Page 58 of Love At the Gates of Hell (The Seven Sinners Trilogy #1)

thirty-nine

Frank

It was time.

Frank Markos adjusted his cuff links as he studied his reflection in the mirror.

He wore his best suit, a crisp navy Italian wool blend, completely bespoke to his measurements.

There was a part of him that mourned the loss of it already, knowing that the transformation he would undergo would all but destroy it in the process.

But if one was to elevate beyond the human form, one should do it in style.

His skin was thrumming with the impending sunset as his eyes traveled to the window of his bedroom, watching as the darkness crept into the sky, muting the bright blue with shades of orange and red. Like flames licking at the ocean. Like the delicious light of a Strega witch.

Frank had spent much of his life searching for a witch to fulfill the ritual.

It was a process that pulled at him for as long as he could remember.

But his one regret was never giving himself the opportunity to see just what a Strega could do.

He had heard of their power. He had read about them, almost obsessively.

But it wasn’t until Benedetta Russo that he had been given the privilege of seeing it in person.

He understood why they were such rare creatures.

Why they had been hunted so voraciously.

It was mesmerizing. The sheer force behind such an unassuming creature.

Frank found himself fantasizing about their allegiance.

What they could do if Benedetta were to join him.

How he could commodify her power and shape her into the formidable force he knew she could be.

It was a shame he hadn’t seen this before when he had her mother in his grasp.

Sofia Russo had been a disappointment.

The vampires he’d hired hadn’t been able to control themselves, and she was gone before he knew it.

Which had been a pity. Even he didn’t bother to stop Angelo Torretta from avenging his wife’s death.

Their greed cost him another delay, and they had to pay.

It was convenient he didn’t have to get his own hands dirty.

He spent fifteen years waiting for each gift to align—the stone, the witch. Every time he thought he was close, there was another setback.

But this was it.

This was the night everything would change.

Frank found some of his men congregating in the hallway as he strode from his bedroom, the three of them huddled together and talking quietly. One man was clutching his hand to his chest. There was a curious hum of discontent in the air. Something was wrong.

“What is this?”

His voice startled them, the men scrambling as they moved back from their huddle.

One of them stepped toward him. Mack. He was on thin ice, losing Benedetta twice, and he was eager to prove his worth.

Eager to earn the gifts Halmanthoran could bestow upon him once the ascension was complete.

Frank was still undecided on who would ever be worthy of those.

Mack cleared his throat, gesturing to a door to their left.

The door that led to Benedetta’s keeping place.

“She’s still inside, Master,” he said.

“Why?” Frank asked, hitching his brow.

Mack swallowed.

“She’s being difficult,” he managed as he rubbed at the nape of his neck. “She keeps threatening to set us on fire.”

Frank smiled.

“Go and help the others,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I will see to her myself.”

The hallway cleared quickly as Frank reached for the doorknob.

It was hot to the touch, but it bore no effect on his skin.

There were only a few hours left of this invulnerability.

It would dissipate the moment the moon was at its fullest in the sky.

But it would be worth it. Losing all that he knew would be worth it.

“Cute little trick,” he said as he stepped inside.

“Yeah, I know it’s wasted on you.” She sighed. “But at least one of your guys is definitely feeling it.”

Benedetta was sitting in the middle of the bed, her one ankle tied to the footboard.

He knew it was pointless. She could burn through the fibers with ease without all the drugs in her system from the last time.

But he wasn’t lying the other night. Keeping her bound was a personal joy.

And he had scared her with his threats of hurting the others.

He hadn’t expected such an intimate connection, but it proved to work in his favor rather nicely.

“Every moment you stall solidifies Gideon’s death sentence.”

He pressed his palm flat against the wall as he leaned his body weight on one foot.

“And everyone else’s,” he said, eyes gleaming. “How many lives do you want on your hands, Benedetta?”

When she did not respond, her petulant face glaring up at him with a set jaw, Frank gestured to the white garment draped over a chair. He was insistent on this ritual following the old ways and that included the proper clothing. If she wanted to act like a child, he would get her dressed himself.

He stepped forward.

“You could retain some dignity and change yourself,” he offered. “Or I will do it for you.”

Benedetta’s lips parted, her cheeks flushing a deep pink.

“We had an agreement,” he continued as he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. The opal felt cool against his skin as he brandished his knife. “You come willingly and I’ll let you live. This childish behavior does not make me willing to keep that promise.”

He reached for her ankle, and Benedetta flinched at his touch.

He pressed his thumb into her bone, fingers grazing against the smooth skin.

She watched him, her face a mixture of fear and curiosity, and he did not deny the thrill it gave him.

But his lips merely twitched as he brought the knife to the zip tie, freeing her with a clean cut.

“Give me the dress,” she said, eyes dark.

“Very good,” he replied.

He kept his eyes fixed on her as he reached for the dress. It was a plain ceremonial shift. A thin linen. He had a brief vision of the fabric soaked with her blood, and his smile widened as he handed it to her.

“Gotta love all the baked-in misogyny here,” she muttered as she shifted off of the bed.

Her ankle was marred with some light bruising, no doubt from the long night, and he liked the way the red marks mingled with her olive skin.

“Okay… you can leave now. I’m gonna put on your stupid virginal bullshit dress so we can do this. ”

“I will leave when you’re ready,” he said simply.

She stared at him, like they were playing a game of chicken.

But he did not move.

“You forfeited your right to privacy when you injured one of my men, Benedetta.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m waiting.”

Benedetta huffed a strangled breath as she stepped back and turned around to face the back wall.

He watched as she reached behind to unzip her dress, the red silk slipping to the floor.

She wore only a pair of underwear, a color that matched her complexion, the cut high on the delicious curve of her hips.

Her back was bare, and he watched the shift of her muscle and shoulder blades as she reached for the ceremonial dress.

He could step closer.

He could reach out and touch her. Bait her.

Really see what her true power was.

But Frank had a feeling he would see that soon enough.

Our Lady of Perpetual Help was once a thriving community center with a dedicated parish that committed itself to acts of service.

It had been where Frank Markos had spent every single Sunday as an altar boy, playing acolyte to soothe his mother’s Catholic guilt.

Frank was born just as he was now, hungry and calculating and seeking an answer to something his mother was unsure she’d ever be able to satisfy.

She was alone, a single parent who worked sixty-hour weeks to keep her only son fed and clothed and in God’s good graces.

But there was a small part of her that knew it might never save him.

That Frank was born wrong.

He often wondered if she had known that it was her precious church that fed the insatiable need that drove him.

That a tiny little voice from beneath the crypt spoke to him while he let the smoke of the incense filter into his lungs during midnight mass.

That it begged him to step below the surface, to save it, to give it life.

Blood.

Sacrifice.

Frank had been all too fervent to give it anything it wanted.

In return, it promised him everything.

Figuring out what lived beneath the church was a driving force in his adult life.

It pushed him to follow two parallel paths.

He was a con man and a sorcerer. A dedicated student of the dark arts who knew how to steal better than anyone.

It built him a life in the shadows. And when he discovered the gate, when he finally realized what it was that was calling to him all these years, he knew he had always been meant for this.

He was ready to collect.

But the cathedral that stood before him now felt smaller than he remembered.

Dingier. Like it had been slowly shrinking into the earth year after year.

He craned his neck back slightly as he took in the building, a once-looming fortress in an otherwise quiet neighborhood.

It had been nearly forty years since he’d stepped foot inside.

He had been fifteen when it happened. A tragic accident left a young boy dead, and the parish was too poor and the diocese too unwilling to step in, leaving the church without recompense.

Rumors swirled about what happened, about a curse that lingered in the stone walls of Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

A theory not entirely incorrect.

It was built to hide the gate, after all.

But Rome was unwilling to lose the tax-free land.

They kept a small rotation of seasoned pastors, no bishop willing to take on the job. They made small attempts at reinvigorating the parish. But the tragedy had left its mark, and only the most devout would cross the threshold. Only the most in need.

Well.

Frank was in need.

Just stepping inside the atrium gave him a delicious little chill, his skin tingling with every step closer.

His eyes darted to the ceiling, to the sloping arches and intricate engravings, the skylight that might as well have been ticking with the seconds of the crest of the full moon.

He tightened his hold on Benedetta’s arm and relished in the wince that passed through her lips.

“Can I help you?”

The voice was soft, tired. The age of it clear in the crush of his tone.

“Just here for a little worship,” Frank replied amiably.

An older man stepped from a door to the left, no doubt from a passage that connected to the rectory.

He had a shock of white hair and thin-framed glasses.

He was no taller than Frank, and he wore a thick shawl over his black shirt and collar even in the dead heat of August. He considered Frank for a moment before his eyes darted to where Benedetta stood, barefoot in a thin linen shift, eyes glaring.

“I’m afraid we no longer schedule evening mass,” he said simply.

“S’alright, Father,” Frank said with a smile. “We don’t need much from you to get this going.”

The wide double doors to the church slammed open behind him, and his men came filtering inside, all of them armed.

He had every man at the ready. More vampire than human at this stage of the game.

Harder to control, but the firepower was unmatched.

Two particularly large vampires carrying sledgehammers strode past where Frank and Benedetta stood, the priest watching after them with an expression Frank found he couldn’t place.

The priest quickly made the sign of the cross as he closed his eyes.

“Forgive me, Lord,” the old man sighed out. “For I am not sure I am up to the task—”

Frank’s lips quirked.

“Now, Father,” he said. “Tell me you know why we’re here.”

“Don’t,” Benedetta said.

“Whatever it is you hope to achieve this evening,” the priest said, taking the short few steps toward them, “I am certain I cannot let you pass through this atrium.”

“Is that so?” Frank asked, delighted. “Are you all that Rome has to offer, old man?”

“It is my duty,” the priest replied, “to protect these grounds with my life.”

“How convenient for me,” Frank grinned.

Then suddenly the whole room went dark as Frank’s men cut the power.