Page 18 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

“Let me do the talking.” Espisido pulls up beside me, his mouth near my ear, his breath fanning my throat. Too warm. Too real. I have to shift slightly out of his reach to avoid the crossfire. “I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, but just…just trust me.”

Trust him. A laugh trickles from my throat.

It’s almost possible to overlook the audacity of the request for one reason alone—He’s anxious again, his jaw rigid as he pulls ahead.

Feeding off his unease, Domi falls into step between us, and we march almost single-file through the wooden door marking the entrance.

What place might an angel deem safe? Well, hell, of course.

It’s loud inside—louder than Moe’s. A deafening rift of shouting melds with the heavy rock music hammering against my eardrums. There are people everywhere, a sea of flailing limbs and blurred faces crammed within a backdrop of dark walls and wooden floors.

It’s a sweaty, claustrophobic version of the fiery pit.

A bar counter resides along one wall, across from a row of pool tables.

At the back of the space is a stage where a half-naked woman demonstrates just how many ways she can swing from a metal pole without falling off.

In one of the corners, men openly count obscene stacks of money while bellowing out bets, apparently on “Who says Arno kills that fuck?”

The winning odds lean overwhelmingly toward “yes.”

“This way.” Espisido takes my wrist, guiding me down a narrow hallway where some of the intensity of the noise fades.

“He’s up here,” he tosses back over Domi’s head.

I suspect that the commentary is for my benefit, reinforcing his previous warning.

“Just follow my lead and take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

It’s a subtler way of phrasing keep your mouth shut, no matter what. As if to illustrate the urgency, he tenses as we approach a closed door.

A man is standing beside it, his arms crossed. “You might want to come back later, kid,” he warns. “Arno’s busy right now.”

Espi opens the door despite the warning, revealing the chilling scene within.

Two men are sitting on either side of a table. One of them is holding a gun to his head, nestled in a sea of red hair, while a crowd of at least ten men watch on.

“You ready, you little shit fuck?” The man holding the gun flicks the trigger. Once. Twice. On the third attempt, he pulls it.

My hands rush to cover my ears, but the resulting sound is too soft. Just an impotent click quickly followed by raucous laughter.

So this is Arno. Cold, green eyes stare through his opponent as he offers the gun on the palm of his hand. “Your turn.” A heavy accent shapes each word—distinctive of one of the city boroughs. “You feeling lucky, motherfucker? Or do you finally want to talk?”

I can’t see the other man’s face from my position as he chokes out a watery laugh that fails to convey any bravery.

“I’m not no fucking snitch, asshole— ”

“You hear that?” Arno asks the group of men surrounding the morbid table setting.

He throws his hands into the air and releases another chilling chuckle.

“This motherfucker ain’t no goddamn snitch.

” He turns the gun again, holding it out trigger-end first. It’s a familiar gesture that makes my blood run cold.

“Then prove it,” Arno snarls. “Put your goddamn money where your mouth is.”

The other man finally takes the gun and presses it to his temple.

An eerie hum echoes throughout the room, building in intensity.

At first, I almost believe that it’s the man’s heart beating that loudly—but no, a glance down reveals that the steady thump is being made by Arno as he taps his fingers.

“Tick fucking tock ,” he growls.

The man pulls the trigger. Click! The poor fool can barely smother a sigh of relief, though he can’t hide his body’s reaction—a small puddle is forming around his feet.

“My turn.” Arno snatches the gun and brings it to his mouth, wrapping his lips around the opening.

He shoots, and another blank shot rings out.

“Bang,” he says. “There are still three chances left. You want to keep playing or fucking talk? Though I will say that this is the part where the game starts getting fun …”

“Okay, okay.” The man shakes his head. “I didn’t see nothing—”

“Then what the fuck are we talking for?” Arno reaches into the pocket of his jacket and draws a gun that I suspect has every chamber loaded.

“Arno…” Suddenly, Espisido’s closer, his shoulder jarring mine, as a ripple goes through the ragtag group of spectators.

They’re watching with more than just amusement now, like a pack of dogs anxious for the first drop of blood to be spilled.

“And there he is.” Arno hones his gaze in our direction, still aiming the gun.

It’s like a million words pass between him and Espi—judgment, arrogance, assertion, guilt .

“Where the fuck are my manners?” Arno wonders gruffly. “Allow me to set the stage. This motherfucker sucks dick for the Cartel, and one of their warehouses went up in smoke less than two hours ago—”

Smoke. Fire. I struggle to piece the details together in context with what happened at the Russian club.

“Little Benny here was meant to be guarding the door—obviously, he fucked up. But he saw something.” With little fanfare, Arno aims the barrel of the gun squarely over Little Benny’s forehead and caresses the trigger.

“I went out of my fucking way to invite him to my party, but he seems to think he’s too good to talk.

I might have to make it easier on him to keep his fucking mouth shut. ”

The man in the hot seat races to display his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey! Hey! I didn’t see nothing, but I heard, okay!”

“Who?” The sound of the weapon cocking gives a finite backdrop to Arno’s command.

“Some bitch. I don’t know who, but she gave the orders—”

“Some bitch?” Arno raises an eyebrow. “A woman?”

Little Benny frantically nods. “Yeah. She kept to the back, but I heard her.”

“You didn’t see her?”

“N-no,” Benny admits. “But she had an accent. Some kind of Spanish—”

“Spanish,” Arno echoes. After a harsh moment of silence, he puts the loaded gun away. “What else?”

Benny shakes his head. “That’s all I got before they started wiping people out. I barely got the fuck out of there with my head—”

“Story time’s over,” Arno interjects. “Boys. Take our friend here and show him what other games we like to play.”

The command snaps two of the spectating thugs into action. They rush to the table and grab Benny by either arm before dragging him to his feet and past us, into the hall .

“Everyone else, get the fuck out,” Arno bellows. “Except for you .” He jabs a finger in Espi’s direction before he can move. “We need to talk.”

“Fuck,” Espisido grunts under his breath.

“Give me a second.” Sighing, he spares a glance at Domi and then flags one of the passing men down with a wave of his hand.

“Hey, Francisco!” He mutters something into the man’s ear on his way into the room.

Then he looks over his shoulder, meeting my gaze.

“Stick around,” he says. “I’ll come find you when I’m done. ”

The door closes behind him as the other man advances toward Domi and me. Francisco, I presume. He’s tall, with wiry, dark hair and chiseled, gaunt features that have seen better days.

“The kid said to show you around,” he says rather than introduce himself properly. “So let’s go.”

With a wary glance shared between us, Domi and I follow him.

The music is just as deafening the second time in, but somehow, I manage to hear Francisco bellow above the noise.

“Espi said you two want jobs. I won’t even ask your ages”—he tosses a pointed look at Domi—“and I don’t have time to be a fucking babysitter. Pick a spot, and you learn the ropes as you go along. Consider this a working interview. So, what about you, little girl?”

Domi glances around the club, unperturbed by the noise. She’s seen worse. Heard worse. Spotting the bar, she points to it, her chin set in determination.

“That’s my domain,” Francisco shouts back. “You better keep up. And what about you ?”

What about me? I shouldn’t even be here, but rather on a bus, or a plane, or a train. Piotr is in my head already. He’s in my skin, lingering like an itch I can’t scratch. A wound that won’t heal.

“Hey!” A hand collides with my shoulder, jarring me back. “You wanna work or not?”

I’m tempted to refuse. Little Espi should learn to gather his demons from better stock— good riddance .

I even start toward the exit, but I catch sight of a nearby man who is leering at the girl beside me.

Already, Domi is catching more attention than she should.

She’s too pretty , as much as it disgusts me to use that word.

Hungry eyes linger over her smooth skin and her shapely body.

Maybe life as Chloe Parker isn’t as easy to suppress as I’d hoped—I won’t leave her alone here. For now.

My gaze is already roving in the direction of the stage, where a woman in a glittery thong is in the process of taking it off while the men around her drool to the tune of music.

The performance would earn her a bullet to the brain at Moe’s. Piotr prized his dancers for their “art form” over vulgarity.

Stop. I shake my head to resist the impending trip down memory lane. Too late. I can still feel him behind me. Beside me. Inside me.

“You want a job or not?” Francisco asks.

I hear myself sigh above the pulsing bass, though I’m not sure if anyone notices. “I’ve only ever had one… job .”

“Oh?” Francisco ruins his hard-ass facade by sounding genuinely curious. “Let’s see it, then.”

I set my sights on the stage, swallowing down a bubble of unease. “But first, what’s your policy on serving shots to your prospective employees?”

He laughs. “There wasn’t one—until now.”

He heads for the bar while I watch the current dancer finish her set. Anna should be my focus. Running. Hiding. Not what a certain angel might think if I let him see my horns.

Or just how far I’ve fallen from grace.