Page 17 of Crescendo

It’s a familiar game, but this time, I forget the rules. “Vinny, don’t!”

“Lie down,” he growls before I even register sitting up. “You get off that fucking bed and I’ll break her neck. You justwatch.”

I go limp. The back of my head strikes the pillow just as the woman cries out. The sound is so brief and so sharp. It’s like the howl a dog makes when you step on its foot. The rest of her cries are smothered, however. She’ll bite her lip. She’ll grind her face into the floor if she has to. Anything to keep from rewarding him with a scream.

Vinny’s low groan scratches against my eardrums when she falls silent. There’s a sickening sound like that of flesh striking flesh—hard. Again. And again.

“What’s your name?” he demands of the woman on the fourth thrust. His hand fists into her hair, yanking her head upright when she doesn’t answer quickly enough.

Her eyes are glassy. Drool runs down her chin. I don’t think she heard him until two broken syllables tear from her lips.

“Ol...ga...”

He grunts and lunges against her, rutting like an animal. He doesn’t give a damn about her name—but he knows I do. He knows why I’ve avoided learning it for over a month.

Olga.Her muffled cries haunt me, a painful melody until the moment Vinny finally pulls out with a groan. He shoves her down and braces his hand against her back to find enough leverage to stand. Then he turns to me, still erect.

Shut it off,I tell myself. I’m not seeing him. I’m not here. I’m not...here.

“I love you,” he tells me over Olga’s whimpers.

She tries to crawl away from him, but her arms tremble too badly to support her weight, so she tumbles onto her side and just lies there.

“I love you, Daniela...” Vinny hisses, palming the length of his erection. His hand moves violently while he braces both feet flat against the floor. “Look at me.”

My eyes meet his, but I don’t see the irises. I’m staring farbeyond his head. There’s a stage. Bright, beautiful lights that create a puddle of light around a single chair. There’s a cello there, too... It’s perfectly crafted. The elegance of it makes tears sting behind my eyes. Not this. I’m not here. Not here.

“I love you—fuck!”

Hot liquid hits my thighs in burning lines. Once...again. Being marked with the evidence of his lust aches worse than the marks he left with my bow. I’ll never erase them. He’s marking my soul; it’s just a plaything to sate his cruel desire.

“I love you,” he insists while pulling his pants up. “Tomorrow, you wear the fucking ring. You smile. You will beproud.” He spits that word at me while he steps over Olga and staggers through the doorway. The door slams shut after him, and then there’s only silence.

Olga and I don’t dare commiserate together. We simply exist...staring at the ceiling while darkness consumes it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dante

A rabid dogcan live for a week on nothing but scraps. It knows which kennels to scratch at. Which favors to call in. Who to intimidate when it needs a bone to nibble.

Some habits are impossible to shake, as the good detective subtly hinted at. But, if I wanted to keep my nose clean, then the rumors that swirl wherever I go certainly don’t help. Nothing lures a mutt into trouble like the scent of another alpha’s piss trail, and Vincent Stacatto has figuratively lifted his leg over the entire city. Arno’s mark is fainter, but still there, from the Lower West Side, all the way down to the docks. There seems to be no fire hydrants left for an ex-convict to mark all over.

Good. Blood is a better marker anyway.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender insists while tucking the twenty I slipped him into his pocket. His gaze shifts from one corner of the narrow room to the other as if checking for spies lurking under the shitty pool table in the back. “Mackenzie? Never heard of him.”

“Okay.” I turn on my heel and head for the door only to pause somewhere in the middle of the room.

The bar’s a shithole. The prison cafeteria had a better setup than the mismatched chairs surrounding rickety card tables. Torn posters of irrelevant bands line the walls, but one piece of artwork sticks out. Between two shots of the Beatles, someone painted a six-pointed star directly onto the wood paneling. Each arm of it alternates in silver and black paint.

“So, you don’t know him?” I call over my shoulder. “Just for the record.”

“I told you, asshole,” the man snarls back. “I never heard of no fucking Mackenzie.”

“Right.” I nod while turning on my heel. I return to the counter in two steps and snag my empty shot glass before he can take it away. “Give me another.”

I nod to the rack of bottles behind his head, and the bastard makes a show of pouring the shot of whiskey. I bring the rim of the glass to my mouth and inhale the burning swill inside it. Then, when I’m sure he’s watching, I tilt my hand and allow a drop to land on the counter.