Page 85 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

He guides me down an expansive hallway and into a grand dining room, where Vinny is standing at the head of a long table draped in a pure-white tablecloth.

Silverware marks exactly two place settings, and a bottle of wine sits between them.

I can smell food cooking. Meat. The scent serves as a brutal omen that matches the ferocity in Vinny’s charming grin.

“Good evening, Daniela,” he croons to me before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a single object, which he tosses onto the table.

I know in an instant what it is: a woolen cap, like the kind that might hold back a mop of unruly, black curls from brilliant, blue eyes. It’s Espi’s, and my heart turns to stone in my chest.

“He’s dead,” Vinny explains, flashing his teeth.

I find Gino standing in the corner of the room, his face expressionless.

I eye his hands—the same hands that killed Espi—and my own curl around the object he gave me.

I consider throwing it to the floor and crushing whatever it is beneath my bare foot—but, almost as if reading my mind, I swear I see him shake his head once.

No. Wait. He cuts his gaze over to the bottle of wine. Make your toast.

“Come here,” Vinny commands.

I take my time approaching him. His gaze drifts appreciatively over my towel-dried hair and the dress I’m wearing.

When he sees my bare toes, he frowns, and his fingers flex, aching to deliver a slap for the offense.

For now, he contents himself with the obedient way I take my place beside him, my head bowed.

Remembering Gino’s request, I observe the bottle of wine, but nothing about it seems special. It’s imported—Vinny’s favorite brand.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” he says softly, dragging his finger along the neck of the bottle. “To my love, Daniela. And to Dante...when I find him.”

My blood runs cold. The object Gino pressed into my palm is the only thing tying me to the present, and for the first time, I shift my grip on it, trying to suss out the telltale shape. It’s square. Small. Familiar...

A goofy, cartoonish image pops into my head—a grinning moose.

“Here,” Vinny says, drawing my attention back to him as he lifts a wine goblet.

“W-wait...” I force myself to raise my hand, reaching for the bottle before he can.

It’s heavy. I have to cradle one hand against the bottom and clutch at the neck with the other.

Someone already removed the cap, and I can hear the liquid sloshing within the glass.

“I want to make the toast if that’s okay. ”

Vinny says nothing. He merely watches on suspiciously as I tilt the bottle with both hands pressed flat against it.

“To...to our love,” I hear myself say while I attempt to pour an amount of liquor into Vinny’s glass. But, with my left arm unsteady, I miss. The liquid spreads across the beautiful tablecloth and spills right down the front of Vinny’s perfectly tailored, black pants.

“Damn it!” His hand lashes out, and I go flying. The bottle overturns, and liquid careens in every direction, splashing from the table and onto the polished wooden floor. I wind up on my hands and knees, and I finally lift my palm to reveal the object Gino gave me.

A book of matches.

I don’t think. I don’t even hear Vinny raging above me.

Another voice is in my head, taunting me by asking if I enjoy setting fires like a true pyromaniac.

When I tear free a match and strike it, I do it for Espi.

When I spot a puddle of alcohol—which seems way too clear to be wine—I let it fall for Dante.

But, when I draw back and watch as fire consumes everything in burning-hot snatches, it’s all for Daniela.

The flames are greedier for freedom than I could ever be.

They lick at everything in their path, dancing across the floor, climbing up the table.

They even try to devour Vinny. He curses when the first embers nudge the heel of his polished loafers.

He’s able to kick it back, already shouting for Gino to “put this fucking shit out!” He doesn’t notice when I throw my arm out within his path until he trips over it, his heel striking bone so hard that I hear a crack.

He lands on his knees, already preparing to lurch upright again, but my other hand seizes his pant leg.

Then I spot the wine bottle rolling across the floor just a few feet away and reach for it.

Surprisingly, there’s still liquor sloshing around inside it, and it spills out, eagerly drenching Vinny’s thigh when I aim it in his direction.

He kicks me off, standing to his feet, his teeth bared, his eyes like midnight.

I don’t know how I manage to light another match, striking it against the matchbook with just one hand.

Maybe fate is on my side for once, as Vinny doesn’t even seem to realize when he takes a step toward me.

The “wine” forms a puddle that stretches from my wrist all the way to the heel of his polished loafer.

When I let the match fall, it instantly lights with flame.

Like a beautiful creature formed of flashing orange light, it lurches across the wood and seeps through the fabric of Vinny’s slacks.

He shouts and backs away, fanning at the flames with the back of his hand.

Gino. He calls for Gino...but his trusted flunky is nowhere in sight.

The door to the dining room is closed. When Vinny tugs, it doesn’t open.

His shouts grow louder, and curses mingle with the words—someone is on the other side of the doors, watching him through the frosted glass, but they don’t lift a finger to help.

“You motherfucker! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you—argh!”

Another lit match feeds the flames. I can’t seem to stop striking them, even as heat leaches into my body and a sharper, more intense pain joins the melody of it already playing through my system.

I strike another, watching the beauty of the fire engulf the tiny wick.

When I let it fly, it joins the rest—surging, smoldering, crackling heat .

“You stupid bitch!”

Agony flares through my left arm when someone grabs it—a demon. He’s on fire, his heat searing my skin and drawing a gasp from my lips. A scream. He won’t let go, and I have no choice but to look into his eyes as the fire grows. Spreads. Consumes.

He doesn’t seem to realize until it laps at the collar of his shirt. Then he draws back, and the shouting becomes screaming...

A part of me knows what I’m seeing: a man dying.

But I don’t dare tear my gaze away. I think I vaguely recognize the sound that tears from my lips for what it really is before smoke chokes my lungs—laughter.

I’m laughing. I’m crying. I’m watching a man I once called my best friend stagger across a beautiful dining room and crash into the elegant furniture, and I find the sight hilarious for some reason.

A goblet to the head wouldn’t do Vinny justice— this is the only fitting way for him to die. Consumed by fire. By rage itself. Watched by the creature he molded and shaped into his image.

I laugh because, after five years of terror, I finally embody the twisted, beautiful monster he always wanted me to be.

The thought is a terrifying one. It’s freeing. I’m free from the fear and the pain even as the heat sears my skin and my body suffocates on the acrid stench of burning flesh and wood.

I’m free...and when my vision finally goes black, the last thing I see is Vincent Stacatto writhing in agony as the fires of Hell reclaim the black soul they once spit out.

But the harshest of ironies is: The devil isn’t here to welcome me.