“We’ll settle this later,” Dante snaps, drawing the attention to himself. “At the moment, we have about five minutes before the cops home in. I don’t know about you fucks, but I’d rather not spend the night in jail.”

The men grunt in agreement and follow as Lucifer turns down a narrow alley that smells like fish and into a small, enclosed parking lot currently inhabited by three large vans. I don’t understand why we’re here until one of the vehicles opens and women—all in various stages of dress—climb out.

Just like that, I stop thinking about murder and death. I forget all about Vinny. The only thing that matters is the emotion shooting through my chest, which robs me of everything, even the will to breathe.

Relief? Triumph? Fear?

The devil came through for me yet again. Because of him, at least one of Vinny’s precious businesses has taken a hit. Whatever happens after this moment, there can be no going back—and it’s an incredible, paralyzing sort of freedom to know that, somewhere...Vinny is seething because of me.

I’m still paralyzed by the shock, even as Dante explains to Arno how the plan went.

“Police on the way...tipped off...”

I can only start to move when my eyes finally connect with the kohl-lined gaze of one of the women. She’s terrified, her pupils massive and her breathing heavy.

“What the fuck do we do now?” I hear someone ask as I start forward.

I make the choice for them, reaching out to trail my bloody hand down the arm of a pale, frightened girl wearing an outfit similar to the one I wore in my video. She flinches, cringing back.

“You’re free,” I tell her—all of them. “You’re free.”

“Not so fast.”

I turn around just as the devil approaches.

He takes his time, his gaze flicking from woman to woman, and I’m not stupid enough not to understand that he’s tallying up their worth.

Hundreds? Thousands? What will Lucifer find more lucrative?

His promise to me or the profit even a handful of these women could net him?

I’m not sure what he decides when he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wad of money, which he slaps against my palm .

“We found this inside one of the hideouts.”

I nod, my throat thick, and the devil says nothing as I turn to the nearest woman and press a handful of bills into her trembling hands.

“Take it,” I tell her, raising my voice so that they all can hear me. “Take it and run.”

“Spread out,” Lucifer adds, coming to stand beside me—my fallen angel lording over the souls he’s just saved.

“No more than three at a time. Go anywhere—just get out of the city. Run. Hide. None of us will come looking for you. But...” He dangles the word like a juicy piece of bait held over starving dogs newly freed from a life in a cage.

“If you want to get back at the bastards that did this to you, then memorize this number. Once you’re safe—and only then—call it.

A man named Van Hallen will answer it. Tell him Dante Vialle told him to take fucking notes, and then you spill whatever you remember. ”

If anyone answers him, they do so quietly, in murmurs and suppressed whimpers.

They’re still asleep, I think. Still locked in the throes of the nightmares their lives have become.

I doubt that they fully start to wake up until I shove the first girl toward the mouth of the alley where, up ahead, two men are making sure the coast is clear.

She staggers, her eyes uncertain while her body pitches sideways.

My hand on her arm stops her from falling, but Dante’s voice is what finally snaps her awake.

“You all have five minutes,” he says. “If you want your freedom, then I suggest you fucking take it.”

Just like that, the girl runs, her hair flying out behind her. Then it’s a mad dash to shove countless dollars into pale, trembling, grabbing hands before each woman follows suit, obeying the devil’s instructions to the letter.

Their faces blur, fearful, young, sometimes with battered features.

It’s only when one of them presses her cool hand against mine that familiarity freezes me in place.

Her blue eyes are more haunted than when I saw them last, caked in mascara that runs in rivulets down her cheeks.

Matted, blond hair hangs limp and lifeless down her shoulders, attempting to shield more of her skin than the skimpy, black dress she’s wearing does.

Olga says nothing when I press the cash into her palm.

Or when I throw one arm around her shoulders in the semblance of something that could have been a hug in a different life.

She merely nods when I draw back, and for a second, we are bonded by our scars left by Vincent Stacatto.

When I tell her to run, she does so without question, disappearing through the alley like smoke.

I only have a few bills left, which I divide evenly between the final few women, and they disappear as well.

I watch them go until the moment Lucifer’s hand descends over my shoulder to steer me around to face him.

“We need to go,” he says, and I can only nod.

Part of Vinny’s empire has just been set on fire, and only God knows what might come out of the ashes.

We reach Mack’s compound in silence—a strange show of victory for a returning army. Anger licks at the air as the comrades of the dead man toy with what matters to them more: revenge or their lives? They hold off on making a decision until after Lucifer drags me out of the van, at least.

“Mack’s inside,” someone says, jerking their chin toward the building that houses the bar.

Lucifer doesn’t respond, but I sense the tension coiling in his body as he starts forward and pulls me along. Arno falls into step behind us, and the rest of the men trail in our wake while Dante takes the lead, entering the bar first.

“Well done, Kitty,” Mack drawls from a stool at the bar counter.

At least forty men pack the room full, watching as the devil hauls me inside. Arno takes up a position near the door, his hands at his sides, open and ready.

“Your plan worked out,” Mack admits, though his tone falls flat. He isn’t pleased. Not really.