Page 45 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ESPI

“Where the hell have you been?” Arno snarls the moment we enter Mulligan’s.

Shit. The set of his shoulders alone backs up the nerves I sensed in him over the phone. He’s awake before dawn, without a bottle to show for it, too. Either the bar’s entire stash of liquor disappeared overnight, or something’s got him riled so badly that even beer can’t fix it.

I don’t spot Francisco behind the bar, either—another bad sign. Arno only leaves him out of shit when he doesn’t want to be put on a leash.

“What’s going on?”

“Well, you would know if you answered your damn phone. I’ve been calling you for five fucking—” He breaks off once he notices the woman in my shadow and his expression falls flat. “Never mind. I can guess what the fuck you were doing.”

He’s gone before I can muster up a comeback, marching toward the center of the bar. Then I realize why he’s so edgy—We have company. I spot the guest of honor seated on one of the stools near the end of the counter. The next second, Arno shoves me back before I even register taking a step .

“Relax,” he grunts while I catch myself against the end of a pool table. “He’s just here to talk. I told you that he found something out.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d invite him over for goddamn tea.”

Jose put his big-boy clothes on today—a leather jacket and jeans.

“ Hola, mi amigo ,” he says. He brought a knife along to play with—Arno wouldn’t dare let him bring a gun. Knowing damn well that I’m watching, the bastard twirls it between his fingers, his eyes reflecting hints of silver. “It’s been a long time since our last chat—”

“Don’t,” Arno growls to me. “Don’t give this fucker any bait to help him get off at night.

” He cocks his head the same way most men would a gun.

His eyes narrow, and my nerves spark, painfully alert.

I haven’t seen this version of Arno in a very, very long time.

His eyes aren’t even bloodshot, and there isn’t an open beer can lying around.

It’s as close to stone-cold sober as he can get.

“You came here to talk,” he says to Jose. “So open your fucking mouth.”

“Watch yourself, Arno… ” Jose drags his thumb along the edge of his blade, leaving a reddish streak along the metal—a warning.

“There are a lot more important things that I could be doing with my fucking mouth, ese .” When he looks up, the mocking humor from his expression is gone.

Good old Jose is just as pissed as Arno.

“It seems our new friends are using tactics similar to the Italians—”

“You mean the shot-back-to-hell Italians?” Arno interjects. “The same fucking Italians that scattered like roaches when their queen, Stacatto, met his goddamn maker?”

“ One Italian in particular,” Jose goes on as if never interrupted. “That man had close dealings with the Russians, but you see… I don’t particularly favor the Russians— ”

“You don’t trust them,” Arno says, cutting him off. “Cut to the fucking chase.”

“Hmph. Cut.” Chuckling, Jose tilts his knife so that it catches the light. While holding Arno’s gaze, he leans forward and flicks his tongue along the edge to capture any wet droplets of blood.

To his credit, Arno doesn’t even flinch.

“There is one particular son of a bitch who knew the inner workings of the Mob better than most, however,” Jose continues.

His eyes get that dark gleam again. He’s thinking.

It’s the same look he was wearing while he palmed his whips, trying to gauge which one best suited his needs while I bled out, chained to the wall.

He made a game out of it. How to go deep into the muscle.

How to draw the most blood. “I brought him home for dinner, but he doesn’t seem willing to really enjoy himself. ”

“So what the fuck do you want?” Arno demands, his arms crossed. “You losing your touch when it comes to wining and dining, Jose? Want some fucking pointers?”

“Him.” With a seemingly lazy shrug, Jose gestures in my direction. He never stops twirling that knife, tossing the blade up and catching it by the handle every single time. “I want him .”

A laugh trickles out of Arno, darker and more twisted than I’ve ever heard. “You better be fucking joking—”

“You think I don’t know what little Espi gets up to while his daddy is away? Do you know... Daddy ?”

Arno just stands there, his gaze flicking fromJoseto me and back again. Does he know? Jose’s guess is as good as any.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Arno asks.

Jose just chuckles, the sound mingling with the warm breath ghosting my shoulder. She’s gripping me tighter than ever, her nails grazing my skin. I suffer every unusual bite of pain, letting it sink deep to counter everything else.

“Rumor has it that another one of my warehouses might be ‘shot back to hell’ tonight,” Jose says, apparently taking Arno’s advice by cutting to the fucking chase.

“I suffer, and I’ll make sure the whole goddamn city suffers.

So I suggest you take my advice, amigo , and convince your little friend to lend a helping hand. Let’s do brunch.”

“Hell no.” Arno shakes his head, his red hair flying, his eyes gleaming. He’s armed; I can tell that much from the way he’s standing alone—which is ironic considering that Jose would never walk into an open trap.

“Stop.” I step forward between them. My gaze lands on Jose. The bastard looks smug for a damn reason. “What are you planning?”

“A surprise,” he says, not even trying to deny it.

“While we’ve been chatting, I had one of my men do some interior decorating in your cellar, ese ,” he says to Arno over my shoulder.

“You have six hours before the bomb goes off and blows your little bar…well, back to hell. I die, and the fireworks happen sooner,” he adds before Arno can draw his gun.

“As I said, let’s do brunch.” He slides from the stool, tucking the knife into his pocket.

“When little Espi helps me persuade our guest to tell what he knows, I’ll deactivate my present, and we’ll call it a day.

But if you feel like trying to fuck me over…

just keep in mind that you can tear this fucking piece-of-shitplace apart, nail by nail, and never find my little surprise.

At least not before you do some ‘interior decorating’ yourself. Comprende ?”

“Fine,” I say, beating Arno to the punch. “Where is he?”

“Wonderful.” Jose beams. “Allow me and my men to escort you back to my home. Our meal should be ready any minute.”

From the outside, the bike stop looks the same.

The same rundown buildings. The same piece-of-shitchain-link fence surrounding the entire property.

Jose’s switched up his interior decoration though.

He’s into open spaces now, unlike the clusterfuck of boxes and equipment that littered the place back when he strung me up.

The middle of the floor is cleared, the perfect focal point for his latest piece of artwork—a man dangling from chains hanging from the ceiling.

Recognition shoots through me like a lance.

Despite the blood caking the bastard’s face, I know that bulky shape.

The flashing, dark eyes. That telltale chuckle.

Like Arno said, Mack always had a certain look about him.

Though the cocky bastard’s taken quite a few hits these past few months.

Scars riddle the skin not covered by overgrown stubble on his jaw.

Arno and Dante got their revenge, all right.

“Well, lookie here,” he rasps the moment he sees us approaching from the end of the warehouse. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he does his best tosneerwith the good one. “TheMexbrought along some little friends…” He trails off once he recognizes one “little friend” in particular

Arno returns the glare directed his way with one of his own.

“The traitor and the puppy,” Mack says, turning his attention to me. “Shouldn’t you be licking Dante’s boots, little boy?”

I don’t react to the taunt. My eyes are on Jose; he’s grinning. Without a single glance spared in Mack’s direction, he heads to a table against the wall. Even from the short distance, I can clearly make out what’s on it. Knives—sharp ones.

Fuck. My fingers clench. I can’t shake the murmurs of a conscience I long thought had been snuffed out by blood and nicotine. Walk away. Don’t do this.

“So, what shall it be?” Jose wonders out loud, slicing through the drone. Only the look he directs my way reveals just who he’s speaking to. “Word on the street is that you prefer another method over the typical slice and dice.”

“I prefer to think of it as freelance art,” I counter, taking a step forward.

Mack’s still laughing, spouting some more dumb shit, but Arno… He’s watching me. I feel his gaze on the back of my neck. I know that look. It’s the same one he used to shoot Dante wh enever he went nuts and started a fight in the bar. That one of fear. That one of goddamn pity.

“Espi, what the fuck is he talking about?”

“Business, Daddy ,” Jose says. “Don’t worry. Your little baby is in safe hands.” He looks at Mack, and the playful grin falls flat. “Let’s see how you work. Get him to talk.”

I look up at Mack again, and I don’t have to strain my neck too far.

Hanging by two giant hooks caught right at the indents of each shoulder blade, he’s only about a foot from the ground.

Blood drips down and forms a puddle underneath him.

The bastard has to be in an insane amount of pain, but he just grins.

“Don’t fucking tell me. Little Espi. You’re going to try to make me talk?” His body jerks on the hooks as he throws his head back and laughs, long and loud. “You must be losing your fucking touch, Jose—” He breaks off in a grunt of pain.

I glance down as his body twists in grotesque slow motion and see why—Someone jammed a knife into the meat of his upper thigh.